Djose Knights

The girl had caught her eye immediately.

Lucil's hip struck metal, a discarded gauntlet. That would leave a bruise.

She had been eager, bright-eyed, with a blush of rose on each cheek to complete the impression of overwhelming innocence.

A sword rack toppled with a martial crash.

"Yes, ma'am!" were Elma's only words for the first month.

Teeth nipped her shoulder. Short nails scored the riding callouses of her thighs.

But in battle, she was a dervish, all whirling limbs and a piercing scream that she must muzzle to avoid scaring the chocobos.

Something pricked the trim muscle of Lucil's stomach. It wasn't fingernails. The captain fought instincts not to wrest the knife away and set it to her partner's throat.

The transformation was entire: one could barely recognize the frenzied berserker on the battlefield.

Lucil gasped as a cold metal hilt brushed her clit, then thrust, pistoning against the riding motion of her hips.

Still, the troops would be startled by this metamorphosis.

Groaning huskily, Lucil seized scruffy hair and pulled Elma's hot mouth to her breast.

At both of them, really. Publicly, the captain's chilly reserve was infamous. Scuttlebutt said that her only loss of virginity came from the pole stuck up her ass.

Which was demonstrably not the case. The metal was warm and slick now, although still unyielding.

After another soldier had landed in the infirmary, she had lectured Elma on which private, off-duty remarks constituted actual insubordination.

She shuddered, squeezed and went silent under Elma's growling kisses.

Unofficially, the sight of the disheveled, seething lieutenant standing over that boor from Bevelle had been quite satisfactory.

"Enough," she said, stroking Elma's hair. "Maester Kinoc arrives within the hour. Let us ensure he finds the armory in order."

"Yes, ma'am!"

Well, some things did not change.