AI-Generated Concept Art for Cyrene
“My Lady, your room has been prepared. Now if you please hand me your travelling cloak, I will announce your arrival to the Lady of the Manor,” said the maid curtly.
A wave of exhilaration rose within Cyrene at being addressed as “Lady”. Her heartbeat raced with excitement at the pleasant words with which the maid validated her. Yes! She craved that validation.
Her esteemed colleagues at the academy would argue that all uplifting spells required somatic components. But Cyrene now realised them to be wrong. The maid just worked sheer magic in her with a simple word. The words, “My Lady,” both sounded lovely and implied belonging to a particular gender. The effect was very palpable, which delighted Cyrene greatly.
Cyrene slowly parted her ruby lips, just a tiny fraction, before realising that the words failed her. The proper etiquette eluded her. What was she expected to do? Unceremoniously dump the cloak in the maid’s hands? Or act helpless and wait for the maid to unhook the pinned brooch?
In these sorts of social gatherings, women are usually accompanied by men and valour demanded that the men assist the women with such tasks before passing the mantle to the waiting attendants. But what do women do when they are alone? How does it work in the company of their own herd? Should she fake and wait to be pampered?
“My lady, there is no need to harbour hesitation or embarrassment. All actions shall remain private and unjudged. The gardeners, valets and grooms are away. There are only us, women, here in the manor,” said the maid reassuringly in a sweet accent laced with contorted mischief.
Cyrene gently squeezed her stomach, sensing the unexplainable excited glee simmering in her. Though her obliviousness was misinterpreted, she smiled as wide as possible, revealing white teeth in the frame of her lush red lips.
Just as the maid finished her sentence, the vague twilight filtering through the window panes, completely vanished. In its place, a soothing darkness with the star-studded night sky appeared, accompanied by a faint soul-tugging melody from inside the main halls of the manor. Cyrene rubbed her neck and inhaled deeply to ease her increasingly rapid heartbeat.
Eventually, dissipating her awkwardness, Cyrene gave her travelling cloak to the maid and followed her through the door leading to the main hall. On the way, she couldn’t help noticing how imposing the vitrine cabinets in the parlour looked. In the warm light cast by the expensive crystals mounted on the walls, she caught her own reflection as she passed. A lambent sheen cascaded upon her tresses, displaying her ebony dark hair as striking as a bouquet of Dark Tulips. Her vivid verdant green eyes flashed with vitality as if too ready to bust with enthusiasm and gleamed in delight. One can almost imagine the rich emeralds therein lighting up until every bit of her face shone bright and vibrant. While richly engraved silver earrings danced along the trisected curves of her plump pink lobes, a matching pearl-encrusted choker held up to the firm line of her delicate neck. Cyrene felt that everything about the image she saw reflected elegance and gracefulness.
“My Lady, the main hall is just ahead. My Mistress and Orc High-Lady Urganza are waiting. If you will excuse me, I will take your belongings to your chambers,” said the maid with a quick polite bow.
Cyrene dismissed the maid and with graceful strides, she approached the pointed hall. At the mention of Urganza, Cyrene found her will lacking. Her muscles stiffened involuntarily. She closed her ears to the melody that drifted through the main hall, hoping to calm her failing nerves. Voices from the main hall almost drowned the dimmed light as it echoes against the expanse of the polished marble floor.
Curving elegantly close to the entrance, Cyrene pushed herself away, behind a column. Her chest heaved slightly, relieved at being unnoticed. Not a problem. She told herself. Just girls gathering in the main hall, enjoying a nighttime gossip. Relaxed and safe, she repeated to herself. She tried to indulge herself in the subtle serene embrace permeating within the sanctuary of the Manor.
Despite her best attempts, the memory of Urganza and her last fateful parting at the Curseforged City, surged like a tidal wave through her. Though not malicious by intent, her actions have been anything but callous towards the Orc. Urganza bared open her heart, gifted her very essence and she treated it indifferently, like a pile of thrash. The event of that unfortunate day was eternally etched; both vivid and surreal. As though it were another day and time and she, a stranger. Feeling crushed beneath the weight of buried guilt, disappointment and regret, a tumultuous storm of feelings threatened to engulf her entire existence. Her insensitive actions of that day made her soul bleed, losing control over the mess of twisted emotions that raced wildly through her mind.
What if Urganza held a grudge?
Or simply harboured jealousy for Cyrene?
After all, women can be ruthless to each other. Especially to each other.
Will she assault Cyrene?
Even though the Orc struck as ferociously as a savage beast, she was more worried about those snide remarks and belligerent words. For physical wounds can be healed but words humbled her. Tore her fragile self-worth and ripped an uncurable bleeding hole in its place.
She knew Urganza would be attending the negotiation. She felt strong enough to meet Urganza. Then why did her strength fail now?
It wasn’t fear.
She simply lacked the proper perspective. Too much happened too fast after her return from Arlond. She felt as if her life has been like trying to sprint while riding a giant solid wave. Too many ups and downs. One moment she rose, carried by exciting wings of exhilaration to be dropped into a tight spiral of anxiety. And the pattern continued. At that moment, Cyrene was aware of one undeniable fact. Too much courage for her small chest and her weak constitution to handle. Too much defiance in her and the evident futility of such defiance. For whatever fault, that lay in her actions, she could not erase it. Clenching her fist hard, she shamefully accepted that, she would no longer wallow in a sea of regret, sorrow and remorse. After all, she is not alone with Urganza. There is Antilorwe too.
Would Antilorwe, stand by and allow Urganza to mock Cyrene?
Would she seek to smooth things between them?
That is what any gracious host would do when disagreements rose between their esteemed guests. And despite the cruel dismissal of Urganza, Antilorwe would strive to keep harmony inside the walls of her Manor.
Maybe Cyrene cannot face her task, but then again, what choice did she have? For the overwhelmed girl, there was only one obvious path, paved with petals leading to a beautiful friendship of Antilorwe.
A serene tranquillity settled around Cyrene as she waited for the calming melody from the main hall to swirl around her. She allowed her mind to roam free of worries, allowing it to drift to the realm of alacrity. She focused on positivity. The yearning to move forward. The urge to let go of her old failings and plaguing self-destructive tendencies. A glimmer of hope illuminated the glorious way out of her current predicament. Avoid Urganza and befriend Antilorwe.
Steeling her resolve, Cyrene moved with brisk steps towards the main hall. Slipping from behind the voluminous brocade curtain that hung around the centre of the doorway, she crossed the threshold. The main hall appeared bigger than her first impression. Lushly decorated by exquisite windows, hanging paintings, glittering furniture and luxurious touches of gems and crystals. Even its graciously spaced alcoves were featured with decorations carved in filigrees. The pale marble floor was slick with resplendent mosaic tiles shaped like lilies, blooming into thousands of golden flowers in intricate designs. Polished chandeliers, casting no light, serving only an aesthetic feel, added a mellifluous atmosphere to the spacious room. The luxuriously rendered paintings adorning the walls seemed almost alive. Focussed and attentive to finer details, they seemed to burst into intricate colours, taking the eye into a most dreamy fairytale world. Arcane crystal lights shined forth, bathing the magnificence of the scene. Warmth slowly enveloped her. In spite of how big the room seemed to her, it somehow felt intimate and comfortable.
Collecting the folds of her gown, Antilorwe rushed towards Cyrene. With exquisite poise and flawless gestures, she fluttered closer to Cyrene, offering a genuinely warm smile. When Antilorwe finally reached Cyrene, she embraced her firmly in affectionate gestures. The tall High-elf maiden nuzzled the girl’s cheek tenderly, before greeting her with a soft, seemingly innocent kiss on each cheek.
Cyrene returned the kiss gratefully, letting the senses guided by the passionate scent emanating from the lovely elven beauty. Her warmth embraced the girl and absorbed her whole, calming her anxious heartbeat. Cyrene silently held on to the embrace. The intensity of their hug lingered for a longer-than-needed moment before Antilorwe withdrew from the girl.
Cyrene’s heart dipped a bit. She craved the empathetic touch of the High-Elf. Despite common sense screaming at her, the alacrity within her craved to be hugged. She wanted to lose herself within the cherishing softness of Antilorwe’s embrace.
Though seemingly immune to social norms and solitary by nature, at the core, Cyrene was in persistent need of the tender nurturing that Antilorwe’s warmth promised. The warmth that emanated from Antilorwe’s action hinted at an overwhelming depth of amity that complimented the Elf Maiden’s congeniality. Like a child, Cyrene desired that sentiment of kindness -- the most rare commodity she had ever known. The shared experience seemed to soothe her spirit as if the malevolent wraiths haunting her moments ago have long vanished. That hug, that she received, touched her in places beyond physical proximity. She felt at ease and somewhat secure.
Are all hugs between girls filled with such profound compassion, wondered Cyrene.
Rylonvirah had given her a hug, once, though only after she begged for it. But the embrace of Antilorwe felt different. It felt full. More importantly, it was laced with more emotions. Perhaps, the difference is that while the Dark-elf considers her akin to a protege, Antilorwe offers a more genuine friendship, the sort that exists between peers. Yes, that was the difference. Convincing herself, of the logical validity of her reasoning, Cyrene consciously dismissed all other nagging thoughts from her mind.
Urganza stood tall, away from Antilorwe, with jaws clenched tight. Her fiery amber eyes glared intensely at Cyrene. The mage was assured that the eyes of the Orc narrowed with suppressed hostility. Urganza’s hands balled tightly in front of her, arms wrapped around her hardened breasts. Cyrene spotted the line drawn across her mouth. She hated that smirk.
Was she smiling?
Amused at the travesty that she has become? Possibly! That is what prompted her mocking smile.
Cyrene was assured that the Orc’s fingers would clench around her throat. Why else would she ball her fist?
Her stiff nippled on those gorgeous globes of breasts, just the result of her heart pumping boiling blood through her veins. Just contractions of her pec muscles under the rage. Certainly, Urganza is not aroused at the sight of her. Cyrene pushed that notion just as soon as it rose.
Urganza’s chest heaved heavily with each struggling breath, drawing Cyrene’s attention back towards the still infuriating flare in her eyes. Was it anger or suppressed fury? Despite the certain fire in the Orc’s gaze promising a firestorm, an ominous thunderstorm, Cyrene remained unmoved. Neither arrogance nor indignation ran in her veins. She readied herself for battle, ready to face the raging tempest that likely lies in wait for her. Still, some unassailable restraint prevented her from reacting violently against Urganza.
Cyrene noted that Urganza appeared fidgety, irked by breathing the same air as her. If anything, that unspoken tirade was an attempt to mask her ever-burning fury against the girl. Cyrene intended to set aside her disdain for the vengeful act of Urganza, but instead, found herself grasping the elf maiden’s wrist with a soft gentle grip. Softness offered solace as it helped block out harsh whispers threatening to swallow her.
Yet Antilorwe, in her own way, gave Urganza a friendly wave before pushing the nervous girl to sit on the couch beside her.
The Lady of the manor beckoned the Orc Overlord and nudged her with her elbow, nodding encouragingly. Before she turned back, the girl glanced briefly at Antilorwe, who then started whispering soft words in Urganza’s ears. Whatever the whispers said, the Orc High-Lady relaxed visibly.
Smiling thinly, Cyrene averted her gaze, attempting to appear indifferent, even while Urganza’s angry glare transfixed her.
Pushing the deep velvet cushion pillow aside, Antilorwe beckoned Cyrene to sit closer. Much closer. Alluring charms concealed in her dark flowing locks whispered seductive phrases in Cyrene. After gently planting her palms on the cushion beneath her, she gently shifted closer to the elf.
The slow deliberate movement caused the orc to turn. Those flaming orange orbs bore right through Cyrene, through the clothes that covered her slender frame, across the smooth skin of her shoulders, down to her soul. Urganza visibly strained, squinting as if the haze blocking her vision from sunlight suddenly dissipated. Though her ashen green skin, now crimson from outrage, her lips struggled, forming words.
As much as Cyrene knew Urganza’s proclivities to incite rage that could burn everything to cinders, she remained composed. Perhaps, this was due to the soft caresses of Antilorwe’s presence. The bewitching quality of the gorgeous Elf Maiden seemed unending.
Holding Cyrene close, Antilorwe settled herself slightly opposite to the Orc, nudging her shoulders against the girl. Drawing the girl’s attention towards Urganza, she slowly pulled Cyrene to lean forward. Interlocked fingertips allowed them to touch, feeling one another.
Another gesture of affection between girls, probably, thought Cyrene.
A cure spell perhaps! Some sort of secret charm. Something about that assumption brought her peace. Although Cyrene could not decipher why she found her attentiveness slipping pleasantly lulled by Antilorwe’s ardent touch.
The longer they sat there, pressed together, the more their intertwined hands seemed to absorb every twitch and tension of the other. Their fingers slowly grew cold, going numb after passing through the layer of material covering the long sleeves of her arms. The contact changed from soft comforting petting to languid exploration.
As Cyrene gazed upon the gossamer-thin fabric of Antilorwe’s gown, down to those soft curves, devoid of harsh lines, she finally managed to convince herself that there was nothing carnal in her thoughts. It is normal for girls to appreciate the beauty in each other, like a marvellous piece of art displayed in a museum. Justified by her infallible fact, Cyrene derived a newfound assurance within her.
Unconsciously, the mage leaned closer to Antilorwe, until their cheeks brushed softly. The tall willowy Elf Maiden, ignored the hostile energy radiating from the fiery orbs of Urganza. The Lady of the Manor seemed to take no offence to Cyrene’s movement. In fact, she encouraged it. Dipping close to Cyrene, she kept reassuringly whispering soft words to the girl.
For a while, it was pleasant. Then the sensuous fragrance of Antilorwe that slowly engulfed Cyrene was unmistakable of passion. A hint of arousal pervaded the atmosphere that gradually overpowered Cyrene’s good judgement. She did not move for fear of losing that delicate sensation of inviolability.
Their hips began to sway. Not aggressively. More gently. That effect alone already made Cyrene lose focus of Urganza’s presence. Every subtle shift in Antilorwe’s posture, and seductive turn of her head, caused a stir throughout her being. She had to pull her gaze away, abruptly pushing the passionate aroma from her senses. Sweat dampened her top, wetting her inner petticoat, pooling beneath her arms and dripping from her chin.
Turning her head, Cyrene found Urganza eyeing her suspiciously. There was a mixture of lust, curiosity, irritation and avarice. The girl did not dare to find out which of those sentiments will win in the end.
“Cyrene sugarplum,” Antilorwe whispered softly into her ear, breaking the uncertain state that gripped Cyrene’s consciousness. “Do you want the maid to draw you a bath?”
Leaning back on the exquisite scarlet cushion behind her Cyrene gazed at Antilorwe. So bewitching. Nervously glancing at Urganza, Cyrene found herself unable to react to the Lady of the Manor’s suggestion. She paused to think. She thought there was a chance for their friendship to blossom further.
Is the consummate diplomat hinting at hygiene, under the guise of a warm offer?
Or perhaps, her daily care was not up to the standards that girls were expected to hold?
Both were plausible in her eyes. Stealing her shy glances at the elf maiden, Cyrene seemed almost embarrassed. A fleeting glimmer of guilt made Cyrene hesitant. She raised her head, tilted her chin upwards and held a finger to her nose sniffing, the air tentatively. Inhaling the faint aroma, she waited.
Still, there was no detectable odour.
Shrugging off the confusion, she smiled faintly, “Do I smell bad?”
The innocence of her reply startled the elf and earned a smug chuckle. With her shoulders hunching, her light hazel eyes twinkled mischievously. Antilorwe’s voice lowered an octave. A sultry, husky tone oozed through her words.
“Sweet pie, after a long arduous day, soaking your weary body in herbal-infused water will work miracles for your skin. Besides, if you keep smelling better, I could keep stealing that adorable awkwardness from you.”
The shift in tone was both soothing and provocative, making Cyrene, on one hand, quiver from the edge of Anticipation, while on the other hand, desperately ignoring the resentment in Urganza’s expression.
From her cushioned seat, Cyrene started into Antilorwe’s smoulder orbs that hinted at a ruthless appetite for pleasure, surrounded by seduction. She watched the magical creature smile wide before shrugging helplessly. With an unsure hand, Cyrene shook her head waving the Elf Maiden off. She hesitated, wishing she could learn how to phrase that sentiment in a manner that is not offensive. Finally, she settled for a vague explanation.
“I have been well cared for during the journey. But the past couple of weeks, months, has been a trial.....,” she paused to hesitate before continuing, “it still is. Therefore, I thank you for suggesting it. The idea of soaking my body with fragrant scents of roses and lilac does sound appealing.”
Antilorwe smiled at Cyrene’s response.
Although Cyrene voiced her agreement in a formal manner, her throat felt too dry for such an utterance. She struggled.
What was she supposed to say now? I shall now strip naked and soak myself? Inform the maid, I will wait till the preparations are complete? What should she do when a generous hostess offers her such a service?
This is nothing like a dinner invitation. The conversation was pleasant and your chef has marvellous skill, My Lady. Perhaps, she could adapt and improvise.
Your bath suite was spotlessly clean and the scented candles were refreshing? Your maid was very competent and the water was warm?
Unexpectedly, a strange prickle filled Cyrene’s mind. it felt like she was about to stumble, fall off balance. With no further thoughts to spare, Cyrene leapt up, pulling herself from the inviting couch. She stood unsteadily, rooted to the spot. Never in her life had she been so dizzy.
Do high-born maidens help themselves or are they expected to avail the services of their maid, to help liberate themselves from their tight bodice? To scrub themselves?
Despite the maid’s professional demeanour and pleasant manners, Cyrene could not risk letting the servant see her naked. The very thought felt uncomfortable.
Suddenly, she did not wish to participate in anything that would lead her to the feeling of embarrassed. That brought her back to reality. She wanted to leave the very private gathering. But the last thing she needed was to fail yet again. Her most unsettling sense however was unease about something else. Why is there that nagging little pang in her heart? The comforting presence of Antilorwe. She could not risk losing their blossoming friendship. Cyrene caught sight of Antilorwe rising. So beautiful. She saw Antilorwe offering her bare arm. The dainty elvish limb, as pale and slender as her fingers, had looked sensuous only moments ago. Cyrene’s heart hammered.
Was Antilorwe asking her to join her in a shared bath? No!
Did she want to join her? Yes!
She would love the aura of warmth from Antilorwe, without layers of fabric between them. But it did not feel right. Her feelings were scattered, her mind fuzzy, her nerves failing her.
“Cyrene, Sugarplum, you are all red. The manor has enough provisions to ensure your privacy during those moments if that is what you are worried about,” said Antilorwe as she observed the flustered girl closely. She smiled encouragingly, hiding the sweet delight in her heart.
Unexpectedly, an image invaded the periphery of her thoughts. Cyrene imagined, in detail, bathing in front of Antilorwe. Unable to stop her reflexes, she wrapped her arms around herself. Her heart throbbed wildly.
“Clumsy of me to forget the gifts that I brought for the two of you. There are the very best from The Fragrant Embrace for the Lady of the Manor,” stammered Cyrene between her gasps for breath, “And for Orc High-Lady and Overlord Urganza, star chart from our very own divination circle. Hard to get unless with the proper contact. I will fetch them now.”
Unable to withstand any further, Cyrene found herself racing through the marble hallway, almost tripping on her own heels in haste. Her slender fingers clutched the ornate ivory hand rail of the staircase, sweeping up and down the twisting curves. Faster. Faster. One more flight to the second floor. The girl rushed through the maze of open rooms, many familiar and some even made her blush. Downstairs, Cyrene heard the peal of laughter from Antilorwe, a gentle laugh that arouse unexplainable sentiments in her.
Watching Cyrene disappear, Urganza knew, almost instinctively, that the aura emanating from Antilorwe had pierced the fog shrouding the shy girl’s demeanour. The warmth that she offered Cyrene was rooted deeply in friendship, and something more. A simple act that had nothing to do with the battle raging inside her head -- the cause of her indecisiveness. Yet Urganza felt a spark ignite in her chest, beneath all those battle scars, nestled deep within her heart when she looked at Cyrene the first time. Those primal desires. Those feelings made her swallow hard, making her feel ashamed of herself. The frustrations born direct out of her sexual impulses. She could barely believe that the girl would have that immediate effect on her.
Despite her age, Cyrene stood as an awkward teenage girl and Urganza felt her own crude desires, like a festering wound hampering her. Cyrene’s slender form glowed with the elegance emanating from her own body. And the need in Urganza. The gleaming silken fabric of her Mage’s robe did nothing to conceal the sinewy shape of her torso. They accentuated her form and flared across her narrow hips.
Cyrene had changed a lot from her previous self. Gone was the oblivious androgynous man from outside the tenebrous walls of Arlond. He simply incited her need for warmth on a cold night. But the girl before her; she evoked something more. A promise to soothe a mind, bruised and ravaged from violence. A soft whisper of sweet nothing from her coral lips, spiriting her away to a faraway magical place of bliss. Those vivid emerald eyes, diving deep into her fissured heart, coaxing verdant healing growth in her arid inner-self. If Urganza held any sliver of doubt, the response of her body at meeting Cyrene was proof that the spark of ember not only remained but transformed into a fiery conflagration at engaging the alluring gaze of the Mage.
Urganza’s embarrassment increased every time the blood rushed to her cheeks. She felt hot. Hot. From her mouth to the tip of her ears, then rushing down the spine of her neck and the very base of her back. Urganza was doused in Cyrene’s presence. That vague attempt she pulled at covering her stiffening nipples did very little to hide the salacious fact. She was absolutely certain that the Mage noticed her treacherous thoughts that betrayed her intentions, along with her dishevelled state. Certainly, Urganza argued, one cannot attain a respectable position of a Learned One without observing the obvious.
“When she returns, I will pull her aside under the pretext of a makeover session. Doll her up with extravagant outfits, pampering her hidden desires. Indulge me with utmost care. Incite jealousy in her. Then engage her properly with a dance. Ask her out as a precious princess, she will not deny you,” suggested Antilorwe as she peered curiously into her wine glass.
Looking at Urganza, it was evident for Antilorwe that the powerful Orc High-Lady before her had only eyes for the fragile mage.
Antilorwe decided that she would take the girl to the privacy of her own chambers, delight her while stroking her innocent feminine fantasies, probably dab a bit of her fragrant perfume as a courtesy and let the two of them wantonly writhe in the lewd act. The Lady of the Manor let a barely audible but heavy sigh. There is no place for her in either of their heart.
