The Champion and The Prince - Part 1

Info Xenosmilus
12 Jun. '17

The sun sets low over the kingdom of Alfareowyn. A gorgeous city lost deep in the primeval forests of the northernmost interior of the northern continent. Castles that seemed to be gigantic natural-growing gems, intertwined with coiling wood and vines, rose to heights just under the tops of the tallest trees.

Natural, glistening streams trickled through the city, filling it with the song of water and the calls of birds. Rabbits, deer, and natural prey animals roam between the buildings, feeling safe from killers such as foxes, wolves, and bear. And mankind.

The roads are not roads. But merely worn down paths of forest under foot. Deer trails amidst weeds and green growth. Yet, only the most avid woodsman could see what is blaring obvious to the deer and the elf.

Dressed in clothing made from still-living vines, or meticulous armor that glistens like the finest steel, the elfs prepare for combat. Wielding blades shaped like leaf edges, or spears adorned like deer antlers, they arm themselves with long wooden shields decored in the Celtic styles of their native home.

The queen of the elfs, Drielywndir, or just ‘Lady Driel’, trots down through the halls of her home. She is completely nude, minus the 10 feet of long blonde-white hair that trails behind her like a cape. Her skin is pale and pinkish-white, her ears are short and pointed. And her eyebrows look to be made from shavings of diamond formed into the shape of hair follicles. Her lips are thin, behind pearly but rabbit-like teeth. Her rodent-like incisors sit in front of the rest of her perfectly human-like teeth. Well, minus the small fangs that jut up in her lower jaw. Like a boar sow’s. Only when she yawns or fully opens her small, dainty mouth do those tiny tusks reveal themselves. Hideous to humans, but to elfs a thing of glory. A natural “crown” of the leaders, naturally grown. Her eyes are like the dark brown eyes of a deer, shining behind human shaped eyes.

Her thick, black nails, more similar to tiny hooves than fingernails, brush a lock of hair from her face as she tip taps down the grand hall.

She is worried. Fearful. The misty, foggy mountains have begun to march onto the forests. Her home. And not only will the elfs fight, but so will the beasts. Deer, geese, turkey, and other herbivorous woodland inhabitants have sent their strongest bulls and leaders in the defense of their home. The filthy wolves and foxes wait in the shadows, to feed on the fallen.

Lady Driel enters a grand hall that has more in common with the base of a giant oak. It is beautifully light, with vine shaped windows, marble floors, and bathed in mushroom light that has more similarity to watt bulbs than fungus. A bevy of elfs bow to her. All the females have mini-tusks in their mouths, signs they are the matriarchs of the region. The males have bigger ears, and some have literally black lips.

They all sit at a table. She is the only fully nude one, symbolizing her status as most dominant leader. She taps her black fingernail on the marble stone table…

“What news have you?”

“My lady...” ahems a male elf with small antlers sticking out of his helmet; “...they are coming. We can’t tell just how many, because...uh….”

“Don’t you dare tell me…. URH, just tell me,  Gorwyn.”

“They sent word back that they ate our scouts.”

“These barbarians and their appetite for rabbit...”

“Your decision, our Lady?”

“Ssscheit! Fine. We will meet them in the fringes. We won’t be held up in our tree tops or in the thickets of our homes. We’ll meet them in the fringes. Send the word!”


In one of the spiral shaped epicenters, a sparrow flies down to an elf guardsman. He listens to the bird’s song, and intently watches it’s eyes and movement. His eyes flicker down, as he sighs and nods in agreement. The bird flies off back to whence it came, taking the word back to the lords.

The guard rushes to tell another, who them promptly takes off down the spiral staircase leading to the castle’s bottom floor. Inside the great green hall is a mass of elf soldiers, armed to the teeth and stalwart. In the midst of them is a great elfish lord, the prince of the region. His hair is long, thick, white and runs down to his plump and round butt. Like a glistening cape of silk. His bangs cover his forehead, and long locks in braids run down the sides of his cheeks. He is hairless. His fingernails are long and white. He is thin and svelte, yet moderately built. His eyes glisten like the pearlescent insides of an oyster’s shell. A great massive two-handed claymore is strapped to the back of his armor, which looks like a tree used vines to try to make a man out of glittery fish scale. His eye makeup is in a green stripe across his nose-bridge and eyes, warpaint.

His long, pointed ears twitch when he hears the guardsman rushing from the top of the wall.

“Sir Vryntorix, we’re to head to the northeast! We’re to meet those brutes in the fringe lands.”

He sighs a smile. His eyes glisten with the ferocity of a war king.

“So be it, then!”


The elfen armies have entrenched themselves deep into the fringes of their territory. They sit silently, waiting. Watching. Listening. Smelling. Feeling.

The bull elks and bucks snort and drool with testosterone, impatient for the violence to commence. Sparrows, doves and mockingbirds stealthily hop along forest tops, not making a sound. Sending word to one another. And bats careen through the blackness of the forests, reaching their elf military superiors. They gnash their little sharp teeth and twitch, detailing what’s going on, before being sent back into the dim tree branches.

The forests sing.

Another normal day.

The sky is calm, grey, and cool.

The dense forests, filled with shade, cool winds, the smell of pine and fern, and carpeted by leaves and debris, are silent.



A huge stone boulder, stained with moss, comes out of nowhere.

It appears, crashing through branches loudly, and filling the forest with loud, smacking claps, cracks and thunder of impact on impact. Elf soldiers seem to magically appear out of bushes or ferns, rolling and jumping in a break-neck panic.

Missing them by inches, the boulder stomps the ground, sending vibrations everywhere, and sprays of soil high into the air like ocean water.

The elks roar the call to arms, and the birds scream through the treetops, signaling the “sniper”. At the top of the hill is a massive troll, hoisting up another stone boulder. His body has more in line with a gorilla than a man. He is covered in brownish-grey fur. A tail like an ox’s switches behind his muscular buttocks. His face is like a man’s, except the nose is incredibly long and thin. His beady eyes glimmer red. His pale lips are thin and the mouth, wide. It is filled with pig-like yellow teeth and massive tusks rise from his bottom jaw like a boar’s. His ears are like an elf’s, only bigger. Using hands like a pale man’s, and on feet like a Nordic lumberjack’s, he angles himself for another toss. Runic blue paint dances across his face and down his tusks in proud ethnic designs.

He sneers an insult, as if he is looking at vicious genociders and then hoists the boulder through the air, sending it crashing among the elfs, who now scatter in panic. A hail of straight-shot arrows made from nothing but pure wood and stone thump into his chest, giving him a look like a porcupine. He coughs, dropping to one furry knee. A fox rushes up to him, baring her teeth at those who shot her best friend. The troll laughs, as if his doggy could make a difference. He tosses the dog into the air, knowing she will land on all four feet. But mainly to save her from the next hail of arrows. He knows the fox won’t run if he tells her to.

A roar echoes through the forests, and waves of the troll army rush forth. Wolves and owls rush down with them, fang and talons at the ready.

The elf prince screams a sound like a deer buck. The elfs, deer, elks, and strong large herbivorous birds all rush forward.


The forces have scattered, clashing and fighting. As if two handfuls of seeds have been thrown into the wind over a field.

The fighting has been ferocious all night long. The night could have been worse, since that is when both forces are at their most active and capable. The trolls in the darkest night, the elfs at dusk and dawn.

But the forest is silent. Except for the rare or occasional sound of a scuffle lost in the distance. But the fighting is over. The trolls have been pushed back. But trolls are brilliant creatures. Smarter than the average elf, smarter than all but the wisest of humankind. And this worries the elfs. But the losses, the might of the push-back, was enough to send even wizards rushing for the hills.

In the lonely night, the elf prince Vryntorix, walks towards the absolute fringes he thinks the fighting must have first happened. His troops are scattered, yet as elfs, they are aware of one another by scent and hearing. He doesn’t sense anything, most must have returned to the original defense position. But, as a prince, he deems it a must that he see what if any could be farthest from safety. There is no scent of anything. Maybe of a few who rushed through here hours upon hours ago. But otherwise, it is silent and lonely.


He continues to pace forth, alone in the dusk of the next day. All of a sudden, he sniffs the air. His long, pointed ears skint back, and he grabs his claymore with both hands. His soft-bark gloves creak as his hands tighten. He smells a scent like fresh pine, and frosty mountain fog.


The ground behind Vryntorix trembles. No sound. No splash. No thunder. Just a tremble.

The prince smiles a war lover’s grin, spreading his legs wide apart, and throwing his shoulder, whilst spinning around deftly. And there before him is one of the biggest trolls he’s ever seen in his life.

The champion of the trolls has a massive body that boasts strength. Not cut, not rippling, but brimming with raw power. Big. Massive. His skin is thick and strong, and his hair is like that of a shaggy black cow’s. It's wet with sweat and drips with testosterone. Alpha Male.
His oxtail switches angrily. His beady eyes glow yellow in the darkness. His own hairless pointed ears fold back. Two large, white tusks rise out of his frowning bottom lip. His nose is long, like that of a witch’s. He wields something like a giant stone knife in one hand, and a flat boulder in the other. A unique style of shielding. Holding a rock may look stupid, but in the hands of an adept troll, it is a weapon, shield, parry tool, and projectile all at once. The only ones to not take it seriously are all dead.

The boulder must weigh at least 70 to 90 pounds. And he hoists it around as if it’s nothing. He looks down at the 6 foot tall elf from a 7 foot height. They lock eyes.

Glowing red beneath white bangs.

Glowing yellow under a heavy brow ridge.

“You think you can best me, beast? You think you can just take me as your prize? A meal?” Vryntorix sneers with confidence. He will kill this beast before it makes him a meal, or a head mounted on it's wall.

“I don’t wanna do this...” the troll mumbles.

“Very smart, deviant. But you will not find me merciful!”

The claymore’s blade smacks against the boulder, sending sparks flying.

The troll is frighteningly fast. He’s strong. But… he’s lackluster. He has a air of doing just enough to push the blade away. He doesn’t rush, or turn, or anything.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Say what you will, beast!”

* CLANG! *

“What are we doin’ this for? I mean, to what end? For WHAT? I don’t wanna fight nobody. I hate violence. I hate this shit.”

“Then why are you here?!”

“My mother. For “honor” and what not. I just… why can’t honor and righteousness be done in conjunction? Why can’t we all be friends instead of lines in the dirt? I refuse to be a soldier for any lord. If a benevolent or kind being is what they say they are, then they would want you to be a soldier in defense. Not offense. Not a life lifting a bloody banner and spending your olden years trying to find SOME way to fight. Why not enlighten and become enlightened? Why not elevate?”

The troll’s words sting. The glittering red eyes of Vryntorix blink hard. His guard has not dropped at all, but the troll’s has. He knows he could go for a killing blow. But after the last few clashes, this giant would probably just dodge it.

“I think the heavens truly are benevolent. And orderly. And it is the damned fool on this Earth who THINKS he is pious that is the liar. A liar lying on that which he does not understand. No more. I will not be a soldier for any lord. Because the heavens would rather me be a soldier in promoting justice and order, not combat for the glory of combat. To elevate and become enlightened, not spend eternity living a “us vs. them” existence.”

The elf prince tightens his muscles. Ready to swing.

“Fuck this. I give up. I refuse to waste my existence in the fevered dreams of liars who don’t even understand their own reasons.”

He drops his weapons. Giving up. He sits down on a stone, looking down at the soil. His sinewy on his huge muscular and plump knees. He looks tired. The black fur on his forearms and legs glisten with dew.

“Don’t give up just yet...”
The prince was.... not expecting this.

His senses affirm they both are alone in the woods. Just the two of them. “You still stand a chance at me. You’re a valiant warrior! We have to battle our ways in this life to have what we deserve!”

“I do not want to move and act and react in accordance with your style of combat. I don’t want to fight anybody. I want to speak as I feel. I want to help people. I want to find joy. And joy, for me, is peace and contentment. Not…. Not THIS.”

“You refuse to fight me?”


“Then what’s to stop me from killing you here and now?”



“You’re better than this.”

“How would YOU know?!”

“I can feel it. This stalwart, war-loving, valiant “prince” is not you. You don’t like this anymore than I.”

“Life is cruel. And to succeed in it, we must be cruel as well.”

“Life is not cruel. Life is orderly. INDIVIDUALS are cruel. Because they choose to be. And because they know their choices are condemnable, they find clever excuses for their heinous acts. Excuses that prevent others around them from condemning their own twisted behavior.”

“That’s not true.”

“If I murder a bird, for the joy of murder, I will be condemned as a sicko. Which I am. BUT, if I say the bird was cursed and I had to kill him, or say the holy tree condemns birds, and find some twisted way to convince people the holy tree DOES say that, when it doesn’t, then they will believe me. And believe that birds must be slaughtered, because “that’s just how it is.” Nothing is “just how it is.” There is a reason for everything.”

The princes relaxes his posture. His pointed ears return to normal.

“I will not be dropping my sword, troll.”

“Here. Take mine.” the troll tosses the elf his giant knife, which lands at the immaculate boots. “I’m Gorraks.”

“Foolish, to toss aside your weapon.”

“No. Foolish to live a life too busy clenching onto warfare rather than holding your neighbor’s hand and climbing the steps of higher being.”



The troll champion and the elf prince spend hours into the night talking. To the point that the prince sits down himself, the tip of his sword in the soil. They share their ideals. Their outlooks. Their dreams. They laugh. Deep in a hidden grove of green grass, surrounded by oaks and pines, they laugh and talk. Alone.

The moon glows high in the sky.

Gorraks lays on his back in the grassy knoll, his leg crossed over the other. His big, pale, human-like feet with clawed nails gently rocking back and forth. His oxtail swishes contently. His massive chest and arms seem to flex and swell with even his slightest movement. He looks into the moon with his yellow eyes, listening to the prince talk.

Vryntorix notices for the first time the beauty of his massive muscles. The shiny gloss of his fur. And how gentle his tusked face looks. He tries not to stare at the huge chest. If the prince was to be honest, he’d say he looks much stronger than any rippling muscle champion. For the first time in many centuries, Vryntorix feels relaxed. Comfortable. Able to speak freely.

They stop and sit in silence for about 5 minutes.

“You’re beautiful.” Gorraks whispers while staring at the moon.

Vryntorix feels his face flush with warmth. He lightly coughs, brushing a braid behind his ear.

“Well, yes. Elfs are known for being attractiv-”

“I don’t mean elfs. I mean you. You’re beautiful.”

The prince’s face flushes hotter.

“Don’t misunderstand, Gorraks. I am a capable warrior, I am a defender of my people and my appearance does not co-”

“We’ve been speaking how long already? You know I don’t mean that. Either that, or you’re not thinking. When it comes to combat and all that, you’re better than I am. The best I’ve ever seen, from what I get from your stance and body language. You are. You’re a better swordsman than I have ever been. And honestly, I just don’t care. I just want to say what’s on my mind.”

“...heh… you are… very intimidating.” The prince’s face burns beet red. “I have never… admitted something like that before. But, you are...incredibly intimidating. You’re huge.”

“Heh. Me?”


“You intimidate me, too. To meet someone as lovely as you, my heart turns to quivering water.”

“….not me....”

“Yes. Everything about you is beautiful. Unlike me….”

“You are massive. You’re so powerful. So wise. Your soul is so gentle, the most gentle I have ever met.”

Vryntorix feels himself burn with want. With curiosity. He can’t take his eyes off those massive arms, the huge chest. He gently stands up, feeling the painful erection in his pants.

“You really think I’m such a beauty?”


“May I…...uh, touch you?”

“What? Heh! You’r-”

Gorraks hears the elf’s armor fall away. Revealing the beautiful, feminine body beneath. His erection stands at full attention, throbbing in the air.

Vryntorix confidently approaches the giant laid back on the grass. Gorraks has a smart ass smile, looking him up and down. The pale prince lays down next to the champion, rubbing his fingers across the massive bicep. He feels hard, and huge.

Their eyes lock. Gorraks powerful fingers gently run through the white locks hanging down and spooling onto his chest. Vryntorix slides his hand under the massive beast’s fur skirt, grabbing and stroking the impossibly thick cock. His pale fingers grip and stroke the dark cock, furiously making it harder and pulse faster.

He pulls off the skirt, causing the massive dark skinned dick to rise into the air like a pillar.

“Oh, my...” he teases, licking his upper lip. He claws his nails down the massive chest and abs, as he eases between those massive, muscular furry thighs. Gorraks looks down to see the long, silken hair of the elf prince between his legs, greedy and hungry. He looks up at him, opening his mouth wide, and lapping his tongue slowly up the cock. Gorraks sighs a hard release of pleasure as his head falls back onto the ground. The small effeminate hand grips the cock base hard, as the lips wrap around the thick red head and slide downwards.

Vryntorix loves the feeling of engulfing this titan’s cock. He loves the passion and arousal felt for him. He loves the tender touch from clawed hands that can crush a boulder. He loves making his deft tongue cause the titan to tremble and shudder beneath him.

Gorraks looks up to see the head of the prince slowly and deftly bobbing down on the cock, leaving it glistening with his lustful saliva. One hand grips and positions the cock by the base, while the other pumps the pale, long erection between his own legs. The upward arching elf cock dribbles precum down the knuckles of the beautiful hand furiously pumping it. The elf prince’s cheeks flush red, as do his chest and plump buttocks. He’s never been this sexually excited in his life before. He feels like he wants to explode. He arches his back, not even knowing that he’s slowly rolling his hips in a clockwise fashion, lost in the gentle breezes of passion it gives his taint and hanging balls.

The feminine lips form a tight, clean seal around the huge, smooth cock. The head is engulfed down the throat, squeezed and milked. A muffled giggle echoes from Vryntorix’s throat as he tastes a slight drop of liquid run down his throat. Precum. All because of him. The troll lays limp underneath him, surrendering to the smaller, beautiful form controlling his euphoria like a conductor weaving a harp’s strings via the molecules.

The lips loudly pop off the cock, leaving it throbbing and glistening in the night air. The princes smiles, climbing up the massive body. His white hair rolls down his back like thick, white silk. He plants his small hands on the huge chest, rolling his hips. Looking down, smiling.

Gorraks grips the firm, warm hips moving on top of him. He slides his hands up the toned back, soft to the very touch, and warm as sunlight. The hair feels like the softest and strongest silk, heavy and glistening. He looks at the gently built ivory body on top of him, and firm 6 pack in the small waist.

“You want me?”

“More than anything.”

“Show me...” the princes whispers, raising his diamond-nailed finger in a “come here” sign. He sits all the way up, as if riding the powerful titan’s stomach like a cowgirl. He feels the humongous abs flex under the smooth paunch, as the giant sits up. The prince’s powerful abs keep him balanced, and he grabs the face of Gorakks, a hand on each side of the gentle face. The prince’s lips aggressively press and kiss into the massive jaw of the more gentle champion. He kisses the huge tusks, before returning a hard pressing lip kiss. Gorrak’s hand gently grabs the back of his head, returning the symbol of passion.

They break the kiss, gasping. Glowing eyes locked together.

“How much do you want me?”

Gorraks smiles a cocky grin at the question.

“Then, show me. IF you’re really a champion.” the snarky prince grins back. He throws his head back, exposing his feminine neck, and arching his back. He feels what he’s been dying to feel forever now. Those huge hands grab his waist with strength, and gentle touch. They ease him down to the hips. He arches his back, and grabs the huge cock, aiming it perfectly. This mighty champion is so gentle. Sometimes too gentle. Maybe.

Uuhhhhhhh yessssssss...” he hisses, pushing the cock’s glistening head against his opening. He arches his hips upwards, till they finally angle right on top of the cock. The prince’s beautiful body sits down on top of the cock, using his body’s  weight to gently ease downward. Gorraks holds his body, kissing his neck and rubbing his back.

The blushing buttocks ease down slowly, engulfing the throbbing cock into his deepest insides. He feels it gently stretch him out, pressing hard against his prostate. He digs his hands in his hair, craning his head back, arching his back, and rolling his hips. He loudly groans, lost in the ecstasy of the magical moment.

Gorraks lays back on the grass, slowly and ever gently thrusting his massive hips upward. He looks up to see this vision of beauty on top of him, sighing in gentle high pitched gasps, and lost, eyes closed, in the moment. He feels the tightness milk and squeeze him. Every hip rotation is like feeling his shaft jammed into a clenching fist of oil, lovingly yet intensely grinding him to the point of no return. He closes his eyes, trying to stave off the oncoming orgasm. The touch, the scent, the feel, the heat. The passion.

The prince’s hands lay deep in his own hair. He reaches down, squeezing his nipple, slowly thrusting and gently raising up and down on the cock, rolling himself to a powerful orgasm that already feels like the most explosive one he may have ever had. Inside his taint, it feels like a dense iron spring is being pressed down, building up leagues of electric storm energy to release in one washing wave of euphoric explosion. He feels the massive hands gently wrap around his hips, trying to slow him down some. Vryntorix smiles wide to himself, giggling at the idea his very motions were too much.

“You have to keep up with a prince, champion...” he laughs, then sighs. Karma. His own orgasm begins a slow unwinding before it explodes.

“Oh gods...not that...” he begs. The feeling of his dom’s huge hands guiding him and holding him, so strong, so gentle… it’s too much. If not for that touch, he may have been able to last 5 more minutes.

“Uhh...uuhhhhhhh…. Uhhhhhhhh...”

His eyes flash brightly. His palms slap down on the huge chest, his nails claw down. He bites his bottom lip, and whips his long hair, letting himself be flooded away in the ocean of euphoric orgasm energy bursts from the dam of centuries of self denial.

Oh godddss!!!” he screams, his entire body tensing. He feels like waves of energy are flushing out of every inch of his body. He slams his hips downward fast and furiously. His pale, blushing ass cheeks slam and ripple on the huge, powerful groin. Long streams of white spunk spray into the night air from his pale cock, splashing into the grass.

“CUM WITH ME! CUM WITH ME!!!” he squeals, orgasming again. He whips his head back, sending an arcing curtain of white silk into the air. The huge hands squeeze down, holding the pounding hips of the beauty still. Or trying to.

Gorraks feels an electric bolt of energy thunder through the center of his body, and send a tidal wave of euphoric spasm from his taint up into his shaft and to the top of his cock. “WHOAH!” squeals Vryntorix, feeling a slight electric charge from the cock. The potent energy of the orgasm is so intense that it literally released energy. The massive muscles of Gorraks clench and swell, twice as big. His deep, smooth voice grunts hard. The princes looks down, taking in the sight like a starving artisan. This massive dom, so huge and powerful, underneath him almost screaming from a mind-breaking orgasm is enough to send the elf into a 3rd orgasm. Another 3 or 4 streams of cum shoot into the air. One hits his dom in the face. To both their satisfactions. The elf grinds his hips down and clenches, milking the massive cock. Forcing it to let go of everything as deep as possible. To give up all of it’s owner’s passion. Deep inside his beloved. Which it does.

Massive jets of cum, like a bull orgasm, jets and coats the very deepest parts of the  elf’s insides. Gorraks feels him grind and swivel his prostate against the swollen head. The action itself milks him beyond what he ever thought he could feel. His massive body trembles and clenches it’s giant muscles, pumping more inside the beauty on top of him, driving him. Controlling him. And they both know it. The princes loves driving and pumping this massive male into a trembling bull. The cock bursts loose one more flood of cum, before it begins to just barely soften. A human wouldn’t have felt the change. But a elf can.

Vrytonrix collapses on top of Gorraks, his head on his chest. The massive hands stroke and hold the fem tightly the bull’s chest. They heave and sigh together, quickly being swept away by the gentle waves of the ocean of somnambulance.

The song of the earliest morning’s birds snap the elf awake. He gasps in horror that the sun’s lights may kill Gorraks.

“Wake up! The sun!”


“The sun!”


“Don’t… you turn to stone in the sun?”

“Heh! NO.”

“Oh...nevermind, then.”

“It’s morning now.”


“I have to leave...” the princes frowns, gently tracing shapes in his lover’s chest with his fingernail.

“I know…. I must as well….” sighs the champion.

They sit in silence for a long time. A long moment of saying nothing said says everything.

“I will miss you.” sighs the champion, his hand gently rubbing the elf’s naked back. The elf spreads his tiny palms against the massive chest. It’s hard to believe this titan is his younger.

“I will miss you too.” he grimaces.
They both get up to their feet. Quietly redressing in their arms, they stop and face on another. The elf has his claymore in hand. The troll with his blade and stone.

Arms hanging limp. The champion stares at the floor. The prince stares, trying to lock eyes with him again. Just one more time…

“Don’t forget me...” sighs Gorraks.

“I can’t promise that...” mumbles the prince, before he stops and lets the trained manners of the elfish court fall away. “...I.............I will never forget you, Gorraks. Ever.”

The two fated souls, never knowing they were fated, walk past one another, believing they will never see one another again.

The elf’s eyes silently dribble tears from their red glow. The yellow eyes of the troll stay closed, in any attempt to press down the welling urge to turn around and embrace the one inscribed on his heart.

Each says to themselves in their heads that they will never cross paths again.

But fate is not what those who speak of it say it is.

And these enlightened, thrown into the roles of war, designed for the roles of beauty, are more likely to meet again than even the wisest wizard may dream...