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 Original story by: AzumiTheFlirt
 
 Manicured nails tapped nervously on an all-wood desk. Officially, Fin'wyirith'il Enchantments and Curios for Fey Folk of Fine Tastes, doing business as Arlith's Corner in the less-refined parts of the world, opposed the presence of human mercenaries in Elvish cities. Arlithuine Fin'wyirith'il had made the appropriate donations to the correct political elites and played her part in the grand dance of Elven politics. The High King was very old, his body preserved only by continual rejuvenation from mana springs and endless refreshing of the enchanted wards that kept him from slipping away. For generations of elves he had been a wise protector of their kind. Once he had led the mighty armies of the fey to battle, but fifteen-hundred years ago his own son had turned against him. The civil war had ripped open tensions between differing cities and cultures of elves, creating wounds that still simmered to this day. Elves hardly trusted one another. They certainly did not trust outsiders. Officially.
 
 She peered through her reading glasses at the mail. After the civil war, Elven military dominion had... waned. To hear her parents tell it, once upon a time all races had danced to the High King's tune. However, he had no successor, and his wounds from battle were far too great for him to produce one. For centuries the political dance of who would succeed him had gone around and around, each turn of the wheel making allies of enemies and costing the once-great Elven Empire another few drops of precious blood. Her ears drooped a little as she looked at the new taxes that would be heaped upon her business to pay for a politician's new fancy. In the past few decades, it had become harder and harder to be an honest business owner in Elven lands. Perhaps her skin was coppery rather than the lilly-white favored by high society, and maybe her ears were a little too long, but she was not an indigo-skinned fallen elf. Arlith tried to do her civic duty. Glancing at a spreadsheet, she tapped a pen against her chin and mused out loud, "It's almost bad enough that my shops in the human lands are making more than my boutiques here..."
 
 Saying that in public would be social suicide. She curled a few locks of blonde hair around a finger. Elves had to be superior to humans, they just had to be, or so they had been told all their lives. Arlith believed that, of course, but the humans at least knew how to handle a proper order of succession. And more importantly, they knew how to treat a lady. When she had ventured out to human lands with the intent of opening a new shop, the rulers had always welcomed her very warmly indeed. Ten years ago, she had hired a band of elvish mercenaries to protect her goods and her person while on an expedition through ork lands in search of exotic elements, but those cowards had failed miserably. She had been abandoned in the heart of the jungle with barely a week's food and water, her goods pillaged and her position traded to the savage orks in exchange for the greenskins allowing the mercenaries to leave. All she had was her wits, her faithful feline familiar, and a handful of spell reagents she had not practiced with. Fortunately, the orks loved a good hunt. Instead of crushing her with overwhelming force, they ran her ragged, chasing her through their jungle atop the backs of giant spiders.
 
 Bloodied, hungry, and tired, she had chanced upon the camp of a few adventurers. Their spell-slinger had heard of her, and she had been able to bribe the youngsters with promises of great wealth. The leader, a noble young man with blonde hair and a sharp sword, was quite impressive. Barely old enough to shave, but he was a skilled fighter who commanded the loyalty of his party. They managed to get her and just enough of her supplies out of the jungle and back to proper elven civilization, for which she had paid them in ale, gold, and enchanted items. If that handsome white swordsman had not been so young, she would have paid him with something far more intimate than that. Arlith would never forget the first time she saw him, and how he sprang immediately to strike down the savage ork who had chased her into the camp. She had looked up at him from the ground, biting her lip and hoping for the best, while the party gathered around her. The things they could have done to a helpless elf like her...
 
 Shaking her head, Lady Fin'wyirith'il took a deep breath and pressed a hand to her silk-clad bosom. No time for thoughts like that. Politically, she had to be suspicious of humans. There was another campaign advertisement in the mail today, warning that the human mercenaries had already set up a fortified encampment in the slums beyond the Emerald Wall. While the humans claimed that it was part of a cultural outreach program intended to better the lives of the poor, a form of foreign aid sponsored by a prominent human noble, that only outraged Elven politicians even more. The Elven Empire was the supreme civilization upon the planet, no matter what upstart humans might think. They needed no help. Some of the hot-heads had even demanded that a force be assembled to throw out the humans at spear-point, but that had quickly been voted down. Surely the superior Elven forces would win, but... well, humans were skilled fighters. Especially the noble, blonde-haired and blue-eyed ones who led mercenary companies.
 
 Her well-manicured nails reached for something else that had come in the mail. This was a simple advertisement her feline familiar had brought from the slums. It mentioned the soup kitchen that the mercenaries had set up, along with opportunities to enlist for elves who wanted to "see the world, meet new and horrible beasts, and kill them!" The mercenaries offered disadvantaged elves an opportunity to serve under experienced commanders, make money to send home to their families, and enjoy rigid discipline instead of the slums' chaos. Blue-blooded high elves might turn up their noses, dismissing such offers as claptrap, but Arlith knew how bad it could be down there. Some of her businesses were in the slums. Those were the storefronts that had cold iron bars on the windows and time-delay safes for their gold. Since the mercenaries had moved in, crime rates had dropped rather substantially. It did seem a bit odd for elves to agree to serve under human officers, but many beyond the Emerald Wall were quite desperate.
 
 Most intriguing, however, was the mention of a masquerade ball. Taken with the rest of the leaflet it was the soul of innocence, a charitable ball hosted by the human detachment with the proceeds intended to benefit the poor. However, in certain circles of Elven high society, such a ball was an invitation to debauchery and lustful deviance that only the idle wealth of the aristocracy could imagine. At such meetings grave magics were performed, souls were bound, and unholy political alliances were conceived. Arlith sipped at her tea. The humans surely did not know that. To them, putting on masks at a ball must be as innocent and fun as slaying orks. But there was a mention of a gladiatorial exposition by human warriors, the "Yetis of Valhalla" or some stage-name like that. And there were certain to be hard-bodied human men there. She ran her tongue over her lips.
 
 "Mistress," purred her cat-eared familiar. Dressed as always in a spotless maid's uniform, she hovered at the elf's shoulder. "It is to benefit the overlooked elves of this city."
 
 Arlith nodded slowly. "Y-yes... surely there could be no objection if I attended..."
 
 "And since it is a masquerade," the familiar said, vocalizing her mistress' thoughts as she was so good at doing. "No one would have to know."
 
 The business owner scribbled her signature across a few other critical papers, then glanced at her glimmering watch. If she was to go, she would have to cancel that meeting with what's-his-name, that insistent councilman with the big nose and reedy voice. He was so bothersome, and she knew he was very corrupt. Someone really should run a sword through him. Arlith winced. It was not proper for an Elven lady to think such things. She really should attend that meeting, but... it had been so long since she had a night to herself. Did she really want to spend this evening listening to that councilman drone on and on at a boring, stuffy restaurant where you never got enough to eat? And of course he would try to get her drunk, again. If Felicia had not been along last time, that annoying politician might well have gotten her drunk enough to agree to anything. A shiver ran down her spine as she fought back a wave of revulsion. A droll dinner, or a masquerade ball where she could watch humans brawl and pretend she was on an adventure instead of stuck filling out paperwork? And the handbill also said that ladies would be encouraged to bid for dances with the warriors, as part of the fundraising.
 
 "Clear my schedule, Felicia." Lady Fin'wyirith'il nodded firmly, sweeping the rest of the papers into her inbox. "And set out my salmon dress."
 
 The catgirl grinned, showing her fangs. "The slinky one, my lady?"
 
 Arlith clucked her tongue. "It is fashionable, Felicia. Not slinky."
 
 "Of course, my lady." The familiar continued to grin as she scurried away. "Of course."