<strong>Will of the One</strong><br/><strong>Location</strong>: Guest Quarters, Civic Festhall, Sigil<br/><strong>Time</strong>: Mid-morning<br/><strong>Tagged</strong>: Closed for Ihaana & Bryseis<br/><br/>Ihaana's caress of her tail was at least a dimension better than that fingers not shaped by the aasimar's intensely artistic scarification. It sent visceral shivers down her spine. Rysse gave a satisfied, languid sigh, "She's leaving us," she murmured into Ihaana's ear. Her black-painted lips clasped the cool metal of a silvery ring adorning one of the aasimar's ears, teeth bared, snaring the hard hoop and tugging, gently. Rysse looked up at Prisine, keen eyes scanning the genasi's lithe form, "You're leaving us," a playful chuckle, "said your peace, spoke your chant, spewed your screed and now you're leaving us. But she's right. We'll come. Now that the chant's started, we've got to see how it ends." Her hand trailed down Ihaana's taut belly, the tip of her index finger skimming teasingly into the aasimar's navel. In her vision, the ink stirred, threatening to swallow the dark red skin of her fingers in a swirl of intricate symbols. Webs and layers of meaning densely layered like nothing Rysse's mind - sober or reaching heights beyond the Seventh Heaven of Celestia - could fully grasp.<br/><br/>"You're right, angel. We'd better let her go," Rysse continued, a little ruefully, her breath close and warm on Ihaana's ear "and I'd better help you back to your kip." Rysse released Ihaana from her embrace and stumbled, reaching out for the smooth, stony surface of the pool's wall for support. It was slippery from condensation - like hard skin covered in a sheen of sweat. "And it won't do -" she smiled, a little conspiratorially before losing her train of thought, "and it won't do at all," there it was again, that elusive thought which had escaped mid-sentence and made her look like a fool, "for us to make it back like this."<br/><br/>She drew in a deep breath and focused on gathering her thoughts into something approaching a logical sequence. The cascading thunder of Prisine's waterfall was doing her mind no favours. It was sensory overstimulation: the shimmering lights, the humidity, the crashing of water echoing on stone walls. Rysse stumbled out of the bathing chamber back into the main atrium and stepped gingerly over naked intertwined bodies, some still coupling, some simply teasing, exploring, stoking their passion for the next, frantic bout. Her memory was hazy, but she recognised her vest, her dark leather jerkin still dusty from work and her boots, with their distinctive black iron buckles. She swept up her clothing and retraced her steps to find her breeches. They were still damp with sweat and redolent of her passion, soft and creaky in the way only old leather is.<br/><br/>Easing her way back into the bathing chamber she dressed quickly, her jerkin open for the heat and humidity, the light grey fabric of her vest clinging close to her full breasts and the curve of her belly. Then she took Ihaana's hand - a comforting constant in the roiling sea surrounding her. The aasimar's touch was unmistakeable.<em>I always know when it's her</em>.<br/><br/>"Remember where those pants of yours are?" Rysse ventured. She was sure she knew what Ihaana had been wearing when the festivities began, but at the moment her memory failed her. "Let's find them and I'll walk you home. The air'll do us good." Nice, cool, smoky Sigil air with the characteristic scent of old charcoal, wet stone and razorvine.<em>How else does a tiefling know she's home</em>?