She took the cup from my hand and knocked back a good third of it at a gulp. “Hey!,” I yelped, “leave some for the libation!”“Oh gods, you’re not one of those stuffy, stick-up-his-butt Pagans, are you? All this-tradition and that-tradition and by-the-rules-bullshit?” She put her hand to her bosom in a dramatic gesture and rolled her eyes, still grinning. “Tell me I didn’t traipse all the way out here to celebrate and run into that kind of Pagan!”I laughed - it was impossible not to, really - and she joined in, giggling like a lunatic. I knocked back part of the wine, and she laughed even harder, which got me started again, and we laughed till we collapsed, gasping for breath.I looked away from her - I was afraid looking at that grin would set me off again, and my sides were hurting - and asked, “Who are you? I don’t think we’ve ever met. Are you from around here?”“Oh, I’m from all over - I just kind of go where the wind blows - and you can call me Flower.”That did it. I had just. Demons of delight, pleasure and stranglers of hope. All in them was beauty and grace as they moved down, showing the tender eyes of a predator, revealing the smile of a reaper. Their skin is green, their hair is the colours of passion and lust. And they move further down the Tree’s branches, through flips, drops and graceful falls, stretching and exercising their voluptuous figure as they drew near. Behind them, clouds of perfumed spores arose from the very tree to engulf soon the immensity of the air. And it descended.But their voice, the unsettling harmony of the tune they sang to enthral, and how they sang of pleasure and delight. How they spoke of agony and ecstasy. Above all, how they spoke of giving and choice. And above all else, this they promised.“Draw closer…” They ushered.“Come for us…” They dared.And yet none of the Scouts moved. None of them flinched either… not any longer. The sweet perfume in the air enthralled them to a haze as they watched the Youma grow closer. They.
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