By the time Draque looks back up, the movement presaged by the subtle sighing of the forest has concluded.  Someone has arrived.  They stand on the edge of the forest, poised as if they had been there all along.<br/><br/>Two of the figures stand tall just in front and to either side of the third.<br/><br/>Both are twins.  They seize the attention with their posture - an artful stance both proud and demurring.  They are two women, but like none any of the party has ever seen.<br/><br/>Statuesque at around six feet tall, the women have hair that pours down their backs in a lustrous cascade from a strict black leather binding at the back of their skulls.  Their complexion and the texture of their skin is enthrallingly soft.  One could stare at it in search of a flaw or in study of its bronze radiance for hours.  That flesh fits to muscles that seem pliant as cream some times, and flare into beautiful, steel-firm bands at others.  They seem almost sculpted, these women - craft with generous, round breasts and narrow waists; ample bottoms and taut, mare-long legs.  And they stand as if aware of it - as if conscious that their lusty breathing washes enchanting tension through their exquisite flesh.  They show themselves.<br/><br/>And there is much to show:  Besides a black leather harness that loops about their arms' lengths, fastens above and below their breasts, and hugs their thighs, they are naked.  They are gloriously naked; their nudity oiled with an unblemished sheen.  Their skin glints, making love with the sunlight it traps.  Between the lips of their hairless sex and through their nipples, silver rings glint.  They shine wetly, bodies heaving with restrained excitement, and watch with keen brown eyes.<br/><br/>Between them, a yet more enthralling woman stands.<br/><br/>She is clothed in dark blue over skin that is nearly perfectly white - the white of rose petals, inflected with the subtlest blush of pink.  She wears no harness, but her outfit lays on her skin like liquid; it runs from a low collar, over abundant breasts, down over her belly and the delta of her sex.  Bands of the same material spool up and down her legs and arms in breathtaking designs.<br/><br/>But she herself is most breathtaking of all in her design - her poise has to it some quality that instantly resonates with the sense of beauty.  She stands tall, as if the flesh of a cloud arranged like a single-stem lily.  Crimson hair spills down her cheek, its silken fall nearly masking the deep burn of her green eyes.  Her features distinguish her as Elven - the avian fragility; the poetic elegance of bone structure like some celestial musical instrument; the lushness of her lips.  She is like no Elf in experience though:  She is quality distilled, purified:<br/><br/>Pure grace.  Pure loveliness.  Pure majesty.<br/><br/>Pure ardor.<br/><br/>She stares at you all, and your soul goes crystalline green.  Time attenuates under her attention, like a cat arching its back as it is pet.  Fragrance plays from her body - the scent of myrrh and fire and sexual musk - and wets your senses.  The whole forest's breathing seems to come from her.<br/><br/>And then she speaks.  And the sound of her voice cracks something within: Something essential cracks with gratitude as its notion of beauty is redefined as the music of her words.<br/><br/><strong>"You do not belong here." </strong>Perfection sings to you.<strong>"You must hasten to go."</strong>