Our baths are carved from solid gemstone. Mine is of rose quartz, pink, like my gem. Fresh pressed cane juice is added to my tub. Like the cane, I am sweet and earthy. I am my Master’s pear. He tears into me, as if freshly fallen from the tree, split and protruding. The hot water relieves my thighs and hips when he loves me deeply. Accepting and nurturing his seed, in months, I labor along with my sisters, in the living waters. My love is our Master’s favorite. She is the color of cinnamon, long dark hair resting at the swell of her back, having the radiance of a beautiful young mother. I tend to her, lovingly relieving her milk-filled breasts in a tub of amethyst.He sows into us wildly. Seven gardens planted in a single night. Seven stone baths holding lavishly-seeded wives. The most valued is my love. He fills her frequently, with fervor and delight, keeping her breasts heaving. My flower spread upon his lips, his tongue polishing my gem, I can almost feel the pulsing of his staff. This battle isn't lost yet!"The tendril stretched thinner, longer, following its unknown scent toward Rowann's old camp. It ignored my mental commands completely."What is it doing? What can it want in Rowann's camp?" I watched the tendril disappear into the distance. At least the sword wasn't getting any heavier, though the knots of mist around my gloves continued to become more complex, building on itself. A soft glow came from the tendrils covering my left hand, oddly enough, not around the God's Glove, but from my bare fingers.Well, almost bare fingers, the only other thing I wore on that hand was my love ring given to me by my wife when we wed."Oh, no!" My wife was in Rowann's camp. The exhausted poets around me moved away some more, giving me as much room as the narrow ledge allowed."I need Zibong shields!" I shouted, turning a few heads in our Mage corps. They obviously wondered why I would need shields in the best-protected place we had. After the shock of seeing me surrounded.
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