A fire crackled softly in the pit at the center of the thatched roof hut, it's smoke wafting outward through the chimney on the roof. Drinnen sat next to the flames on a large, pillowy cushion. His skin was pink and softened by the vigorous scrubbing he had received in a steaming bath, and his damp salt and pepper hair smelled of sweet, scented oils. He wore only a wool bathrobe as he quietly smoked his pipe, a vice his dear wife had often asked him to quit. The remnants of a roast fowl sat nearby on a wooden plate, and he sipped a rich red wine from a carved wooden goblet. All the anxieties he had felt earlier in the day had melted away, and he found himself content, having now had a filling meal. The wine left him feeling cozy and tranquil.
He thought about his dear Maggie, and how he might one day confess his transgressions against his wedding vows, or if he should even bother. She was a good woman, though plain. They had married almost a score of years ago when she had just come of age, and while his trade had often kept him away for large chunks of time, he was always happy to return to her warm embrace.
Suddenly, his reverie was broken as the hut's door creaked open. His young serving girl, Zera, had been coming and going often, so he assumed she was only returning to check on his needs. Earlier, she had been the one to administer his bath, but, while doing so, had lingered a little longer than necessary while washing his manhood. Her elven eyes had been wide as she tried not to stare, all the while breathing, quick, excited breaths.
"If you had seen me, would you have picked me?" she had asked quietly as she brushed her thin fingers across his soapy, half-hard cock. She wore her strawberry-blonde hair in a loose ponytail, and her young, pretty face was awash with freckles.
"Undoubtedly," Drinnen had said, smiling politely.
"You're so hairy," Zera had observed, admiring the soft, curly hair that covered him from his loins to his shoulders. "Are all men hairy like you?"
"Men come in countless varieties. From what I've seen, I'm probably somewhere in the middle, truth be told. Are elf-men not hairy?"
"I don't know, I've never seen an elf-man." She had seemed saddened by that. "We elf-girls aren't hairy at all, though. The only hair we grow is on our heads, so...seems to me that elf-men probably wouldn't be that hairy either."
"I would name that sound logic," Drinnen had said as she gently stroked his now fully erect cock with her freckled fingers.
Her thin, dainty hands had been so soft and gentle upon his skin, and she had licked her lips hungrily as she gripped his shaft a little harder. She had giggled then, and her laughter had echoed sweetly throughout the small hut.
"I can feel your heartbeat..."
She had shifted her weight when talking, and her backside had accidentally knocked over the pitcher of wine. The blood red contents spilled across the floor as it fell with a clatter.
"Oh, gods," Zera had said, flustered. She had turned to retrieve the pitcher and clean the mess with nearby washing rags. As she had gotten down on her hands and knees, her rear loin-cloth had fluttered to the side, and whether she had known it or not, she had given Drinnen a full view of her youthful womanly flower.
Silvery strands of sticky wetness had clung to her inner thighs and painted her pink, womanly lips with a translucent sheen. She was hairless, as she had mentioned, and her girlish folds were a bright, striking shade of pink set against the rest of her freckled skin. In an instant, the fabric had settled back into place, but the image of Zera's sweet honeypot had burned itself into Drinnen's mind. He had reached for her then, hungrily, but she had stood quickly and, carrying the wine-stained washrags, had bustled out.
Now, Drinnen's pipe smoke wafted towards the ceiling as he turned his head to speak.
"Zera, my dear, you needn't have worried about the wine..."
He looked up, suddenly realizing that it was not Zera who had entered. An elf-woman with black, wavy hair was closing the door. She carried a steaming clay pot sat upon on a carved wooden tray. Drinnen noticed in the firelight that her dark hair was streaked with strands of a violet, and she wore a smoothly polished onyx on a dark choker necklace. She wore the same thin strip of fabric between her legs as the rest of her kinsmen, but also donned a pair of tight fitting sleeves that covered her from wrist to shoulder, and she was tattooed with a set of interweaving triangles upon her cheek. She set a striking figure, and was quite pleasant to look upon. Her face was rounded and cherubic, her eyes deep and dark, and her cheeks lightly dimpled. Her breasts were full and robust, and her nipples a dark shade of pink. He noticed that she also wore a piercing on her navel, and from it hung a small triangular ornament.
"I am Esmaya; a mage," she said in a sultry voice as she sat the tray down. She seated herself next to him and studied him with quiet intensity, her dark eyes gleaming in the firelight.
Drinnen eyed her as he puffed his pipe, waiting.
"Are you feeling confident in your ability to fulfill your task?" she asked at length.
He scoffed, and drained his wine goblet.
"Well I'm no spring hen, as you can see. But I've fathered children before. Two in fact, a daughter and a son. They're now close to grown themselves."
"Good," Esmaya said. "That bodes well."
She sat quietly again, watching him. Drinnen held her gaze as the firelight shimmered against the polished onyx at her throat.
"I have brought you a potion," she said, breaking the silence. "My order has concocted this particular potion to strengthen you, and others who have been, or will be, in your place, that your chances of success might be increased. Drink it while it is still hot, and your vitality and vigor will know no bounds for the remainder of your endeavours."
Drinnen glanced warily at the steaming pot.
"Is it required?" he asked with a furrowed brow.
