We climbed the hilltop under a velvet sky, our private aerie above the Thousand Miles Land. Naked skin kissed by cool breeze, arms laden with shed clothes. Luxe tents shimmered like silk pavilions. Surprise: an intruder in silken tunic, silver-braided belt gleaming worth platinum stacks. Ethereal beauty rivaled mine—no pointed ears, but divine poise. Krill drew his massive blade. Gardain hesitated. The stranger raised a hand: ‘Peace and prosperity, travelers. I am Colissimo, gods’ messenger.’ Recognition dawned. Dwarf and I knew his lore. Krill sheathed. Irony laced Gardain’s greeting: ‘Your Divinity, what honor?’ ‘You’ve been chosen for The Great Adventure—quests for riches, glory.’ Obliged by gods. Doubts? He conjured elven backpacks at our feet—vast, impossible. For Gardain: chainmail cote, camail, greaves, gauntlets, gambison, braies, cow-leather boots. Double-bladed axe, iron-rimmed rondache, 10 gold. Krill: boiled leather full harness—plastron, cuisses, boots, gauntlets, helm. Loincloth native swapped for shirt, braies, two-hander sword, 10 gold. Mine: turquoise armed-silk tunic, supple cuissardes with 1-inch steel stiletto heels—balanced, terrain-proof. Yew longbow, 20 steel-tipped arrows. Minor detection ring—glows green/red for foes/friends, vibrates alert, ignores familiars. 10 gold. Exquisite. Courtesied thanks. Gardain probed: rare fame? Only true heroes endure. Form company: three minimum—we’re Zaventuriers, with Z for zany. Colissimo blinked at Krill’s insistence, we laughed. Registered. Gong-Bong tolled—my ascension. 345 XP: 200 for lethal shot at 50 paces, 20 food gift, 100 double Galipett Kiss (bonus 25). Level 1 at 300; 45 rollover +60 bonus =105 toward 600. New parcel: 2-inch heels, 10 arrows, 20 gold. Hand hovered—dexterity, charisma up 5%. Think attribute: breasts swelled, 55A to 60B, nipples taut, defying gravity. Sigh—modest for my frame. ‘Sublime before, transcendent now,’ he soothed. ‘Imagine level 100.’ Smiled. First quest: Bloody Mound, Scepter of the Loser. Loot yours; die, gods reclaim. Sell excess—weight slows. He vanished. Reality: enhanced curves thrust proud. Privilege sealed in starlit exclusivity.
Temptation surged. ‘Store gear tomorrow, Little Beard. Earn more XP—Promise of Cemenss or Galipett Forage?’ Tent: 14×7 feet square, opulent hide. Flute charm repelled intruders, ring vigilant. No fertility worry—elves need spell for that. Krill entered. I guided: ‘Big Strong, lie back.’ Straddled, gripped his throbbing cock, sank slick pussy onto it. Leaned forward, ass high. ‘What wait, Little Beard?’ Hesitant, then: dwarf’s rigid carrot speared my tight asshole. Sandwiched. Krill pinned beneath, I clamped vise-tight, Gardain pistoned free. Crude heaven—fuller than Temple of Tendress. Virgin to ass, he mastered rhythm fast. Cocks stretched, rubbed through thin walls. Sweat-slick skin slapped. My moans echoed silk walls. Climax crashed simultaneous—hot spurts flooded pussy, ass. Juices dripped. Excess unbound in our elite triad.
The Privilege
Calm descended. Couchages unfurled—plush furs. I nestled between giants, sated. Ring silent, charm hummed protection. Glass walls? Star canopy, invisible shields. Secrets safe in Zaventuriers’ lair. Sleep claimed us, bodies entwined. Tomorrow, Bloody Mound. Dawn of glory.
