I like to think that I've stayed true to my roots, really. When I was growing up in the poor, humble village of Dirtsholme, all I could dream about was strapping a sword to my side and setting out on adventures. You know the kind - slaying dragons, finding treasures, holding hands with pretty elves, and bargaining cost-effective contracts with local wizards to use their golems to sort over six thousand parchment envelopes per Standard Human Day.

It's been a hard road, trudging along muddy dirt paths, nervously eyeing the flickering edges of my torch's flame as unnatural darknesses creep in from the trees of twisted woods, and divining whether the faraway pinpricks in the gloom were merely bog lights that could cast me astray or the inviting windows of cosy taverns. Of which I've been in many, over the years, sampling the stout dwarven ales of the rest-houses near the Khazedrum Pass, raising mugs in celebration with the Knights of Fantralle, and even finding my feet carrying me to nameless shanties made large and welcoming by the orange glow of a roaring hearth and the smiles of friendly, salt-of-the-earth proprietors. Through perusing the scraps of parchments bearing quests and the odd cryptic note, I have, yes, come across the company of a fair few friendly elves.

After all, which adventurer, like all of us, hasn't chanced upon an opportunity to enjoy a supple, warm tongue sliding down their shafts while they gently tease pointed ears? Who hasn't kissed a blushing lass fresh from her village in the great woods, while the straw prickling against her back mixes with the warm sensation of an adventurer pressing down atop her and filling her with seed? We've all been there, I'm sure, and I'd certainly raise a mug of ale with any diminuitive adventuress seeking a plucky human mate for an evening or an adventure.

But, of course, it would be far more fitting if she was as knowledgeable about routing and sectioning territory, parceling it out to carriers both two-legged, four, and flying in a manner that allows for sufficient throughput, as she was about the sensation of rough-hewn hands and playful tongues slipping between her legs. From the capital cities of the Golden Kingdoms to the thatch-roofed hamlets like the days of my youth, I occasionally mix in the passing thought of dotting their streets, whether cobbled or barely a suggestion in the mud, with postboxes, the pleasant thoughts mingling with memories of soft, musical gasps and shaking legs wrapped tight 'round my waist.

The fire is dying low, of course, and I suppose it must be quite a sight to see me recounting my dreams and reminisces around the guttering flames. It's time, I think, to tuck away the map lovingly traced with epistolary sorting mechanisms and playfully lewd illustrations, to unfurl my bedroll and unstrap my sword, and tuck in for a little while. The wards can keep watch, for now, and I'll let thoughts of smiling kisses and neatly-applied stamps carry me away.

But tomorrow... that is, of course, the best day of being an adventurer. For who knows what tomorrow will bring?

Kinks for this one: Playful vanilla charm; lighthearted romps, squeezes, embraces, pumps, and swallows; perhaps a foray into pleasant, lubily-fun buttstuffery, plucky heroines, and sensible personnel policies that account for the difficulties inherent in getting packages and sundries across the Misty Gap to the dwarves.

Limits: Frowns, seriousness, pain, and irresponsible privatization.

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