Clown High Quality XXX

Two neighbors fight for their lives.. & self control.

Isabel regarded herself in the gray reflection of her square, steel mirror. Her long, midnight hair fell down to her shoulders in wet curls that clung to her skin. She had pale and fine skin, not quite like porcelain, but soft enough to the touch. Finely sculpted shoulders, long and shapely limbs, with a good pair of legs made strong with her training, and full hips that supported a heart-shaped rear. Her eyes were soft and blue, but a little sadder than she was accustomed, shadowed a little darker, with a few more creases than she'd prefer. She was a fine enough looking woman, with curves to fill out any dress, if she bothered to wear something other than a suit of chain-mail and a steel breastplate.

Put your shoulders up, she told herself. She'd been too lenient with Marius, too welcoming. More and more, she found herself less and less satisfied at the end of their little trysts. He seemed to leave more often, in more of a hurry, and take more of her with him. She'd intended to confront him sooner or later, and rehearsed the encounter in her head again and again. Marius, she'd say, we need to talk. Or, listen, darling, you can't keep coming and going as you please like this. Or, simply, no, I don't want you tonight; let me be. These imaginary conversations never ended well in her mind; usually they never ended at all. Isabel knew that sooner or later, she'd have to behave like a big girl and confront him.

Her bedroom felt strangely empty, as if Marius were peculiar by his absence, but he'd made his decision. He had work to attend to, surely. The duties of an ambassador were no less urgent than the duties of a knight, somehow. He was off rubbing his elbows with Calishite emissaries, no doubt, and drinking Calishite wine, and trying to wheedle a Calishite signature on a treaty of some sort. Why did she even bother with him? He could have given her the dignity of an hour of her time, but as soon as he'd finished with her, he'd pulled out of her, into his pants, drank her wine, gave her that insufferable smile of his, and-

Isabel shut her door behind her. Her footsteps rang in the corridors. Night had fallen over Waterdeep when she wandered out into the streets for a little air, to clear her head and stretch her sore legs. She wore the only clothes she could afford, a simple linen tunic trimmed with red, cut broad and shallow to flatter her toned shoulders and the exquisite curves of her heavy cleavage; a plain blue skirt of linen that swished and sighed with her step.

She'd taken a day off her duties to spend with Marius, and her erstwhile paramour had all but disappeared on her after a quick romp in her sheets. Well, so be it, she thought. It was a perfectly good evening off, and she had no intention of wasting it on an absentee lover. A night at a good tavern, a few hours of music and a fine meal, perhaps a book to curl up with, and a good bottle of wine. Just so long as it wasn't Calishite wine.

Isabel hailed a passing carriage. The driver slowed to a halt, and she climbed inside.

"Are the roads to the palace busy?" she asked.

"Not especially," said the driver. "It's well past evening now. Palace's closed. No more audiences."

"What do you mean, closed? What about the reception?"

"Reception, miss?"

"The reception. There are visiting emissaries from Calimshan. At the palace of Waterdeep. Marius said-he said that he-"

And then she went quiet. The driver gave her a questioning look over his shoulder, awaiting instruction, but Isabel was just staring out the window of the carriage. A bullock cart rolled by. Someone was arguing with a merchant. How stupid she was.

"How absolutely stupid," she said. And then, because the driver was still looking at her. "There's no reception, then."

The driver shook his head.

"No emissaries from Calimshan."

The driver shrugged.

"No reason at all for that lying bastard to leave me in my own bed after he got what he wanted from me."

The driver gawked at her.

Just for a moment, just for a tiny

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