Adamion removes the adhesion of his stare from Fern's sex, and shifts its target to Draque.  He lifts his hand into a languid beckoning.<br/><br/><strong>"Where do you come from, brother?  I fear Ava's family is so extensive, I cannot claim acquaintance with every span of its many branches."</strong><br/><br/>Draque shifts himself into a tall post more befitting the behavior of these celestial elves.  Laying a final reassuring brush on Fern's hips, he walks around her to approach Adamion with a wary step.<br/><br/>"Gibeon.  Draque of Gibeon.  At least that's what the polite circles call me."<br/><br/>Adamion lifts one end of a wry smile.<strong>"Different names for locked parlors and revelry halls, hm?"</strong><br/><br/>"Something like that." Draque responds with his own model of that smile.  He makes his way to stand a spear's distance from Adamion, measured in his speech and bearing.  "Lord Gibeon fits the signature line of decrees well, but I've always found that kind of format confining.  On the other hand, 'Master' has always had a certain delicious accuracy to it.  Around here, 'Cousin' has sufficed."<br/><br/>Adamion spreads his arms in a wide angle of welcome.<strong>"Then I will call you 'cousin' as well.  And friend, I hope.  But most assuredly 'guest,' if you would extend me the privilege as soon as you are able."</strong><br/><br/>Draque opens his mouth while still formulating an answer, and the silence presents itself to the conversation like a bit of unchewed food.  Ava's achingly lovely voice strokes aside the brief moment of dissonance.<br/><br/><strong>"I find the hunt has cost me my wind and patience, Lord Adamion.  I think it best if we repair to our respective halls."</strong><br/><br/>Adamion's arms fold before him.  A moment pregnant with a subtle tension later, he nods.<strong> "Then a short constitutional, to savor what I can of our new friend's company, and we will part ways."</strong><br/><br/>With no more ceremony, he turns and begins to saunter back toward the anxious sway of the forest rim.  His hand coaxes Draque closer, to between the stalking spread of the pair of dripping women at his flanks.<br/><br/><strong>"Closer, cousin.  Walk with me.  I would hear how Gibeon is these days."</strong><br/><br/>Draque's voted is muted slightly by distance as it reaches Fern and Miaren - slightly, but profoundly all the same.  The handful of meters separating them may as well be miles under the pull of the strange elves' company.  "Gibeon is as Gibeon always is.  Overly complicated."<br/><br/>Adamion turns the rim of his grin toward Draque as they slide into the trees ahead.  Behind Fern and Miaren, Ava's approach signals itself with a caress of myrrh and effulgence in the air.  A moment later, her hands graze over the nudity of their bottoms, softly exploring the curve of them.  Circles trace themselves in wakes of uncoiling velvet.<br/><br/>Just as soft, as surreptitious, Ava's voice sounds in their heads.<br/><br/><strong>"He suspects."</strong>After that splinter of sweet tones is let to lodge deep in their minds, Ava adds,<strong>"You can both hear my thoughts and each others.  Now is the time to talk, before we must focus on how to mend Draque's imperfect disguise by whatever means.  On him, your hope of exit from the Garden depends."</strong><br/><br/>She follows the pair of men, coaxing Fern and Miaren forward with the satin circulation of her touch on the height of their rumps.