Handbook of Erotic Fantasy: The Games of Chaos, Part 1/8

Unto the Far Realm they strode, bow and blade before them, down paths few mortal feet had trod. From the sunlit glades of Handbook-World they came, one bubble floating amongst the great sea of worlds, and dived deep from thence into the yawning abyss of the multiverse.

What stone did they walk upon? What flattened cobbles of aether and essence, drawn into the vague approximation of a rough-hewn way, touched but briefly upon the bare feet of these warrior women before folding away once more into the stuff of Making?

Only the parchment drew them onward: a scroll scraped from the skins of elsewhere, and written in a hand with, perhaps, more fingers than five… or fewer… or none at all. It guided each turning that they chose, and not just in the ways of Euclid or his disciples, hunched at their drawing boards in their own small and dusty sphere.

Doff thy garb, commanded the scroll. For it is sweeps week, and we are all but servants of the Target Demo.

The travelers did this thing, neither recking ought of the arcane tongue, nor what the formulae ‘sweeps’ or ‘demo’ might portend. They let cloaks and boots and breeches fall away into the gulf, but kept their weapons firm in hand. Only a fool, they knew, would wander unarmed into the den of Chaos. Nor did Fighter stop to wonder at her companion’s discomfiture, for what shame could there be in Ranger? The pair were sometime lovers since days of old, and the half-orc a woman born. Who then could guess at Ranger’s secret longing for a different form, or the greater love of the fair-haired human beside her?

Standing naked then between the worlds, a new path opened before them. This they took without delay, breasts as bare as their steel. Overhead the cosmos writhed, shifting now into a swath of ebon void, now a sheet of blazing stars. The scroll coiled in its turn, a thing alive in the slim fingers of the swordswoman who bore it. It held new instructions upon its pale hide.

Anoint thyselves, said these words. For the Oils of the Outer Sphere are a platinum-level sponsor, and much given therefore to product placement.

Then did the firmament crack open like an egg, and a sheen of quintessence oozed down in the folded runnels of reality where the stars met and warred with outer darkness.

“Get my back,” said Fighter, and her companion obliged. But Ranger, with bow-calloused fingers pressing now against shoulder blades, now running along the slope of a slender waist, did not see the unhappiness in the other’s face. For Fighter hefted the soft weight of her woman’s flesh in either hand, working slick unguents against supple skin, and was ashamed by her own voluptuous beauty. She wished as ever for her lost manhood, and yearned to repay the kindness her companion had shown as a virile warrior ought. Instead, she could feel her own oils beginning to pool within her, and could only fight a losing battle against the maidenly ardor now filling her from top to bottom. For the other woman’s hands had wandered from her back, and Fighter could not keep from voicing a low and wanton moan.

They came apart after a time, and continued then upon their way. But even as they’d lain together, hot and hungry with need there on the vestibule of Entropy, their minds were shut to one another. Though they’d satiated (for a time) the needs of the flesh, neither knew the inmost desire of the other’s heart.