Another cry - wavering and wide enough to shiver the horizons - leaps keening from the forest.  And now the crush and rustle of anxious branches and snapping undergrowth announces the charge of an approaching runner.  From inside the colonnade of emerald trees, shapes begin to stir in the distant dim.  Shadows grow pregnant with disquiet.<br/><br/>Something fast is scything nearer from the cool of the darkness.<br/><br/>The elegant Elf woman twists her body to another posture of subtly balletic poise - shoulders at a weightless diagonal, spine a harp, breasts like fruit about to swell beyond the capacity of the narrow vine of her frame.  She looks through the screen of fire that her hair brings over her cheek's alabaster.  In the woods, she sees something that makes her inhale.<br/><br/>Her countenance turns to Draque.<strong>"You are my cousin, from Gibeon.  I am Ava.  These are your 'hounds.'  What they brought down, is called a Gambol." </strong>And yet as the myrrh wash of her words works its dusty wings lightly around Draque's ears, her fingers convey another missive.<br/><br/>Fingertips like the stuff of butterfly wings skim down Miaren's bare pubic mound.  They dip over the curve of flesh, slowing, losing momentum as they round the shape of her vagina.  The fingers continue to slide, now like butter melting - precisely the feel of butter melting - as they glaze over Miaren's outer lips.<br/><br/>And the Elf speaks as she strokes there.<strong>"Hounds do not speak.  They are physically demonstrative.  Behave like a fond dog, or like a mare that adores its owner.  Any less will be unusual."</strong><br/>