“So, you’re both his mates?” Vashti inquired as if it were a common way to start a conversation, plopping down on a fallen tree trunk across from Syn and Ytharra. They’d been welcomed into the reclusive elves camp, apparently mostly due to some, as yet undisclosed, event in Torryn’s “mysterious” past that gained him recognition amongst the wild elves. He seemed to be afforded almost celebrity status, which they were both certain involved some gorgeous woman, so the tribe elder, Vashti’s father Ragarth, had commandeered most of his time since they arrived. “I don’t know that we’re his ‘mates’,” Syn reflected, more than a little amused by how, yet another beautiful woman was inquiring about Torryn’s domestic status. “I’d say we’re more like his ‘mistresses’. Yes, two of his three ‘mistresses’.” “Three?” Ytharra questioned in a confused tone. “Is there another I’m not acquainted with… or do you mean the nymph?” “His first mistress… Miir,” Syn replied flatly. She recognized from the first day she knew him, that the sentient bow held more sway over Torryn’s actions than anyone else. “Of course,” the lythari agreed. While he most likely didn’t see things the way they did, it was clear to both women that the heartbow was indeed at least equal in his heart to them. Just then Torryn, who had finally extricated himself from Ragarth’s grip, came to join them, with Miir, as always, in hand; which prompted a round of giggling from the three elven women. “Have a missed a good jest?” he asked as he settled between the stunning sun elf and the beautiful lythari. “We were just discussing your other ‘mistress’… Miir,” Ytharra teased. “Miir?” Torryn questioned, but then seemed to consider his relationship with the artifact, and apparently recognizing their perceptions, admitting thoughtfully; “Yes… I suppose she is. At the least she has as much influence over me anyone does.” “Well then,” Vashti taunted as she rose and started away, “I guess your bed is already crowded enough.” “She’s going to follow us when we leave,” Syn observed, as they all watched the small wild elven woman retreat into the milling populous of the camp. “I know,” the wood elven huntsman sighed. “There isn’t much we can do to stop her… but her father won’t see it that way. So much for my good name amongst the wild elves!” “At least Darcassan hasn’t done anything too embarrassing,” Syn observed as she looked across the camp to where the Ealoethian lord and his mercenaries were receiving royal treatment from most of the tribe’s young women, adding with a humorless smirk; “Of course, the night’s still young!”