Having succeeded in exhausting all three Dryads, Gwalchmai stumbles out of the grove. Drained from his travels, feverish, he makes it to a small cabin, somewhere, he’s not sure...
Darkness and delirium overcomes him. He feels himself falling into a deep crevasse, not unlike the Lady Dragon Wench’s ample cleavage. He feels warm, snug, as if in Lady Vivien’s flannel embrace. He dreams of a voice, clear as a bell, singing in the softly lilting, sensual tones of his Lady Jennabard (a voice he has not heard for quite some time). The aroma of Lady Georgi’s velvet hair, like spring lilacs and orange blossoms in full bloom. The silky smooth skin of Lady Loner’s hand, softly caressing.
He sees anger, detached, floating away. How could he harbor ill will toward Darkpoet? Isn’t there more important things to life? Isn’t The Harem all that matters?
Forbidden images, desires, hopes drift around Gwalchmai. The small of their backs, full lips softly parted, long thighs under short leather skirts... Down, he falls, plumets.
Is this the end? Will noone rescue the Willing Slave, the First, the Ever-hopeful?
