* CATACOMBS *<br/><br/>The Gorgon Queen sets the bowl aside.  Then Myrine's fingertips drizzle, riding their nails and a silk crescent of flesh over Galla's haunch and scalp.  Her knee is warm - a rock from the desert, washed smooth by the sea.  Galla smells that desert, that sea, on Myrine, along with her musk.<br/><br/>As Myrine caresses Galla, stroking her to curl nearer on the generously textured furs, she inquires, "I know you have suffered.  I have ... I try not even to remember the pain of what was lost, only the joy of when we had it.  Our tribes.  Our sisters.  The cause."<br/><br/>Myrine exhales slightly. Not quite a sigh.  Perhaps even a sound of pleasure.  "You are not weak, though, Galla.  You endured enough to break many women.  Why do you consider yourself weak now?"<br/><br/>Then the bow of her mouth draws into a tight smile.  "Tell me, and rest assured that lasting freedom is not far from hand."