Scooping the unconscious form of Cyrene in her arms, Urganza strode quickly out of Antilorwe's chambers.

The Lady of the Manor followed, clutching Cyrene's discarded clothes, attempting to tug the motionless mage in her long robes. Her concerns were more to keep the girl warm than protecting her modesty. Her long elven legs still struggled to match pace with the athletic strides of Urganza. Yet, the orc did not care for such gestures. The desperate snarl in her tusked face conveyed it all -- if Cyrene needed warmth she would burn the manor and the nearest hamlet to keep her warm.

Undeterred by the weight of Cyrene, Urganza descended the winding staircase with two large leaps, leaving a heaving Antilorwe to fall behind.

Seeing the Orc head straight for the main door, Antilorwe hurried to quicken her steps. Her lungs burnt and her heart pounded, yet Urganza seemed almost unburdened by the collapsed Cyrene in her arm.

Cradling the limp form of the girl tight against her chest with both her arms, Urganza kicked the massive door open, a feat otherwise to be marvelled at.

"Urganza! Take her back to her room. I will get my maid to fetch help! Immediately" shouted Antilorwe.

Angered by the ridiculousness of the request, Urganza, without so much as a backward glance to spare, growled in response. "I am taking her to a shaman or a healer."

"I will call for a healer. Lay her on her bed with a thick quilt to keep her warm," countered Antilorwe's tone concerned, as she slowly pointed to Cyrene's sickly pale complexion.

"Waste of precious time waiting for help. Give a warm blanket and robe, I will carry her to the healer." The final determined look on Urganza's face held defiance against any argument that Antilorwe was willing to send in her direction.

An austere scowl marred Antilorwe's face, unwilling to let the adamant stupidity of the orc determine the fate of Cyrene. Urganza could be wild as a ravenous beast, but she would not let the orc intimidate her. It did not matter how enraged the Orc High-Lady was, nor how desperately fond she loved Cyrene, what she had in mind was foolhardy and Antilorwe would not let her tread that treacherous path.

Only the stirring of Cyrene's slender frame beneath Urganza's calloused palm broke both their fierce stare.

"I would like to retire to my own bed, please." Cyrene's voice, a dull and painfully drawn out, was a barely audible whisper in the silence of the hall.

---

Having left the broad windows open to invite a fresh garden breeze in, Antilorwe tugged the edge of the quilt under the nook of Cyrene's neck, making sure that the girl was adequately cocooned by the warming ritual.

Meanwhile, Urganza wiped the blood from Cyrene's face with a clean linen cloth. Small red stains dotted the pristine white linen. Soaking the cloth one more time, Urganza carefully cleaned the girl's face before placing the ruined cloth in the ceramic bowl, to be discarded later.

Despite being pampered, Cyrene could only feel guilt strolling inside her. "There is no need for a healer. I am just overwhelmed by the heated desires." The words just kind of fell. She hoped that neither Antilorwe nor Urganza would press any further. Yet, contrary to her wistful thinking, both her lovers held sheer disbelief in her excuse.

"No fever," said Urganza bluntly, ignoring her own words, before leaning to place another pillow under Cyrene's head and gently resting her hand upon her temples.

"I was far too lethargic to notice my own fatigue. A good rest will do me good. So, Antilorwe please, there is no need for a healer." The child-like begging of Cyrene was almost impossible to resist without an iron will. Unfortunately for her, Antilorwe was moulded by such a will. Her worry for Cyrene already fortified her decisions and nothing short of a miracle would change her mind.

"Sugarplum," Antilorwe interjected quietly, "As a Lady of the Manor and your hostess, it fails upon me to ensure your health within my walls."

Wriggling under the fine fabrics covering her naked form, Cyrene tilted her chin up, meeting Antilorwe's gaze. The soft yet definitive tone gave her the impression that the elf will not be swayed to reconsider.

"Just one of those minor side-effects of the potion Karlienne informed me about. Nothing threatening. So can you not send for the healer?" pleaded Cyrene.

Antilorwe exchanged her glance with Urganza, whose face carried a veneer of concern. Returning her attention back, she found Cyrene swallowing nervously, unwilling to surrender to the petty issue without a battle.

"Could you not bring a healer?" A flash of genuine apprehension shone through Cyrene's eyes.

"My daring enchantress, is there something more to your concerns, than a simple fear of healers?" Urganza leaned closer and almost whispered, lacing a promise of understanding in her question.

After weighing the situation for a moment, Cyrene opted to appeal rather than offer excuses futilely. The thought of answering a healer was very disturbing for a whole set of reasons.

"Most healers cannot cope with my body." A faint blush covered Cyrene's cheeks as she continued speaking. "What do I reply for my last menstruation? My fellow mages in the collective would be a lot more understanding and knowledgeable. So I would beg you not to call a healer."

Definitely unconvinced by her assessment and yet not wishing to intrude upon her condition, Antilorwe faintly nodded in acknowledgement to Cyrene. Placing herself close on the bed, she took Cyrene's silken strands into her hands, carefully braiding them, and clasping them firmly together. She exercised patience and yet failed to hide the hesitance in her actions. Slowly rubbing the pink free lobe of Cyrene's ears between her thumb and forefinger, pulling Cyrene into a gentle lull, Antilorwe added, "I do not believe that your loss of consciousness was due to those potions."

"Antilorwe, you should disperse your concerns. These a simple ill effects, temporary and harmless. I should know better." Turning her eyes away, concealing as an attempt to glance at Urganza, she tried to hide her desperate struggle to avoid the relentless barrage of questions that Antilorwe had for her.

"Your master is a High-alchemist. You barely held any talent there. Your speciality is planar constructs and realm boundaries. So please Sugarplum, do not insult my own abilities."

Offended at Antilorwe's reprimand, Cyrene pouted, closing her eyes tightly and drawing herself closer into a fetal position, she refused Antilorwe's beckoning.

"Sweetling Cyrene," Urganza lightly laid a palm against the curve of her cheek, offering comfort. "I adore you, yet I value you more to respect your wishes for not bringing a healer, even though it worries me. Now, it pains me to know that you will not disclose with us?"

Slowly lifting herself, Cyrene watched as Antilorwe rested her hands in Urganza's fingers. Tugged by the elf, her orc moved to occupy the other side of the bed, leaning back to offer her wide barreled frame for her to lean in. Strong arms wrapped Cyrene tight around her tummy, pulling her deeper into the warm embrace of Urganza. Smelling of gardenia and mellow winter wine. Slightly floral, slightly fruity and carried in a base of fresh petrichor.

With the pad of her fingers, Antilorwe gently caressed, hands rising up with each languid petting till they reached her shoulders and lingered there, rubbing encouragingly. The touch made Cyrene feel the sensation of a lake of glittering stars and constellations that spoke volumes of heavenly comforts surrounding her. Promising to whisk her away to a fairy tale of vivid vibrancy and subtle serenity.

"First, I want your word that neither will deploy any barrage of intruding questions, or more preferably none at all, apart from what I reveal," Cyrene spoke softly, still relishing in Antilorwe's touch, like a kitten that found the coziest of places near the hearth in a winter evening. A small smile crept across Cyrene's lips when she saw Antilorwe eagerly accept the unusual proposition. "I get assaulted with vivid images during my peak moments."

"Sugarplum, my own perception is not clouded enough to be unaware of it. Of course, I knew you had these powerful fantasies." Antilorwe grimaced, twirling her fingers to entice more comfort in Cyrene.

With a gentle tug, Cyrene found herself pulled into a snug hold of Urganza, urging her to continue. "It was wild, surreal and yet very sharp. Delicate whispers and images of something improbable and yet strangely plausible. Like you visions of Antilorwe," a subtle blush brought life back into her pale cheeks," in a Lordly attire, barging through my father's castle, triumphing over my mother's knights." Realising suddenly that she had gone too far in her revelation, Cyrene held her tongue.

"Your father has a castle and your mother has knights?" asked Urganza surprised.

Glancing sideways, Cyrene noticed the amused expression on Urganza's face and sent a subtle frown beamed at Antilorwe, pleading with her perceptive lover to not indulge Urganza in her questions or to prod her past. "It was a mere wistful fantasy given form. Just like how....." Cyrene made a small pause to recuperate from her action. Raising her fingers, she slowly caressed Urganza below her chin eliciting a very feline-like purr. "...you were a demonic dark knight clad in a darkened armour of volcanic stone, face and form all hidden by a swirling cloud of ash and smoke, barging into my very guarded solar and well, you did what all knights do when they find a maiden in all her glory."

"Sugarplum, Your fantasies are very vivid. If that is what you fancy, I could commission a full ebon armour -- dark as a moonless night -- for our brave knight. Perhaps stage a damsel needing a rescue moment to indulge your desires. The allure to partake in it is too tempting. After all, compared to the other fantasies I have indulged in, a maiden yielding to a dark knight is way too innocent." Something about the way Antilorwe mentioned the last three words made it sound doubly scandalous.

Cyrene could barely meet Antilorwe's gaze while the sudden spike in Urganza's pulse alarmed Cyrene that her elf lover's words had its intended effect on her orc lover.

"Except this time, it was something more. Antilorwe you were there, but you transformed into a young dark elf, though I could still say it was you. The shape of your eyes, the hazelness, the warmth and congeniality, it was all there." Licking her lips anxiously, Cyrene stared down into Antilorwe's face, hoping to catch any hints of desperation or curiosity, but was rewarded with a gaze that children reserved for their pets.

Cyrene continued. "There was a weapon, I believe, it is. Whips that are also blades, seven of them connected at the handle. The material, too strange and exotic, not even starfall or its alloys could provide such lustre and malleability -- or could hold those arcane energies pulsing through them. It refused your authority to wield, compelled not to accept." Cyrene paused, taking deep breaths before adding, "Lashing back with liquid lightning to resist the hand holding it. But you did not relish the hold, despite the charring of skin, flesh and nerves. And then, you struck...No!....shredded me with it."

Gathering together the last remnant of courage and conviction, Cyrene looked deep into Antilorwe's concerned eyes.

An odd sigh escaped Antilorwe's throat, evidently revealing her unmasked emotions. Placing both her palms onto Cyrene's shoulders, she gently rolled her hips forward. Leaning forward, she cuddled the already cradled Cyrene. "Sugarplum, were you afraid that I would hurt you?"

"No!" protested Cyrene. "Not you, never. But the weapon was very real. It tore through. Every kind of me, every form of me, every imagination, almost every version, it left only a ribbon of anguish behind to dissipate. I felt myself being torn from the innermost essence of myself. Shredded by raw primal fury that should have no existence, not even in chaos. The pain, it all confounded, from every version of me. Until my last form was left shattered by nothing but desolation."

Cyrene retreated back to her silence, with eyes cast downward, failing to stop the stream of tears and the sense of helplessness overcoming her.

Swallowing hard, Antilorwe lowered her head till she could rest her forehead upon Cyrene's shoulders. She started to stroke her fingers over her cheeks, massaging gently. Antilorwe slowly murmured, "Sugarplum, you just had a nightmare. Perhaps, you were overwhelmed with our lovemaking. Maybe, it was your cognitive's way of telling you to do away with the different fancy versions of yourself that you conjured in your head."

"Antilorwe, I lack the proper training in divination, illusion or any of those mind-affecting schools of magic, but I still believe this is deeper. The weapon did not cut through different forms of me, rather I suspect, those versions of me are how my mind tries to project a sense of threat -- that is just symbolism. I reckon it consumed my existence."

Cyrene sniffled and felt herself crumbling unable to bare the weight of the agony, or rather, the memory of it.

Warm arms of Urganza tightened further around her tender frame, coaxing her close to warm her chilled bones. Sudden hugs from Antilorwe, soothing fingertips brushing her lips, cheek, and ears.

"Perhaps, you were simply overwhelmed. With your own transition, your studies, the additional responsibility we forced you into, and of course, our activity since yesterday. This is your body's indirect way of telling you to slow down," commented Antilorwe.

"How could you be certain?" asked Cyrene nudging her elven lover slightly with her chin.

"Because, as you mentioned, it is your mind trying to make sense of things, seeking to interpret them with familiar patterns. If it could not cast any striking similarity to me, surely you would have found that dark elf resembling someone else you know. Don't you?"

Cyrene felt a bit calmed by Antilorwe's words. Mayhaps, there is truth to her words. After all, simple explanations are often the best.

"I believe, you made an astute observation. Now that I ruminate, the dark elf maiden did bear a vague resemblance to Rylonvirah." Cyrene felt the heated palms of Urganza tightening her hold on her arms. "If you were a dark elf, one can even postulate that you are her daughter."

"I assure you, I am neither of those." Antilorwe's peal of laughter spilled from her lips, joined by Cyrene's own an instant later.

Urganza's grasp tightened a bit more, drawing Cyrene's attention.

"The weapon you described is called urumi. A rare and exotic weapon, not favoured by most due to its lethal lacerations and lack of defensive abilities." There was no mirth in Urganza's tone, only grim foreboding. "No one is more proficient with an urumi than a dark elf and no dark elf is more proficient with an urumi than Rylonvirah."

Urganza's phrase was unpleasantly disturbing.

"By the tusks of my brother, I feel a shiver from this. Cannot be a mere coincidence." Urganza bared her teeth, unceremoniously revealing the base of her tusks in a wide helpless snarl.

For the rest of the night, despite her protests, neither of her lovers' left her side.

---

Cyrene stealthily crept from the end of her bed. With the sneakiness of a feline rogue, she tiptoed carefully to not wake either of her slumbering lovers. The pale pre-dawn light filtering through the windows still made enough visibility to find her way around the Manor. Picking up the pace, her brows rose sharply, searching deep into the main hall. She cursed herself audibly under her breath. To think that she was actually fooled, or rather, hidden in plain sight, made her question her worth as a planarmage. Not even the fae Vitalia could conceal her intentions from her. But the maid succeded where the fae failed.

Crossing the main hall, she entered the servant's entrance and quickly passed the empty hallway before entering the kitchen. Even at the early dawn, the maid was awake before her mistress, just like how a maid was expected to be.

Giving a small curtsey greeting to Cyrene, the maid checked the stovetop. A pot of water, simmered low on heat, emitting faint scents of onions, bell peppers and celery seeds. Then she went about the corner of a cabinet, setting a set of plates, along with knives, forks and spoons in their pristine order.

"Madame Mage, is there something specific you would require of me? I could bring a cup of herbal infusion for your health." Warm hands reached up to grab a pitcher emptying the contents into a small delicate mug which she slowly slipped into Cyrene's hands, stopping a brief moment when their hands made contact. While the action looked mundane, the maid carried considerable charm.

Cyrene's hand involuntarily gripped the chipped edge of a counter before raising the small mug to her nose. Smelling of nothing malicious, except peppermint, lavender and verbena, her heart skipped a beat for a moment. The scent emanating from the infusion took her by surprise, as it reminded her of warm meadows and lazy summer afternoons.

"I had it prepared for you Madame Mage," said the maid cocking a sly eyebrow in her direction. Its meaning baffled Cyrene.

Drawing herself straight, Cyrene said, "Even I was fooled for a moment. That was pretty ingenuous, if I may say."

"Is there something specific, perhaps service of a private nature that you would require from me? My Mistress had instructed me to prioritize extending hospitality to your stay." Her knees angled low, toes pointing diagonally across, and the slight underbite of her lower lips, made her offer plenty graspable.

Cyrene stammered with the unexpected twist but assembled her courage and calmness to claim her place. "Who was it? I would not stand by while you hurt my Antilorwe."

"My Lady, I know not what you accuse me of. I would not dare to bring harm to my Mistress."

"My Lady," said the maid with her expression darkened, annoyed by the resolute firmness shown by the fragile mage. Bitting off her tone, she coyly demanded, "if you wish to play an inquisitor and victim, My mistress has a special setting prepared for it."

"I love her more than anything. I would rend any threat that looms near her. So answer me this," Cyrene's tone held a hue of tempered steel, "the name of the one who possesses you."

A still silence reigned the space between them before Cyrene corrected herself, "The one you willingly let allow to possess. Summon them. I want direct contact."

"Reverend Mother Zar'Armaris does not bow to demands, nor can I comprehend her ways."

"Then tell her that I want a physical manifestation, no possessions."

And Cyrene strode out without receiving an acknowledgement.

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