The Darkwood breathed in an ancient, languid rhythm. Towering trees, their bark cloaked in moss and lichen, rose like pillars of a living temple. Light fell only in narrow, golden shafts through the dense canopy, painting dancing patterns on the soft, yielding forest floor. The air was thick with scents—damp earth, resinous wood, the sweet breath of flowers that bloomed only in twilight. Everything here moved slowly, sensually, as if time itself had chosen to linger in the coils of vines.
Lydia glided through this green labyrinth like a shadow. Her steps were silent, honed by years as a scout. At twenty-four summers, she stood in the full bloom of her youth—strong, lithe, alive. Her sky-blue hair fell in soft, shimmering waves to her shoulders, framing pointed elven ears that caught every rustle, every distant birdcall. The scant crimson leather straps clung to her body like a second skin: narrow bands encircling her full breasts, a thin strip barely covering her hips, and high crimson boots rising far up her thighs, gleaming like polished ruby. Her dark green cloak flowed behind her, concealing and revealing the gentle yet powerful curves in turn. At her left hip hung her shortsword—a natural extension of her arm, always ready.
Today's patrol had been quiet. Too quiet. No signs of humans at the forest's edge, no threat to the magically hidden village of Sylvanis. Only endless green, shielding her. Lydia felt boredom like an itch beneath her skin, a craving for something more intense to rouse her muscles and senses.
She paused. Before her, half swallowed by ivy and fern, rose the forbidden ruins. Gray, weathered stone columns, relics of a time even the elders mentioned only in hushed warnings. Legends clung to this place: Whoever entered, whoever defiled it—with blood, seed, or the raw essence of life—awakened something ancient, something that could alter time itself. Curses, wards, gods long asleep.
Lydia smiled faintly, a rebellious glint in her blue eyes. Old tales. Superstition to keep young elves in line. She was free, passionate, as her people's ways allowed: Until the sacred ceremony at twenty-eight, there were no bonds—only desire, lived out alone, in pairs, or in groups beneath the moon.
Today she wanted to be alone. With herself.
She followed a barely visible path deeper into the ruins. The air grew cooler, heavier with the scent of old stone and still water. Between cracked walls pulsed a hidden stream into a natural basin. The water was crystal clear, pierced by sunbeams that danced on its surface. The bottom shimmered in deep greens and blues, inviting, seductive.
Perfect.
Lydia's pulse quickened as she shed her cloak. It fell softly to the ground. Her fingers moved to the clasps of the crimson straps—slowly, savoring. First the band around her breasts; the air caressed her sensitive nipples, hardening them instantly, drawing a soft gasp from her lips. Then the belt, the narrow strip between her thighs—she slid it down, feeling the warm wetness already gathered there, the first sign of her desire.
Naked, she stood as the sun kissed her skin like a tender lover. Her curves were athletic yet inviting: full breasts rising and falling with each breath, a narrow waist flaring into wide hips, long legs ending in the crimson boots—she kept them on, loving the tight, powerful feel they gave.
She slipped into the water. The cold enveloped her like a shocking embrace—biting at first, then tingling, arousing. The water reached her breasts as she leaned against a smooth, sun-warmed stone. Small waves lapped at her skin, teasing her nipples, making them even more sensitive. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply. The forest's scent mingled with her own—musky, heated, alive.
Her thoughts drifted at once to Eldrin.
Eldrin, her dearest friend, her lover. The healer with long, wavy golden hair flowing like liquid sunlight. Emerald eyes full of warmth and hidden fire. Eldrin's body was softer, curvier—breasts that fit perfectly in Lydia's hands, hips she could grasp as they loved. She remembered their nights together: on soft moss, beneath the moon, Eldrin's fingers exploring her, gentle yet commanding.
Lydia's hand slid slowly over her belly, lower. The water was cool against her fingers as she touched herself—first lightly, stroking the soft skin between her thighs. She parted her legs slightly, letting the water flow there, feeling a more intense tingle than ever before. A quiet moan escaped her, echoing in the ruins.
In her fantasy, Eldrin was with her. Eldrin knelt in the water, golden hair wet and heavy, emerald eyes fixed on Lydia. "Let me taste you," Eldrin whispered, and Lydia nodded, drawing her closer. She felt Eldrin's warm lips on her skin—first on her breasts, sucking gently at the nipples, grazing lightly until Lydia gasped. Then lower, Eldrin's tongue gliding skillfully over her belly, down between her legs.
Lydia's fingers moved faster, circling her most sensitive spot, dipping into the warm, slick heat. Everything felt... more intense. Each touch was electric, as if her skin had thinned, every nerve awake and hungry. She didn't know why—perhaps the forbidden air of the ruins, perhaps the solitude—but the sensations built faster, deeper, more overwhelming than ever.
She imagined Eldrin's tongue licking her—slowly, savoring, circling, sucking. Eldrin's fingers sliding into her, two first, then three, stretching, thrusting in rhythm with her heartbeat. "You're so wet, so ready for me," Eldrin murmured in her mind, and Lydia moaned louder, her body arching against the stone.
Something awakened within her. A tingle spreading from her core through every vein, hot and pulsing. It was new, unknown—she had never felt anything like it. Her senses sharpened: The water felt like silk, every wave a caress; the forest scent more intoxicating; her own skin glowed as if lit from within.
Her sky-blue hair began to change—strand by strand turning a luminous, wild emerald green. She noticed it first in the water's reflection: her hair shimmered green, even glowing faintly, as if magic flowed through it. Confusion mingled with arousal—what was happening to her? But the desire was too strong to stop.
Her fingers thrust deeper, faster, rubbing harder. The unknown tingle amplified everything: Each movement sent waves through her body, making her muscles clench, her breasts feel heavier. She gasped, moaned Eldrin's name, imagining her lover turning her, pressing her against the stone, taking her from behind—tongue and fingers together.
The climax built like a storm—unstoppable, mighty. Everything was more intense, deeper, as if a floodgate had opened within her. "Eldrin... yes... more...", she whispered, voice hoarse.
The orgasm exploded. Her body shuddered violently, waves of ecstasy flooding her, stronger than ever, from toes to fingertips. She cried out softly, an animal, liberated sound echoing in the ruins. Her core clenched spasmodically around her fingers, pulsing endlessly as bliss overwhelmed her. The green hair blazed bright, tiny sparks danced on the water—raw, new magic she did not understand.
She trembled long, riding the waves until the last spasm faded. Exhausted, she sank deeper into the basin, letting the gentle current carry her. The green hair slowly faded back to sky-blue, the intensity ebbing. She felt... changed. Fulfilled. But confused. What had that been? Just the fantasy? The ruins?
Sleep came quickly—warm, heavy, inviting.
A whisper roused her. Or did she dream it?
"Sleep on, tender bloom."
Lydia opened her eyes lazily. At the basin's edge stood a woman—a vision of dark, dominant beauty. Long black hair fell in wild, slightly tousled strands over her shoulders, framing a face of sharp, seductive elegance. Pointed elven ears rose, and her ruby-red eyes rested on Lydia with a knowing, confident smile. A golden collar with a large green gem encircled her neck, golden armbands adorned her forearms. Her outfit was scant and provocative: black fabric deeply cut to emphasize her full breasts, with a high slit revealing smooth skin, paired with high, gleaming black boots rising to her thighs. She radiated ancient, dangerous power, a presence that made the air vibrate.
Lydia tried to sit up, to speak, but the stranger raised a hand, and a gentle, intoxicating magic enveloped Lydia like warm mist. Sweet, seductive, irresistible.
"Sleep only... time will take care of the rest."
The voice was velvet, deep and resonant, with a hint of amusement. Lydia sank back, the world blurring.
When she finally awoke, the light was dimmer, the sun lower. But something was different—very different.
Thin, living vines had twined around her naked body in her sleep. They were warm, pulsing, as if alive with desire. One coiled firmly yet gently around her waist, pressing lightly against her lower belly, where she still throbbed from earlier pleasure. Two more encircled her breasts from below, lifting them, brushing soft leaves over her hard nipples—a stroking, circling caress that instantly stirred fresh wetness between her thighs. A thicker vine had slipped between her legs, lying smooth and firm against her most intimate place, pressing rhythmically as if continuing what her fingers had begun. Fine tendrils tickled her inner thighs, gliding higher, teasingly close to her entrance without penetrating.
Lydia gasped, her body responding involuntarily—the nipples hardened further, a shiver of arousal coursed through her. The vines felt alive, erotic, as if an extension of the magic awakened within her. They moved slightly, stroking, pressing, as if intent on driving her to climax again. Her breath quickened, a quiet moan escaped as she struggled to free herself—yet part of her savored the forbidden embrace, the illicit touch.
With effort she tore loose, pulling at the vines that reluctantly withdrew into the earth. Her skin still tingled from their caresses, her thighs wet as she hastily climbed from the water. She dried herself with the cloak, donned the crimson straps—the bands felt tighter now, rubbing against sensitive spots. Her hair was sky-blue again. The earlier intensity only a distant, throbbing memory.
She ran back to the village.
But Sylvanis was gone.
Ruins. Overgrown, decayed, as if centuries had raged. Scattered bones of strangers. No trace of her people. No Eldrin.
Only silence.