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darkest_fate
machina erotica
- Joined
- Dec 17, 2009
- Location
- the INTERNET
The tower stood upon the land like a challenge. It had risen seemingly overnight, marring the usual landscape with its impressive build. spiraling toward the Heavens, it appeared to be made out of a strange purple substance, not quite organic, but not the brick or mortar one would expect of such a place. An eerie sort of aura permeated around the structure. Birds flew around it; no animals dare draw near. Something about the place pulled at beings though, calling from nearby settlements. Perhaps surprisingly, it called more females to it, and it seemed the more beauteous, the more untouched, the more pristine the female, the more the structure called to her, beckoning her forth.
Guinevere likely would not have been able to resist its pull herself, were it not for her intense training and experience. The striking young woman with the teal hair had spent her life honing herself into a weapon as deadly as she was beautiful. A thin sword lay at her hip, well within reach and carefully, expertly balanced for the delicate hand of the master who wielded it. Magical energy seemed to thrum within her, a pool of mana and energy that nearly matched those dedicated solely to the craft. True, Guinevere was not a flawless knight nor an unmatched sorceress, but she'd learned to combine the two together in a deadly dance.
The striking swordswoman had not entered the tower alone. She'd been with a group of adventurers, stalwart companions who had delved into many a lair of monsters and the like. Guinevere wasn't quite the leader: there was a knight with a hero's look, one who she perhaps fancied just a bit more than she should, who usually led the way. He never seemed to quite notice how the leather clung almost too well to Guinevere's lithe frame, delicately highlighting a nearly perfect tight ass. The long boots clad to equally long legs didn't draw any notice. His eyes never wandered the curves, carefully encased in silk and leather, nor did he notice the slight under-cleavage the daring outfit portrayed. Guinevere did mostly dress for practicality: the leathers were light enough that she could utilize her near dance of a fighting style, but they would still protect from light injury. But the cut and display had perhaps been tilted a little toward exposition.
Which she regretted some now. The magic fencer licked her lips as she cast her gaze about the room, the purple of the walls feeling oppressive and unnatural. Guinevere swore she could feel it hammering at her brain, and was glad for the protective spells they'd cast upon themselves before entering. In a frantic confrontation, they'd been separated, or at least Guinevere had parted from her group; she didn't know if the others were together or just as alone. It bothered her, particularly being away from Arthur, though she supposed he was likely the best off. She cast her gaze around the room, seeking stairs or another entrance or those strange portals she'd seen. The terrain seemed to shift around them in service of whatever master owned this place, so Guinevere knew she must be on alert.
That strange digging in her brain made her all the more uneasy though, and she found herself shifting uneasily, ready for anything.
Guinevere likely would not have been able to resist its pull herself, were it not for her intense training and experience. The striking young woman with the teal hair had spent her life honing herself into a weapon as deadly as she was beautiful. A thin sword lay at her hip, well within reach and carefully, expertly balanced for the delicate hand of the master who wielded it. Magical energy seemed to thrum within her, a pool of mana and energy that nearly matched those dedicated solely to the craft. True, Guinevere was not a flawless knight nor an unmatched sorceress, but she'd learned to combine the two together in a deadly dance.
The striking swordswoman had not entered the tower alone. She'd been with a group of adventurers, stalwart companions who had delved into many a lair of monsters and the like. Guinevere wasn't quite the leader: there was a knight with a hero's look, one who she perhaps fancied just a bit more than she should, who usually led the way. He never seemed to quite notice how the leather clung almost too well to Guinevere's lithe frame, delicately highlighting a nearly perfect tight ass. The long boots clad to equally long legs didn't draw any notice. His eyes never wandered the curves, carefully encased in silk and leather, nor did he notice the slight under-cleavage the daring outfit portrayed. Guinevere did mostly dress for practicality: the leathers were light enough that she could utilize her near dance of a fighting style, but they would still protect from light injury. But the cut and display had perhaps been tilted a little toward exposition.
Which she regretted some now. The magic fencer licked her lips as she cast her gaze about the room, the purple of the walls feeling oppressive and unnatural. Guinevere swore she could feel it hammering at her brain, and was glad for the protective spells they'd cast upon themselves before entering. In a frantic confrontation, they'd been separated, or at least Guinevere had parted from her group; she didn't know if the others were together or just as alone. It bothered her, particularly being away from Arthur, though she supposed he was likely the best off. She cast her gaze around the room, seeking stairs or another entrance or those strange portals she'd seen. The terrain seemed to shift around them in service of whatever master owned this place, so Guinevere knew she must be on alert.
That strange digging in her brain made her all the more uneasy though, and she found herself shifting uneasily, ready for anything.