𝐒𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐖 | 𝟏𝟖+

xv. the king's request.

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‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐕𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍'𝐒 𝐅𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐕𝐀𝐋, 𝐒𝐎 𝐒𝐇𝐄'𝐒 𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐃, 𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐁𝐄 𝐅𝐀𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐑𝐄𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐋𝐋. While the wyng tended to be modest in their rituals, the fae (but also the were) thrive on concepts once considered to be foul and lewd. Elowen's not sure what to expect for the evening, but the thrill of burning on fae wine intrigues both her inner creature and herself. There's an allure to the bliss that comes along with it, and this might be her only chance at tasting a drop of that euphoria.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen emerges from behind the dressing screen, awkwardly adjusting her dress. If she can even call it that. The storm black fabric curls around her waist and chest, transitioning to semi-translucent swirls and stardust for straps on her shoulders. Her back remains exposed, her elegant white wings enough decoration. The deep-jutted neckline reveals the top roundness of her breasts, not that she has much to boast. The skirt remains slits of the same translucent black fabric, hardly hiding her panties and exposing most, almost all, of her thigh as the fabric drapes down to the floor.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Ember and Cordea sit atop her bed, both of them dressed for the evening's affairs. The king's magic had nearly healed Cordea in complete when she woke up in the morning, a surprise to many. Arion insisted she take another day to rest, but she refused to miss an opportunity to dance the night away in a kingdom of professional partiers.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The fire nymph enthusiastically claps her hands. "Just look at you! I bet every fae down there will ask for your permission to dance."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Not that I'm much of a dancer," Elowen mumbles. She's danced before in her past, but it's nothing but a distant memory now. Whatever rhythmic talent she once upheld will surely dissipate the moment she steps into the hall.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎"Neither am I," Cordea retorts, her blood-red lips pursing with every word, "but everyone else in there will be too drunk to care. Just don't trip and fall on your dress, and you'll make it to the end of the night."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Cordea herself dresses in a blush v-line gown, one that reveals her boisterous chest while a band hugs her waist. The form-fitting gown flows down to her feet in chiffon drapes, a high slit slicing right above her thigh. Compared to her, Elowen looks like an awkward puppet on a string.

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎The beta rises to her feet, holding her arm out for Elowen to take. "You'll be alright in there. Trust me on this one."

‎‎‏‏‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎Elowen links her arm within Cordea's before doing the same with Ember on the other side. She sets her expectations for the night, but it's not like she has many. The harvest moon's festival will only bring her into uncharted territory, but right now, all she desires is a drink and a dance, and then she'll see where the night goes.

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