Shesayne was late for work, but no-one noticed. Business was slow in the morning shift. The banking and financial services branch for which she worked as a receptionist served a part of the city where the denizens were primarily nocturnal. Dark Elves, monitor-lizard like Khaasta and less savoury beings still. The office was a brisk walk through a winding road of looming, rickety buildings that eventually led to a wide, hexagonal square. A crumbling, moss-grown fountain issued oddly pristine water from a grotesque spout, shaped like a writing dragon. In front of the fountain lay the black hole that sucked in most of Shesayne’s day.
The half-elf trudged in, hung up her overcoat and took her seat behind a broad, oval desk that overlooked an empty waiting room. Silence and the ticking of a mechanical clock filled the air. The lamps flickered. Inside, it was always half-dark penumbra. Shesayne opened the day’s register and started up the internal communication crystal that allowed her to speak with the back office. Then, she waited.
The only mildly amusing thing about her work was the irony of being employed by a Red Dragon. Emirinkol Credit and Insurance was part of a mushrooming series of dragon-owned enterprises that had sprung up around Sigil. With trade had come ever greater wealth-maximising opportunities for the great, covetous reptiles. Now, any dragon who simply sat on its hoard instead of investing it was simply viewed as backwards and foolish. If Shesayne’s mother knew that she worked for a Red Dragon, though, that would certainly have led to a crisis. The Elven kingdom from which Shesayne’s mother had fled to Sigil had been destroyed by a consortium of those tyrannical creatures. Shesayne still made it a point to add insult to injury. Not only did her dress sense scandalise her traditionalist, Elven mother, but she had grown very fond of red scale-pattern fabric as well.
The clock ticked. Shesayne reached into the pile of mail on her desk and opened the day’s edition of the Gazetteer. She read slowly, trying to make the time pass. It was warm so she tugged her pullover off. Underneath, she wore a crimson bandeau. The company had originally tried to wear something more modest. The powers that be, though, had noticed that ever since she had started work, they had actually begun to receive customers in the morning. So, Shesayne had become the envy of her co-workers by being the only one to escape the office’s dress code. That was cold comfort. Shesayne worked to pay the rent and put food on the table, not because she enjoyed being leered at like a caged animal.
“Shesayne!” A cold, officious voice called from behind her.
The half-elf gritted her teeth. “Fucker,” she whispered. It was the branch manager. She wearily rose to her feet.
The door behind her swung open and a short, bespectacled man entered into the reception hall. He wore a black and red uniform that simulated an almost military cut. The uniforms had quite clearly been designed by something inhuman, since they had no consideration for comfort or practicality. “Shesayne, we need to talk.”
“About what, sir?” Shesayne smiled sweetly. Privately, she wanted to use the branch manager’s head for target practice with her hand crossbow.
“We have a scheme to which we would like you to contribute.” The man was greying, his voice monotone. Believing that he and the company were one, he always referred to himself as ‘we’.
“I’d absolutely, positively love to, sir,” Shesayne lied through her teeth.
“Good, good, good,” the man muttered, adjusting the itching collar of his uniform, “we are launching a new insurance plan in ten days, targeted primarily at a younger market. We have a number of wealthy clients from a number of races whom, we understand, entertain risky lifestyles. We tailored this insurance policy to reflect this – His Excellency, the Supreme Director Emirinkol worked it out, so it works, but basically, they pay more than they think and, in case of the unmentionable, we pay less than they had envisioned.”
“That sounds superbly wonderful sir, but I’m not qualified to sell insurance.”
“Of course not,” the manager snorted, “but we require you for the product launch.”
“I don’t quite catch your drift, sir…” Shesayne shifted nervously, leaning back against her desk, as far from her manager as possible.
“The public relations department decided that we need a DragonGirl for the launch.”
“DragonGirl, sir?”
“Put simply, each branch has an opening ceremony with a DragonBoy and a DragonGirl so we cover all demographics and preferences, these are the concept sketches,” the manager continued swiftly, handing Shesayne a thin manila folder, “we expect you for the costume fitting the day after tomorrow.”
Shesayne numbly accepted the folder. “Who’s the DragonBoy, sir?” she inquired miserably.
“Nhilem from the message department,” the manager said dismissively and departed, closing the door behind him.
Shesayne collapsed back into her chair. Things could be worse. Nhilem was a sweet, amusing half-elf – one of the few people in the office Shesayne found tolerable. She flipped the folder open. So-called intelligent beings, Shesayne concluded, were very stupid indeed. The concept sketches showed DragonBoy wearing a short, red loincloth and DragonGirl with a ring of dragon-scales covering her nipples, and a four-inch long, see-through vermilion skirt. Anyone, Shesayne concluded, who bought insurance, or anything at all, for that matter, on the basis of a boy’s ass or a girl’s tits was clearly out of her mind. Under the odious sketches was a credit voucher for six hundred marks.
Shesayne forced a wan smile. At least it would allow her to buy Astrid and Fia something nice.
Shesayne’s thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice. “Hey, Shas!” Faenya strolled into the empty reception hall.
“Morning, Fen.” Shesayne mumbled. Faenya was particularly iconoclastic that morning. Dark mauve lip-paint, violet highlights on her pale eyelids, faux-Dark Elf spidersilk top that left her lightly muscled midriff bare, smooth, inky-blck breeches and matching boots. Shesayne decided that it was only a matter of time before Faenya’s mother threw her out of the house.
Faenya leapt onto Shesayne’s desk and peered over her friend. “What’s wrong, Shas?” she inquired curiously in her usual, affected inner-city drawl.
“Take a peek and a look and you tell me,” Shesayne said glumly, handing Faenya the folder.
Faenya cracked it open, took a swift glance, and tossed it back on the desk. “Tell ‘em to go fuck themselves.” She shrugged and pulled back a strand of short, bright pink and ruby-red hair.
“It means six hundred marks to me.”
“If you need six hundred, all you’ve got to do is ask.” Faenya slipped off the desk to plant a sympathetic kiss on Shesayne’s hair.
“Nah, Fen, you know how pissed and sodding furious Astrid got last time when I told her you were chipping in.”
“On a brighter note, though, I just dropped in to say that we got rave reviews yesterday. Chant on the street is that we’re pretty top-shelf, so the Ring wants us again the fifteenth – we’re the first newbie act to get a second showing in the same Revolution.”
Shesayne felt a rush of private satisfaction. More shows meant more money which meant that Astrid would be less paranoid about the rent. It would also mean that she would be able to give being DragonGirl a pass. “That’s super-great to hear,” Shesayne smiled, “is that new?” she inquired, patting Faenya’s hard belly. A platinum stud capped with a small, perfect amethyst adorned the Elven girl’s navel.
“Yeah, you like it?”
Shesayne nodded enthusiastically. “Is it one of those double-use ones?”
“Absolutely,” Faenya replied proudly, “when I need to, I can transfer it to my tongue – if you want, we can give it a spin. If you don’t come in five moments, I’ll buy you lunch.” She winked lasciviously. Shesayne noticed Faenya was wearing her violet cosmetic lenses.
For an instant, Shesayne felt tempted. Then a shudder passsed through as she remembered Tahllea’s sneering face from the previous night. “Thanks, thanks and thanks again, but not today Fen, y’know how it is, Astrid’s human and she’d like to keep me on the straight and narrow.”
“Your loss. Anyway, I thought Astrid liked Elven culture and all that stuff.” The irony was, of course, that whilst Faenya was doing everything to be less Elven, Astrid seemed to be going in the opposite direction.
“She does, but at heart, she’s an Ortho girl.”
“Ah…nevermind then,” Faenya hoisted herself back on the desk and sat cross-legged, facing Shesayne, “so, are we going to have a songwriting session anytime soon are you just going to wear your life away in this place?”
“Let me wriggle out of this fucking DragonGirl screed and we’ll organise an evening or something…d’you mind if I bring a guest?”
“’Course not, who is it?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll like her, she’s fire genasi.”
“Wow, hot!” Faenya chuckled. “Get it…”
“Believe it or not, Fen, I do,” Shesayne shot back amiably, “but she’s just not quite your type, ‘least not your bedmate type.” Faenya’s latest fling was the towering, muscular, shaven-headed Unthara. A noble-featured, green skinned woman of immense presence, Unthara always reminded Shesayne of the idealised marble sculptures of female guardian-warriors in the temples of Artemis.
“Whatever, whatever, sure, bring her along, I’m sure she can inspire a verse or two.”
“Speaking of inspiration, Fen, d’you have any Paradise Moss?” Shesayne asked, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.
“No, but if you come out to lunch, we’ll score some on the way.”
“Sounds top-shelf fantastic,” Shesayne purred. “You’re buying, right?”
“’Course. Anything and everything for Sigil’s newest rising star.”
***
Much to Astrid’s delighted surprise, Fia’s first shopping trip turned out to be faultless. Fia respected the shopping list down to the letter and came back with plenty of change to spare. She knew exactly where and when to find cheap, good quality bread and, after giving a dusty cookbook a swift glance, decided that the best way to save money was to prepare herself the dishes Astrid and Shesayne had previously purchased ready-made. Astrid simply sat back and admired Fia busying herself around the kitchen.
When Shesayne came home, she was greeted by the unfamiliar smell of fresh stew. Fia stood proudly over the dinner table, her shirt flecked with bits of carrot and stained with hot broth. Shesayne’s first reaction was one of profound surprise, “Fia, you can cook?”
“Not really,” Fia replied modestly, spooning out large helpings of dark, steaming stew, “but cooking is like alchemy – you can’t go wrong if you follow instructions.”
“Well,” Shesayne crowed, slipping off her ankle boots and tossing her overcoat and pullover haphazardly on the couch, “I see your new assistant’s working out, Astrid, now I believe the term is: ‘I told you so’ -- ”
“She’s almost as good as I was when I started out with artifact repair and that’s saying a lot,” Astrid said smugly. Fia smiled shyly and motioned for Shesayne to join them at the table.
The meal was as good as could be expected from a first time cook. Though stringy and a little greasy, the stew was finished in earnest and, without having to go through the nightly routine of arguing over who should do the dishes, Fia swiftly cleared the table and started up the washbasin. Astrid, feeling a little guilty, briefly considered helping out. But she swiftly discarded the idea. Fia needed to feel useful, to feel like she had a place. There was, perhaps, no better way of making her feel at home.
That night, Fia scrupulously cleared the couch and laid out a blanket and pillow, while Shesayne fussed over her, inviting her to change her dirty shirt for a short-sleeved, white cotton shift. Astrid sat at the kitchen table, idly paging through a book on High Elven linguistics. A cup of fresh, herbal tea steamed beside her. Astrid longed for real, bitter, dark tea, but at fifty marks a packet, she usually settled for the cheaper Elven variant Shesayne’s mother bought for them.
“Astrid,” Fia said tentatively. She sat on the couch, hugging her knees, the blanket shrouded over her.
“Yes?”
“Who raised you?”
“My mother,” Astrid said wryly. ‘Raised’ was an over-generous term.
“Was she good to you?”
“No, but my sister was wonderful, so that pretty much made up for it. I suppose I can’t ask everything from Lady Luck, so, in the end, if the choice was between having a good sister and a good mother, I’d take my sister anytime of the day.” Astrid took a sip of her tea and set her book aside. Fia drew the blanket closer around her shoulders.
“What did your mother do?”
“She was a botanist. You know, obsessed with plants. She had a great greenhouse, full of flowers in tens of thousands of different colours, odd ones, too, shaped like dragon’s heads or serpent’s tongue and everything. We weren’t allowed in there, of course, but, if you’re a botanist, I suppose you’re paranoid about your plants, almost by definition.”
Shesayne slipped back into the living room bearing a cotton shift, “Here, Fia, see if this fits better.” She tossed the garment over the couch and Fia caught it. Shesayne slipped off her dragon-turtle comb, carefully laid it down on the living room table, and slid under Fia’s blanket. “Hey, Astrid, you wouldn’t believe how nice, warm and cozy it is under here,” Shesayne teased.
Fia laughed gently. “Take care that you don’t burn yourself.” She let the blanket slip from around her shoulders.
Astrid tightened her hand around the handle of her mug. Fia’s small, elegant breasts stood proudly naked in the dim light of the heating sphere. Her nipples were dark, ripe and bronzy. Her torso was gorgeous: long, thin, flat and agile. Fia slipped the shift on and still her nipples pressed stubbornly, unselfconsciously against the thin fabric. Astrid’s mouth felt dry. She took a sip of tea before speaking.
“Shesayne, maybe we should go to bed and let Fia get some rest, I’d really hate to overwork her, especially since we’ve got a busy day tomorrow – you know how it is, no rest for the wicked…”
Shesayne shifted to rise to her feet, but Fia tensed for an instant. The petite half-elf smiled and patted Fia’s thigh reassuringly, “You want me to stay, don’t you?”
Fia nodded, looking away in embarrassment. “Would you? Just for tonight, of course.”
“Sure,” Shesayne was happy to concede – snuggling up with Fia would be infinitely better than any magical heating device, “you don’t mind, do you Astrid?”
“Why should I?” Astrid picked up her book and mug and de-activated the heating sphere, plunging the room into shadowy darkness. “Good night.”
In truth, Astrid did mind. As she lay in bed, the gleaming bedside lamp emitting a soft, lunar glow, all she could think about was the Shesayne-sized empty space next to her. There was no one to murmur, kick her in her sleep, or demand to be cuddled at the most godsforsaken hours before dawn. Astrid could make out the outlines of faint, conspiratorial whispers coming from the living room. Shesayne’s giggles, Fia’s softer, more pensive laughter.
Astrid opened her book and traced the outlines of Elven calligraphy, followed by a lengthy explanation in blocky, Common typeface. Astrid sighed, Elven was such a glorious language, but exceedingly difficult to master. Not so much because of the grammar, for that was relatively simple and freeform, but because each word, each figure of speech had a very specific meaning that could change, like the turn of a leaf in the wind, to something else entirely, depending on the context. Language reflected culture, so that Elves, themselves, were flighty and whimsical. Astrid sometimes wished she could know precisely what stirred in Shesayne’s mind. Reading about Elves certainly wouldn’t help. Shesayne was her own enigma and, doubtless, Astrid was an enigma for Shesayne.
Astrid took a deep breath, drained her mug of tea and closed the book. She fell asleep to the comforting rhythm of Shesayne’s distant whispering.
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