The town was on the outskirts of the city, some seven or eight miles distant; just far enough away to avoid the issues of a cosmopolitan area while close enough that commerce was thriving.  Not that some of the less obvious issues of the river-city's cosmopolitan nature did not surface in the township, because if there was one issue that the life of any adventurer created in their wake that was unavoidable, it was the deposition of their issue.  

Gran Falls, so named less for the waterfalls that were common in the foothills of the area than for the fact that it was one of the more common issues that plagued the local chirurgeon and barbers, was what had become commonly known as a 'forgetting town.'  Such places were usually the last stop any given caravan, entourage, or hunting party camped in or passed through on their way to the wilds or before entering the city proper.  As a result the town catered to the sorts of people who had spare coin but no patience to hold onto it or those who had discovered something wanting in their supplies before leaving.

Naturally one of the most commonly appreciated resources was the kind which was rarely found in the wilderness or could cost a man more than merely coin in the larger city if he was careless.  More often than not it was the barmaid, the wench, or the pleasure girl who bore the results of their own carelessness.  With plentiful work and much of it the sort that could be performed by hardy youths, such by-blows often forgotten by their wayward fathers were still raised in good care and affections by their mothers, 

Their fellow youth, on the other hand....

Her name meant 'thunder drumming' in her father's tongue, but it was nearly unpronounceable in the local dialect, so it had become Weyra, often shortened to Wey, or changed to “Go 'Way” by the other children.  She was the only true half-blooded child of an orc, as such people were quite rare in general.  Her mother was a particularly strong willed and handsome woman, not the kind one would typically expect to do the work she did and capable of handling the rougher sort of trade (and giving the like in return just as often).  

By fourteen summers, Weyra was a strapping girl who looked two seasons older in size if not in build, a lanky girl with only just enough softness to her to keep her from being considered boney or boy.  Her skin was a dusty grey-green, and though her cheeks were soft, her forehead was high and her black hair was always greasy and wild.  The closest she could manage to controlling it was a single thick braid that fought to escape the bindings forced upon it by her surprisingly clever hands.  Worst of all were the two tiny tusks that jutted just past her full lips, sharp and thick, giving her the usual trouble speaking.  

About the only thing Weyra could say was worthwhile, and she would never have told anyone else this for the world, were her father's gorgeous eyes.  Warm, unlined silver-grey shot through with golden tracery from the pupil like a net rather than a sunburst, petering out at the dark edges of her slightly polygonal iris.  When she was excited the gold thinned to mere spider webs; calm or watchful the gold thickened and drew her pupils wide enough to count the flattened edges.  She could say she had pretty eyes if nothing else. 

There was at least one child in the town that disagreed.  

A small enclave of elvenkind lived in the township, working a forge on the edge of town.  They had lived there since shortly before the town had been built, the waterfalls and the presence of good clay for polish making it more convenient to live and work there than anywhere else.  They had no issues with the presence of others, and now the town had lived through an entire two generations of their kinfolk.  They had been strange to get along with at first for the short lived people that comprised much of the population of the town, but once the realization that they took things a lot more slowly than their neighbors set in, it was a simple matter of asking for work that one was expecting to need rather than what one needed right away.  It made for a town of practical, forward thinking folk, patient and thoughtful.  

There was currently only a single child among the elvenkind in the town, a bright girl named Pehtel, which was her child's name, taken from the sound of a human word and meant to be given up when she decided she was no longer a child.  Currently, she was enjoying being a child, because there were more opportunities to be around the other children.  

She was a lithe, frail seeming girl, her hair a soft silvery color like the clouds and her skin a rich brown, that of chicory coffee with a dollop of cream to sweeten the bitter brew.  Despite her comeliness and sweet nature, she was largely avoided by the other children.  Pehtel was sophisticated in ways other children her apparent age were not, which was inevitable given the slow, laborious process of elven teaching and learning.  Her penchant for perching catlike among the branches of trees, the eaves of houses, and along walls and fences made her seem lazy or complacent.  

It was her eyes that bothered most children and not a few adults:  pools of glass, backed by a velvet darkness in violet.  There was nearly no sclera and only the faintest rim of purple iris to speak of; the depth of knowledge that those strange eyes possessed was not that of a child.  Much of what she knew, she wished to share with someone as unique as she herself was.

The biggest problem Weyra had while growing up was that she was not big at first.  She was quite small, and that, along with her very inhuman looks, made her the target of a great deal of unpleasant attention from the other children in the township.  Despite her mother's relative wealth and powerful (if not prestigious) standing in the community, she was a firm believer in her child being exposed to the norm of the community.  The clothes she bought for Weyra were simple linen, often merely long tunics or shifts, with only the most basic of decoration.  Simple sandals or boots were her only footwear.  

When Weyra was picked on her mother would listen patiently, dry her tears, make her blow her nose, and then tell her that was the way life was for everyone whether she knew it or not.  Weyra rarely saw how the way she was treated was also how the other children were treated, which was no surprise given that she was target of mud, epithets, and practical jokes.  

And then she grew.  

She grew quickly.  When she was eight, she was picked on often.  When she was ten, she was as tall as the youngest dwarf-child of thirteen, and could give as good as she got.  Two years later, she was no longer pushed or shoved by anyone, for she had longer reach and greater strength than the other children.  Now she was fourteen, and she was no longer picked on by anybody.  

Whenever the other children got too close to where she was playing, usually alone, she would stalk towards them; her brow would be beetled, her jaw set, tiny tusks jutting out and her large hands clenched tight.  The other children quickly learned that despite her size she was terribly quick, and she would take away whatever toys they happened to have – hoops, kites, leather balls stuffed with beans, sticks and cloth wrapped twine balls – and hurl them into trees, the river, onto rooftops.  One enterprising lad decided that the family hunting dog would be a great deterrent, but the dog entirely disagreed and ran home tail tucked between his legs.  That trick earned the lad a wallop on the jaw which knocked him unconscious, which got Weyra a stern talking to.

Always Pehtel watched from a distance, whether she was playing with others or napping upon a rooftop or braiding leather cords in a tree.  Those large, glassy eyes flowed over the other children, watching how they moved, how they spoke, how they played and how they fought.  Certain of them – the most slender, the ones caught between childhood and adulthood – caught her attention most often.  Usually their clumsy movements sent her gaze wandering once more.  

Sometimes, usually when they were swimming, she would have no such trouble watching them for longer periods of time.  On rare occasion she would join them in the small swimming hole that had been walled off by generations of children over the years.  She would always get strange looks and odd whispers as she discarded her leather breeches and chamois tunic and strangely folded loincloth, but in the end, the river was the one place where most everyone was equal.  Even Weyra was tolerated once she was in the water, on the few occasions she had arrived before any middling youngster.  

Pehtel's voyeurism started to take on a decidedly specific focus after the one instance they had been at the swimming hole together.  

The elven child had enjoyed the games of splash, swimming-tag, and watcher-robber where one would have eyes shut and guess at where the others were by their cries of 'robber' when they called out 'watcher'.  Weyra rarely joined in such games, but would often watch out for the youngest of the children, making sure they didn't stray too far from the swimming hole and teaching them to swim.  That fateful day there were only a few other children, languishing in the summer heat, drowsing in the swimming hole and talking quietly.  

Weyra had walked sullenly from the forest her dark grey shift caked in pale mud, her hair undone and spattered as well, the mud scraped from one side of her face and eye like barbaric war paint.  She toed off her sandals while Pehtel rested her chin upon her arms, hanging off the river-side of the stones that made up the swimming hole instead of sitting within the enclosure like the few others.  Kicking lazily, Pehtel supported her lean, slim body in the slow-flowing water as she watched Weyra pull her tunic over her head.

The glassy eyes widened as Weyra knelt to wash her tunic.  She wore no breech-cloth, nor did she confine her apple size breasts; skyclad, she worked the soiled cloth slowly, her angry expression causing her small tusks to jut further out, her narrowed eye glistening with unshed tears.  Oblivious to her admirer, the orc-bred child stood and draped the soaked cloth over a larger rock, well away from the pool where it was to be hoped no one would take the time and effort to steal or hide it.  Her behind was firm and rounded in a way many of the other youths were not, and the gap between her thighs framed a plumpness that made Pehtel draw herself half out of the water and onto the rock wall as though to see better.

What truly struck Pehtel was how Weyra moved towards the swimming hole.  She did not walk along the bank, but waded along the river's edge.  Unlike most others of her age she did not wobble, or weave, or make sudden dips and bows and arches as she struggled to maintain her footing on the slippery stones and rocks.  The half-orc ~prowled~ through the shallows of the river, choosing her steps carefully, her glittering silver and gold eyes picking out the places she wished to walk before she made her movements.  She moved like a serpent or a cat:  study, move, study, move.  

Watching the lissome and sleek girl, Pehtel found herself breathing more quickly, her ears hot, her nipples starting to ache from a source quite different than that of the cool air.  This was different than the momentary prettiness of a mesmerized woman-child watching butterflies, or the rare glimpse of grace that racing youths presented. This was something more pure, more ~real~ than those early moments of beauty that would come to fruition in later years.  Unlike others of their age, Weyra demonstrated the grace and precision more often found in Pehtel's own kindred and kith, without their age and full growth....and with a much more feral, more ~vicious~ aspect that made the places deep inside Pehtel clench strangely and deliver warmth to that place between her legs.  

From then on, Weyra was the sole recipient of Pehtel's silent attentions.  Oh, certainly Pehtel played with the other children on rare occasion, and there would be times when she would speak to Weyra, who mostly grunted or told her to go away with the same surly growl that she did the others.  By and large Pehtel just 'happened' to be perched in the branches of trees where Weyra would take her walks, or upon rooftops near the tavern where Weyra's mother worked.  She bore silent witness to the orc-bred woman-child's brutish dealings with the other youth of the town, particularly those who often incited her anger, often just before the timely arrival of older folk.  

Weyra was not unaware of her admirer.  At first, she had dismissed the presence of the white-haired girl as mere coincidence.  The elfin creature was infamous for lazing for seemingly hours or even days in the trees, upon rocks, or along rooftops so it was easily dismissed.  Then Weyra began to catch glimpses of the smooth umber-skinned beauty in places where she wandered away from the trials of dealing with other youths, and in the distant treeline when she hunted with the trio of twisted iron javelins her father had left to her.  They spoke not at all, but Weyra found herself expecting the presence of the strange elf-child as time went on.

It took even less time for her to realize that the times that most attracted Pehtel's attention were those times that she was either bathing, hunting, or worshiping the moon.  

Weyra's mother was a worldly sort of woman, and raising the child had been troublesome at times.  The town's unusual placement allowed her to meet other adventurous sorts and to speak with them at length.  Those half-breeds of the orc race taught her much about rearing such a child:  how to ensure she ate properly, how to straighten her tusks, and about the proclivity for young half-blooded orcs to night time wanderings as they matured.  The last was inevitable, as the nocturnal and predatory nature of their kind attempted to assert itself under the surge of the adults blood in their childish veins.  It would pass, but there were always incidents to be weathered.  

One's fourteen-summers-old-child wandering near naked through fields and hunting rabbits in the dark was one of those incidents.

Weyra called it “worshiping the moon” but there was no real worship involved.  The confines of the house were too stifling, the blankets too warm, her clothing too tight even though they were mere shifts.  She wanted to be up and awake, even though the town was silent and sleeping.  It did not take long for her to move from disturbed, restless nights into long moonlight wanderings in the dark.

The tall girl would wear her tunic only as long as she was forced to walk through the streets of the town, since there were lantern-bearing watchmen who wandered the streets during the night, often half-elven or half-orcs who were fully grown.  Their keen senses and more flexible attitude towards day and night activity made them much better at the work.  They also gave Weyra a reason to be cautious, to carefully escape from the confines of the town without being caught.  The exhilaration of pretending to be hunted, of escaping the enemy was far more intense than any childish game she had tried to play.

Once she was out of sight of the town, the tunic would come off to be hung upon a branch or laid across a stone, out of the way.  Her boots, a belt of braided leather, and a simple loincloth were all she would wear.  A small knife tucked into one boot and one of her father's javelins served as tool and weapon while she wandered the forest and near the river.  She would chase deer, hide from bears and wild pigs, and hunt rabbits under the moonlight; her grey-green skin became a stormy grey in the moonlight, and her eyes mere rings of striated gold surrounding huge pupils. 

On nights such as this she would wander much further from her home than any youth would normally allow for, despite the wild pigs, bears, and the occasional giant insect that wandered out of the deep forests.  Often she would stand and simply listen to the sounds of life around her, watch the bats and rabbits and polecats, feeling the night breezes cooling her skin.  Other times she would hunt, chasing the rabbits down and using the heavy javelin to take them down.  Weyra would dress them using the knife and often use her belt to tie them in a brace and carry them home on the end of her javelin, walking near-skyclad through the forest until she retrieved her shift. 

When Pehtel began to accompany Weyra on her nocturnal jaunts, Weyra was unaware at first.  Pehtel kept her distance, and moved with equal silence through the woods, watching the sleekly muscled young half-breed hunt and bathe.  Every day that passed seemed to make Weyra more toned, more predatory, more dangerous.  More beautiful.  The elfin girl could not keep her distance for long.  She wanted to see more, wanted to be closer, to hear and smell more of the strange girl.  

It did not take long for Weyra to become aware of the person following her.  Footsteps along her own previous footsteps.  The animals which fled at nothing she did.  The glimpses of white among the trees was the most obvious tell; for all her dark skin, Pehtel's hair would catch moonlight and trap it, a shining white flame in the darkness that could not be hidden easily.  

Weyra ignored her stalker; there was little enough reason to fear Pehtel, who had never been one to join in while others were cruel.  She did not prevent such acts either, but then no one did; Weyra could hardly blame her for that.  It became part of her game, to try and lead the elfin girl through thickets and brambles, or force her to descend from trees and branches into mud and muck.  Petty cruelties perhaps, but it was not as though she had asked to be followed by the elf-child.  

It wasn't to long before it became a contest; with the near constant presence of Pehtel, Weyra was unable to indulge herself when she became too agitated even for the cooling breeze of the nighttime swims to ease the heat within her body.  Her mother had been very straightforward about such things, including them in the teaching of numbers, letters, and peoples.  At first much of what she had been taught made little sense until she'd come across animals mating among the herds and in the wilds.  Weyra's first tentative experiments had been disappointing.  It was not until she had started her moon worship that there had been any result from the gentle experimentation upon her body she had attempted before.  

It was a much more effective way to quench the heat of her body than swimming or hunting.

For her part, Pehtel did not indulge in such pleasures.  The elf-born girl was certainly aware of them, and had observed her family and their friends both human-and-non at play in many permutations of love.  She had been taught to enjoy such pleasure as well, when she had expressed her interests, gently and thoroughly.  There was simply no desire in her to satisfy her longings by her own hand despite how Weyra excited her.  No matter in what manners Weyra excited her.  Pehtel was quite certain that some of those ways would shock the less permissive of her kin and their kith.

It was inevitable, given their individual natures, that there would come a time when confrontation occurred.  The voyeur could not help but follow while the exhibitionist was only such in the matters outside intimacy.  After a few weeks, Weyra was near frenzied with the heat in her body and in her spirit and Pehtel had become close to impossible to escape for long enough that she could satisfy that ache.  This night the moon was a mere sliver of waxing, the Silencer's Needle, the aspect of the moon goddess which sewed the eyes, ears and mouths of liars, spies, and eavesdroppers shut.  This was lost on Weyra, who only knew she had to quench the fires in her body or go mad.  

Pehtel had followed Weyra deep into the woods, watched as the half-orc woman-child slipped through the trees and brambles, wondered at her skill in avoiding the wild pigs and bears.  The river was near, and she hoped the Weyra was going to fish or bathe in the clear waters.  She was at her most beautiful when her dark skin was painted with diamonds and she was fully naked to the sky and stars in Pehtel's opinion.  The mere memory of the sight made Pehtel's ears burn, her heart race, her insides tighten in the most thrilling manner.  

The problem was that Pehtel had lost sight of Weyra for several minutes and only had the vaguest idea of where she might be headed.  She clambered down through two layers of branches, to ones just above the forest floor.  The ambient light was bad here, but the eyes of an elf were more accustomed to it than most, and she could catch movement more easily than many others might.  So she watched for the moments of brambles or brush, waiting for the tell-tale movement that would give her a cue as to the destination for the evening.  

When something snagged the legging of her trousers, her first thought was that a wildcat or treecat had leaped for the branch and caught her trouser instead of the branch itself.  It had never happened before but there was little else it could be.  When she turned there was a foot of iron spike, twisted and dark, sticking up through her legging as she lay upon the branch.  Even as she realized what had happened Weyra was pulling her leg out and away from the branch, grunting as she hauled Pehtel off the branch.  

Scrambling for a grip, Pehtel managed to keep herself from falling off entirely, though her body was pulled off the branch entirely, leaving her clinging to the branch with both arms and her chin.  It was not a terribly long drop, as the double arm-length javelin only extended Weyra's reach so far, but Pehtel was completely off balance and very awkwardly positioned on the branch.  The javelin was yanked free, and Pehtel lost a precious finger-length of grip.  Then powerful hands gripped her ankles and pulled, yanking the elfin child to the ground below.  

The stunning impact of the soft ground drove the breath from Pehtel's lungs and she lay there dazed and gasping while the half-orc woman-child straddled her waist and quickly felt for a knife or poignard.  Finding nothing she leaned over the gasping girl, looking into the shining darkness of her eyes, hands on the slender wrists.  Weyra waited patiently, her heart thrumming with the success of her hunt, the heat of her body an inferno as she looked at the helpless elf-child beneath her.  

As breath returned to her body, Pehtel looked up at her lean captor, the smooth moon-greyed skin, the budding breasts and hard nipples, those glorious eyes, almost entirely taken up by angular pupils rimmed with faintly pulsing gold.  Eyes as alien as her own, though not so alien as Weyra's father's must have been.  The glistening hair was tied with a simple scrap of chamois and hung along Weyra's shoulder.  There was a certain excitement in Pehtel, the unmistakable thrill of being held by the stronger girl, the feel of her weight and sureness.  

“Why are you following me?” growled the tusked girl softly.  “I don't want you around here!  It's my place.”  Weyra wasn't speaking literally; her excitement was such that the words just tumbled from her full, dark lips.  Her tusks jutted out further than Pehtel had expected,a touch beyond her upper lip.  

“Because you are beautiful.”  The words were lilting, soft, and there was no hesitation, no question or doubt in them.  

The reply made Weyra sit up, her hands coming up to her throat to cover her breasts.  Confusion was inadequate to describe the series of feelings that washed through her; there were far too many, and some were not exactly unpleasant emotions at all.  

With her hands freed, Pehtel immediately moved them to caress the smooth, lean belly of the other girl; her slender fingers traced the muscular strength beneath the smooth skin.  This time it was Weyra's turn to gasp, and she shuddered violently under the touch.  Her eyes looked down at the hands against her belly.  

“You're crazy,” she claimed, looking at the elf-girl in shock.  Despite the words, she was trembling now, and the fires in her body burned hotter still.  

Pehtel's thumbs traced the girl's navel, and then moved up, pushing her arms away gently but insistently.  Weyra allowed it, and then drew a sharp breath as the small, experienced hands stroked the smooth mounds of her breasts, traced the taut nipples and wide aureolae.  When she was full grown, her breasts would be larger, fuller.  Now they were the size of large apples, firm and sensitive.  Pehtel's fingers stroked, circled, thumbs brushed lightly, but her eyes were on the face above her, the shocked eyes that gazed in confusion down at her own.  

This was not at all what Weyra had expected, but she was no longer certain that it was unwanted.  The tracery of heat that those slender, careful fingers drew along her breasts made her heart race, made the place between her legs even hotter.  She relaxed, looking down at the darkness of Pehtel's face framed by the pale fire of her hair.  The shining eyes gazed placidly and fearlessly up at her.  She swallowed and her fingers unhooked the buttons of the elf's tunic.  The smile that the action earned her made her cheeks burn hotter and she looked down, unable to gaze into those glassy alien orbs.

Soft skin the color of stained wood was bared; the merest swells of softness were all the elfin girl had for breasts of her own, tiny nipples firm and the tiny aureolae were only the slightest shade darker than the chocolate that they rested upon.  Weyra licked her upper lip nervously, the barest tip of her tongue stroking the backs of her tusks to avoid scarring the underside of her tongue.  The soft fingers stroked, played with her breasts still, and she carefully began mimicking those movements, exploring Pehtel's breasts as her own were enjoyed by the elfling.

Pehtel made a soft singing sigh, less a moan than one bright note of an aria.  Her back arched involuntarily and Weyra groaned as her chamois covered crux was brushed by Pehtel's belly.  The elf pulled back, with a tiny gasp.  Weyra grinned down at her, eyes bright and perhaps a touch contemptuous.  

“Hot,” explained Pehtel, and that brought a thick, liquid chuckle of embarrassment from the half-orc girl, wiping the contempt from her expression with the simple truth.  The slender hands wrapped about Weyra's waist and Pehtel pulled herself up, forcing the object of her affections to pull back, straddle her hips.  The soft hands gripped lightly, and Weyra had only enough time to begin a question before cool lips kissed the slopes of her breasts caressed them.  

The fires became lightning inside her, tingling heat that burned lines through her body and exploded through her head and made her scalp tingle.  She was wet now, so very wet and hot, and she burned as the lips parted to allow tongue to trace the peaks of her engorged nipple, the sides of it, and then the tongue pressed as the delicate mouth engulfed one.  The words that spilled out of Weyra's mouth would have earned her a tanning of her hide like none before.  It encouraged Pehtel to suckle harder to use her tongue to lay with the hard nub and the soft skin around it.  

Weyra's hands clenched, fluttered a bit, unsure of what to do or where to be.  The half-orc grabbed Pehtel and clutched her close, nails digging into warm leather.  Just as suddenly she was pushed back down to the dirt and grasses, stray leaves caught in her hair as she grunted softly with the force she was handled with.  Weyra stared at her, the expression on her face at once fierce and terrified as she held the elfin girl down.  “Why are you doing this?  What are you doing?”

A gentle smile was her reply, but not the only reply.  Fingers worked at the braided leather belt about Weyra's waist, and loosed it.  Another sharp breath was drawn as her sex was bared, the dusting of dark curls above the bare, plump lips a darker shadow against darkness.  Pehtel pulled the cloth away and the belt and tossed them aside, the knife near enough it could be reached.  Sitting up once more she guided the beautiful huntress to the ground, onto her own tunic, discarded as she sat up.  She shifted her hips, one hand tugging at her waistband as she lay atop the other girl, pulling and kicking off her trousers. With the ease of long practice despite the seeming awkwardness of their positions.  

Both naked, the elfin girl cupped the half-orcs cheeks in both hands, looking down at her with a strangely gentle expression.  The kiss was careful, slow; it had to be, the sharp tusks could easily pierce delicate skin.  Weyra indulged the careful kiss, though her eyes opened in shock when the elfling changed it into a deeper soul kiss.  A hand slipped down her body, caressed breast, squeezed and tugged lightly, and Weyra reciprocated, petting, stroking the elven girl.  Her buttocks were smooth and firm, her build slight and her body nothing to support for the strong woman-child under her.  

Then she was touched and she cried out, making Pehtel jerk back and hiss softly.  The fingers did not do more than pause:  they slipped inside the soft, thick labia, explored the heavy, thick petals of Weyra's virgin sex, danced along the strangely closed entrance to her sacred center.  Closed simply because despite her active nature Weyra was still a virgin.  Pehtel had been warned about the maidenhead that others might have.  Elves possessed no such barrier; their own tightness and more delicate sex was barrier enough as far as nature cared.  It did not prove an impediment to what Pehtel wished to give to the girl she had fallen in love with. 

Weyra's hand came up to cup Pehtel's cheek, her eyes bright and worried.  “I'm sorry,I didn't mean....”  Pehtel shook her head and laid another kiss upon the fuller lips of the half-orc girl, the trickle of blood from the tiny cut along her lips flavoring the kiss with the sharp, salty, oily taste of the translucent blue blood of the elven girl.  Weyra gasped into the kiss as delicate fingers explored her, slipped along her petals, opened and caressed her....found the thick, hard lump of her engorged clitoris.  

Accepting the silencing kiss, finally realizing that this was more than just a momentary game, the half-orc girl let Pehtel teach her, show her....play with her.  Love her.  Her own hands finally began to explore, even as her hips moved, her body burning and her heart thudding heavily.  She explored the tightness of her elfin girl's derriere, made her squirm and whimper as she caressed a tight, forbidden place, only to move lower, to the nearly dripping wetness of the girl's own slit.  Pehtel was tiny there in comparison, and there were no real petals hidden beneath her tender labia, mere ridges along the line of her sex.  The tiny clitoris was supremely sensitive however, and the slightest brush brought a shocked, high pitched cry from the elf-child.  

The fingers that stroked, lightly pulled upon the thicker, longer nub of Weyra's clitoris were more than skilled – they were knowing.  Weyra's finger slipped into the slippery tightness of Pehtel's sex, operating more on guesswork and instinct than any knowledge, but the tightness and eagerness of the elfin girl was more than a match for the inexperience.  They kissed and caressed and touched, and it wasn't long before soft, hard grunts and girlish cries of delight followed one another in the forest lit by the Silencer's Needle.  

Pehtel lay atop her lover hours later, arms close to her chest, delicate hands lightly resting along Weyra's collarbone.  She had shown her lover every manner of attentiveness that she could think of before she had become too exhausted by their love-play to continue – which had taken longer than she'd expected, as Weyra had much more stamina than she had.  For Weyra's part, she had learned things she'd never imagined:  so many ways to use tongue, teeth, fingers, lips!  So many ways to tease and love and hold!  Even more than she had yet to experience!

Now, though, they rested, Weyra looking into the canopy of the forest above them, Pehtel drowsing along her body.  She was no longer burning inside, only pleasantly warm, a warmth she shared with the girl above her.  There were so many things she wondered, so many things she wanted to ask.  In the end it all boiled down to two things, though.  The first she simply stated. 

“I don't want to go back to how we were before.”  

Pehtel's eyes opened a bit and she looked at Weyra.  

“It's nice to be around you,” she tried to explain, and Pehtel shook her head slightly.  “What?”  Her heart clenched tight in her chest; Weyra felt light she couldn't breathe.  

“We can stay together if you like,” the elfin child murmured.  “You're old enough to learn a trade craft.”  

Weyra laughed bitterly.  “Maybe a whore like my ma, or a towns guard....”  The first was unappealing, the second....she could manage it, but it would be tedium and restrictive.  She wasn't ready for that.  

Pehtel lifted her head and slipped her fingers into the greasy, leaf-littered hair of her lover (though her own was no less inhabited by the detritus of the forest floor).  “We can use hands at the forge.  Or the bakery.  They're not that much different, truth told.”

“Bakery?” Weyra asked softly, curious.

“My bakery.  It is held in trust until I wish to grow up.  I think I would like growing up with you.  You are beautiful and wild.  You are so....alive.  Graceful.  Someone who makes me feel....”  She shook her head.  “I will teach you, if you like.  Baking.  Kiln and dough, sugar and salt.  Sorcery of food.”  The elfin girl lay her head upon the softness of Weyra's breast, listening to the heartbeat quickening.  

“You....want me?”  The other question she had hesitated to ask.

Pehtel laughed softly.  “I have you,” she whispered to the forest.

The strong arms that held her tight shook with the tears that spilled after far too long being restrained.  Pehtel kissed them away, as she always would. 

As she had always intended.

~End

XS