She recognises the girl.

The woman was stunningly beautiful. More than that, she was an exotic treat – a half-elf, like Shairi. She had long, curly chestnut-red hair and green eyes that glinted with humour and lust. Her ample bosom seemed even more impressive on her delicate frame.

Her looks alone would have incited desire, but her outfit made it a certainty. In fact, it made the garb of the city’s other whores seem chaste and modest. Her long, pale legs were left completely exposed above her sandals. The hem of her ‘dress’ was cut high enough that it was possible to catch tantalising glimpses of her pussy as she walked, and the bottom curve of her buttocks was exposed from behind. Of course, when she bent over she’d certainly be showing everything to anyone lucky enough to be watching.

The dress was red, but shot through with patterns of gold braid. Its top was held up by a cord that tied at the back of her neck, but it left her elegant shoulders, back and cleavage bare. Her breasts were covered – by clinging, lacy white cups that were translucent, allowing her hard nipples to be clearly seen by any who cared to look. And everyone there certainly cared to.

To wear such a thing was a proud display of sluttiness. To wear it outside, in public, the way she had been… that showed astounding wantonness. But honestly, you didn’t need to look at her outfit to know she was a shameless, eager whore. It could be easily seen by the way she looked round the brothel and licked her ruby-red lips.

But Shairi’s gaze wasn’t drawn by the sheer sexiness of the figure. Alone of all the people there, she wasn’t focused on the woman’s half-exposed body. She was looking at her face. Because she recognised it.

It was her sister, Imagel.