Ansalia would find the sister's leg more than receptive, the flesh slightly warm even through the fabric that covers it.  She seems to slowly turn her eyes back to the woman, and for the first time reaches for her glass.  She doesn't appear to notice the way the woman's lovely breasts seem to effortlessly wish escape, nor does she twitch or flinch at the physical contact.  Her eyes, however, show a subtle and powerful reaction, as her inky-black pupils dilate even wider for the briefest of moments, and her nostrils ever-so-slightly widen.  "Flight?  How exotic--"  she smiles very broadly then, dimpling her youthful cheeks and plumping her lips very tenderly before she pries them apart yet again-- the pink flesh of the upper and lower lips, full and healthy, pillowy and welcoming like a flower's poisoned fruit, seem to want not to part from each other-- there's the slightest tug as she opens them, baring the faintest gleam of white teeth before she tenderly, and minxishly bites her lower lip, as if to contain such a vulgar outbreak.<br/><br/>"What do you think, Lord Balrog..?"  her eyes leave the lovely woman's, meeting the brooding warrior's brashly and piercingly, "don't you think she and I will get along swimmingly?"  She turns back, still so carefully and puritanically avoiding the slipping garment's tauntingly precarious position.  There's a sensation, as she meets Ansalia's gaze again, of motion-- as if the table were shifting towards each of them, shrinking-- as if vertigo were the result of a powerful gravity, and that any moment they might collide.  The habit-clad girl tips her face tenderly, and one black curl seems to spring free from the wimple that cradles her head.  Glistening, wavy and soft, this single strand of a few hairs shatters the illusions that her habit so meagerly and mockingly shrouded, and that single lock of hair speaks of womanly charms and flesh and passionate abandon, a creature beneath a meager black shroud that, if freed, would consume the heart of a bull and copulate the devil to exhaustion, laughing and writhing and gleefully devouring every moment.<br/><br/>She brushes the hair back, her smile suddenly modest, and looks faintly embarrassed, and then makes a point of glancing down very slightly to Ansalia's breasts.  Her petal-lips frame the faintest mockery of surprise, then her gaze pointedly meets the brash stare of Soma.  An exquisite gesture, made to look simple.  A mutual challenge to notice that beauty while framing her mock innocence, a question of 'how lovely can a girl's flesh be..?  and yours?' mingled with a suggestion that her shrouded modesty could never measure up... when, deep in the embers of her heart, a woman of her beauty can't help but challenge herself to meet.  "I hope only that our efforts will spread fertility through this soil and inspire the prayerful thanks of its people."  Again, that sweet little smile.  That sugar-cube soaked in absinthe, that lion's tender nuzzling of a fawn's cheek.