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You spend the morning of your 120th birthday with your juniors. The Gymnasium provides cake and tea for a small celebration, masterfully prepared by the Chief Baker. After all, it's not every day that the Gymnasium gets to celebrate a Cegnum Viginti. The food prepared is light, sweet, and especially delicious, and your favorite lemon cakes have been piled high on a platter before you. Ears all around wiggle quite happily as round balls of mithril float about, keeping cups filled and platters stocked with snacks.
To a Hume or Stout, it would look like a happy family gathering.
In a way, it is. Every Child of Yggdrasil is a sibling to one another, born from the fallen fruit of the World Tree instead of a mother's womb. The roots spread across the world, through the mountains and beneath the seas, with trunks shooting up to catch the glorious light of the Sun. No two children are exactly the same, but those fallen from the same branches will share appearances like a Clan of Humes and Stouts. Perhaps more so, for you are closer to one another than even a Clan. The same blood runs through your veins, quite literally.
By the soil and the sun, the branches you were born from graced your kin with fair skin and silver blonde hair that has been kissed with the green of nature.
Where the cute juniors surrounding you wear the white silk smocks of childhood, today you wear the clothes your teachers helped you pick. A high-low skirt wraps around your hips. The outer fabric is a creamy off white with ornate embroidery that looks like the roots of a tree, while the inner fabric invokes the form of great leaves with its cheerful green color and stitching. Your navel is left bare, to show off the green brand left upon your skin when you gave the Divine Beast your virginity.
Your top shares the same motif as the bottom, though where your skirt is loose and flowing, it is less generous. It fits snugly, like a second skin, covering your washboard chest and rising to a high collar that still leaves your shoulders bare. A three-pronged cape trails down your back, imbued with magics that protect against filth and inclement weather, and detached sleeves cover your forearms. On your right hand, a silver bangle wraps around your wrist like the roots of a tree, a focus for your magic that now belongs to you instead of the Gymnasium.
Some of your junior's eyes linger on your bare flesh, unused to such a stimulating sight.
You cannot relieve them of the emotions visibly swelling within them, as much as you might want to. Doing such things with those who have not reached their Cegnum Viginti is forbidden.
The dozen or so girls in your class were something of an exception, for the Sacred Prostitutes of Irminsul required such an education. Even though elves do not reproduce like Humes and Stouts, they can still give and receive pleasure in the ways that they do. Learning those arts was second only to learning the Divine Mysteries of Yggdrasil for students like you.
