With a merry jaunt, the elven ranger, known to most only as Dew, entered the townstead of Tallow just as the sun-kissed the western horizon, sending fountains of citrus and strawberry across the sky. Clothed from head to toe in tight fitted, emerald attire one would customarily associate with her ilk, she made a drastic contrast to the townsfolk who yet trundled down the town’s main, and only, avenue, clothed as they were in drab shades of grey, brown, or burgundy. Despite this distinction, she was met with naught but hearty greetings at her passing, marking the familiarity with which the town held her, and she them, for she returned each hail with an equally exuberant one of her own.
She always enjoyed it when her travels took her by Tallow. It lay far enough from the turbulent frontier that none of the life or death struggles that dwelt there touched it, and yet far enough from any major settlement that the peasantfolk had not yet grown fat and lazy as such proximity normally lent. They were a peaceful, country folk, who loved a good tale and for whom the daily toils gave their own rewards. The fruits of their labors were theirs and theirs alone, and a pint of ale at the Tallow’s Wick, the town’s sole tavern, was an earned reward after a hard day’s work and not a well in which they drowned their misery. Also, it helped that Tallow was home to the ranger’s dearest lover. One’s whose embrace Dew would happily return to season after season.
It had been some time since Dew had visited, however, and she had decided some miles back that a courage-inspiring ale from the Tallow’s Wick was in order before she became reacquainted with her squeeze.
As such, she made her way there first, passing the home in which her lover dwelt as she did.
Though she passed it by on her way to the town’s water trough, she did not ignore it completely and allowed her gaze to drift over the structure’s well built, wooden, frame and its thatched roof. Smoke drifted lazily from its chimney and a flickering candlelight shone in its windows. She was at work then, Dew surmised. Diligent as ever was she, her lover, and the town Herbalist, Svetla the Brewess.
Pushing thoughts of the enigmatic woman’s heady cunt from her mind, Dew pushed on to the tavern door. Shouldering through just as a burst of raucous laughter erupted within.
The tavern’s interior was what you might expect from such an establishment within such a town. Rough-hewn wood made up floors, walls, and support beams for its thatched roof, the sight of which was mostly obscured by a heavy cloud of smoke fed by the pipes clenched in the teeth of most of the establishment’s patrons.
Upon her entry, Dew was hailed by many of these patrons and she encouraged towards the bar where the tavern’s portly owner, a robust man named Al, was already drawing a pint of his finest for her.
“What news have ye of the wider world, Dew?”
“Oi, Dew, how fairs the roads?”
“Ranger! Give us a juggle yeah?”
These were just a few of the calls she received as she made her way to the bar, most of which she ignored as her gaze was fixed on the frothing mug of ale Al had sat for her upon the bartop, the surrounding patrons jostling to make room for her.
“Bit of a rowdy crowd tonight, eh, Al?” She said as she sat herself upon a vacant stool before the drink he’d set for her.
“Yer presence has a way o’ stirring folk up,” was the barkeep’s reply. “Give ‘em a tale to slake their thirst and ye can drink free for the night.”
Not one to deny such a generous offer, even if her thoughts were on a far more shapely form than any offered currently within the taproom, Dew drank heartily from her ale before twisting dramatically in her seat to face the room proper.
“So there I was,” she began and the room fell silent as all eyes and ears trained on her. “At the mercy of the Goblin-King of Abadon. A ferocious and lascivious character known far and wide as one who liked to play with his food before he ate it…”
Her tale went on as the sun set outside and soon she was waist-deep in another as Al kept her mug full to the brim. As ever, her audience was a rapt one, hanging on her every word, laughing or crying out in fear or horror at all the right moments. After her second tale was through, and she was feeling more than a little tipsy, a group of young men challenged her to a knife-throwing contest and she being not the one to ever back from a challenge issued, consented.
It was midway through this game, one in which the elf was thoroughly thrashing the young rapscallions, that the door to the tavern opened to emit a tall, pale-skinned, fiery-haired woman in a tight frock, the bodice of which she’d loosened to allow her substantial breasts to almost spill forth. A light sheen of sweat covered the flawless, slightly flushed skin of her porcelain brow and beads glistened upon the expanse of her chest leading to the low cut of her corset, suggesting work interrupted.
She stood in the doorway, hands on hips, until a laughing Dew caught sight of her.
“Ah, Mistress Svetla,” Al cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Might ye be interested in a pint?”
“No, thank you, Al,” the Herbalist cast a smirk his way. “I prefer a stronger drink if you have one.”
She then waived for a sheepish Dew to continue her sport whilst she made her way to the bar where Al was pouring a small glass of vodka for her.
“She meant no harm in it,” the barkeep said in hushed tones as Svetla leaned upon the bar and accepted the drink he had poured, general noise returning to the taproom about them.
The Herbalist gave the portly man a disbelieving look before taking the vodka in a single swig, an action the impressed the other men at the bar greatly.
“Another please, Al,” she said, rapping the bar. “And I don’t come here out of anger or disapproval. I merely wish to remind our dear ranger who it is she is going home with tonight.”
Al chortled at her words.
“I don’t think ye have anything to worry about there, Svetla,” he said, both of them glancing up as a collective groan from the rapscallions told them Dew had landed another impossible throw.
Within moments the game was through and the ranger returned to the bar was a small coin purse, her winnings from the competition no doubt.
“Here, Al,” she called, tossing the purse to the barkeep, her gaze never leaving Svetla’s. “For the ale, and for whatever it was my lady was drinking.”
The Herbalist dipped her head to the elf, a coy smile tugging the corners of her mouth. With a wolfish grin of her own, Dew bowed to her and offered her her arm. Shaking her head at the elf’s silliness, Svetla took the offered arm and the pair departed with many a wistful look following in their wake.
Once outside, the brisk night air heavy with the smell of woodsmoke and holly, kissed their faces and the women huddled more closely together, the elven ranger coming only to the soft cushion of the Herbalist’s breast in height. A fact that suited her just fine for the heat that radiated from the flesh beneath the thin layer of cloth beckoned to her urgently and they had barely made it past the corner of the tavern’s wall when the ranger turned, and with surprising strength, forced the other woman into the alleyway between the tavern and her shop.
Pushed roughly up against the tavern’s wall, Svetla gasped, the ranger’s slight yet powerful frame sealing her in against the structure.
“If you were…so…eager for my touch….ah…one might…wonder why…oh…you didn’t come straight over,” the Herbalist said between heated kisses, the ranger’s hands seemingly everywhere, unlacing her bodice, hiking up her skirt, as well as caressing any available inch of flesh they could find.
Dew did not respond to her lover’s words, allowing her hands and mouth to do her talking for her as she freed one of Svetla’s breasts, her teeth sinking into its soft, heated flesh, whilst her other hand slid up the other woman’s skirt, instantly locating and kneading the soft, moist bed of curls betwixt her thighs.
“Oh you devil,” Svetla moaned as Dew made a trail of kisses and soft bites across her chest, shoulder, throat, and exposed tit while her fingers began their eager delving in her cunny.
Just as the ranger was beginning a most pleasurable rhythm within the Herbalist, the door to the tavern burst open and the pack of rapscallions spilled onto the street. The two lovers retreated further down the alley so as to not be spotted by the young men, Svelta grabbing her elven lover’s hand and pulling her towards the back of the Apothecary.
A small fence impeded them, encompassing the shopkeeper’s herb garden and barely had the two women navigated the obstacle before they came together once more, Dew grabbing Svetla’s bodice to force it open further, freeing her other breast from its confines. Not to be outdone, Svetla grabbed the smaller woman’s shoulder and spun her ‘round so that she faced the low fence. Coming up behind the ranger, the taller woman crushed her to her, one of her hands expertly unlacing the elf’s jerkin whilst the other began work on her swordbelt.
As the blade and belt fell among the foliage at their feet, Svetla plunged her hand down the front of Dew’s tight trousers, her fingers tracing the slit of her pussy before sliding into the hot, wet cavern of her sex. Her jerkin falling open, the ranger felt herself forced forward by a strong hand on the base of her neck. Doing as she was bid, Dew caught herself on the low fence, Svetla pulling down her trousers as she leaned over, baring her ass to the cool night breeze. In a moment, however, her lover’s body pressed once more against her from behind, the Herbalist’s expert fingers once more finding their way inside of her, this time from behind, the taller woman’s other hand remaining on her back, keeping her bent over as she plunged her first two then three fingers into her over and over.
This continued for several moments until the smaller woman stiffened, her leg shaking as an orgasm rippled through her, sending her entire form aquiver. Svetla allowed her to ride the waves of her pleasure, continuing her administrations within the ranger, though softer now, until the orgasm had run its course.
Once it had, she released her firm grip upon the elf’s back and pulled her slickened fingers from her lover. Retreating, she made for her shop’s back door, hastily unlocking it as Dew divulged herself of the remnants of her clothing, leaving only her elbow-length gloves and bracers in place, before giving chase.
Just within the shop’s back door was a dimly lit, cramped, modestly furnitured living area. As soon as Dew had closed the door behind them, the women forwent the rituals of lighting candles and fell immediately together on the bed, Svetla on her back with the ranger astride her, hot mouth on her nipple and hands given free rein of her body.
Within seconds the Herbalist’s frock was in a heap on the floor and she lay back, allowing her long-lost lover to have her way with her, relishing every touch, kiss, and lick.