Private Tales A chance meeting

[Salogan]

Presented with the expanse of the Abberasai Savannah, Sal had looked to the sky and made a monumental decision. He turned left. Along the sandy footpath he traveled, a paltry and unremarkable member of a swaggering caravan, the arrival at a port city could not have come quick enough. He was one for the land but if it meant making his way to the city of all cities at an expedited rate, he’d find contentment at the position of boatswain. Tending to the wood, taring the boards, and replacing frayed line seemed like a small task in lieu of traveling quickly down the Allirian Strait.

While he did his best to keep to himself and his prayers, the company kept on the ship were a sordid sort. Thieving and whoring were their hobbies and it occurred to Sal that such places would make ample breeding grounds for the death he sought to deal out. As the ship cut hard into Alliria, he basked in the glow of two cities formed as one through union of a breathtaking bridge of quartzite and limestone. They would make port in the Inner City, amidst the markets and vendor unions. Sal had little care for these things but he was not one to judge others for their endeavors, so long as it was noble.

A few weeks went by like a crawl as he meandered from Inner City to Outer City, passing through the Arrek Slums and into the Shallows entirely. He appreciated this place, more than other areas of the city, because it felt honest and unblemished by falsities. Crimes were committed in the open, markets sold illegal goods, and golden coins could be purchased at a discount for use at the many Inner City bordellos. All one had to do was shine it on their elbow, get the blood out from the golden inlay of a cat against the face, and it was as good as new.

Sal had caught wind of a particular type of guild or, more directly, they had caught wind of him. Doling out judgment was difficult without the proper compass but in this certain organization, the acts of a man were counterbalanced by the gold that was offered for his soul. Sal appreciated the scale of it, the way he could pursue this role as either merchant or judge. He just needed to decided if it was justice or coin that would justify his purpose.

He had been tracking a particularly vile individual, wanted by the guild for certain unspeakable crimes against women and children. Those tracks had led Sal to an upscale brothel, The Lotus, standing on a hill in the upper echelons of Inner City. A little bit of muscle work, a stretch of the arms, and he had acquired enough coins for numerous passage and use of the various wares. But that wasn’t his intent on this fog laden evening.

The exterior building material was hard to place but he judged it as a heavy stone, likely granite or distressed marble. Large intricate wooden doors, with details obscured by a overly enthusiastic coating of mahogany, swung open as he approached. The doorman was a human with arms that were better suited for a Dwarven smith, crossing over his barrel chest that was puffed up like a desert bird in strut. Sal said nothing but comforted the bouncers palm with the warm golden coin, making no mention of numerous other coins or objects that sat on his person. Ushered in, his golden eyes looked up from the black cowl as he surveyed the establishment.

It was large, far larger than he had expected. So much so, that he suspected magic was at work to conceal the entirety of it. In the entryway and embellished foyer, half clad women sat lazily on lounges and chaise chairs of dyed leathers and black fur. Large columns of black speckled marble erected from the polished floor and ended abruptly at lofted ceilings, tensile coated and darkened by lack of lighting. The breath of the ceiling gave way to additional floors, though it was obscured as well. It was only then that Sal realized this area was closer to an internal courtyard than a foyer, hidden stairs would lead the way upwards. Instead, he took a turn to the right and found himself in a small Gothic styled tavern. Washed in paint of dark brown, lighting in lanterns with rattling safety chains, and a barkeep with a mustache that was far too large for his otherwise undistinguished face.

Sal took a seat promptly after ordering a mug of the cheapest ale he could find. He wasn’t looking for entertainment but he needed to blend in. That was, after all, the specialty of his people.

Sol Minerva

 

[Sol Minerva]

The day had demanded a lot from Sol and she cherished the moment her duties came to an end.

“Such a pleasure,” the old man quipped as he went to exit the room. The emphasis he had put on the last word nearly made Sol’s blood curdle like old milk. She forced a smile but said nothing to not reveal her disgust. It was difficult to have opinions in her line of work, but her ability to bite her tongue had likely contributed a great deal to her success. A bitter taste lingered in her mouth; from what, she’d rather not consider. It was assignments like him that made her truly question what she desired from life. It was the coin that men like him left that halted such inquiries.


She stood and crossed the room to count the gold coins sitting on the little table by the door. Whatever she thought of her clients, they never failed to tip generously. She scooped the coins up with both hands and slid them into one of the pockets of her silken robe. Nearly half of her sum would go to her employer, much to her dismay, but that still left her with enough gold to quell any protests she might have. Ensuring her robe was fastened properly as not to attract any unwanted attention, she left the room and made her way through the heavily incensed hall toward the grand marble staircase where she would descend into the foyer; her bare feet silent on the cool surface.


The night was slowing down and significantly less customers were entering the brothel than earlier in the evening, but few were leaving. Most were thoroughly occupied by one or more of the many beautiful courtesans that roamed the lavish building while the others ate, drank, or gambled in the main rooms. Here, shame was a foreign concept. Couples entertained each other on the floor or couches with no regard for their modesty. The majority were intoxicated in one manner or another and soon Sol hoped she would be as well. She entered the bar, ignoring a catcall from a stranger as she approached the barkeep. “Good evening, friend,” she said with a polite smile as she took coins from her pocket and handed them to him. “This is for Lady Charlotte, and this is for my wine.” The barkeep nodded and turned away to do what he must.


As Sol waited, she observed her surroundings. Though familiar, she always found a new detail when she took the time to look around. Draperies of all colors hung from the vaulted ceilings and high walls. Potted plant life thrived in every nook and on shelves. Couches of fine fabrics sat anywhere there was space for one and tables with chairs were scattered across the centers. A plethora of perfume and incense made it hard to breathe deeply. Even here in the tavern area where the atmosphere was a bit more humble, no expense had been spared. If Sol had not spent the majority of her time within these walls, she might have still found it fascinating, however now it was simply exhausting. The barkeep returned with an opened bottle of fine wine and a polished copper cup. Normally, the men and women employed here received free meals and drink regularly but this particular wine was expensive, strong, and Sol’s safe haven. In a way, it was one of the only aspects of her life within her own control. “Thank you,” she said as the man poured her first cup for her. She would drink the first two here, then retreat to her private apartments in the underground floors to finish the rest. It was a custom for her at the end of most workdays.

 

[Salogan]

Sal had found himself at a small round table, big enough to sit no more than four comfortably. The piece of old furniture resembled refined waddle and daub, accentuated with precious metal inlays beneath a thin veneer. The texture was rough on his equally rough hands, worn down layers of wax with the fragrance of linseed oil. Admittedly, the nuanced tones of his periphery were difficult to pick out with the mixture of perfumes moving through the bordello air.

It smelled of copulation and rose filled bath waters. It wasn’t a thing he considered disagreeable, but it was hidden beneath a more abundant fog of frankincense and myrrh.

The assassin watched with a thoughtful gaze, playing as closely as he could to indifference, as the small woman padded in almost silently. He didn’t need to see the pale tones of her exposed feet to know she moved barefoot through the tavern. It was a difficult thing to step so silently on floorboards that greeted with groans and squeaks. The ambient lighting of the large room breathed in a form dynamism in the features and exchange between the bartender and the woman. Every flicker of a nearby fire revealed a new aspect, shadowing previous revelations in black. Sal could almost hear the crackle of burning wicks whispering in the dark, like chattering bugs on the Shallows marsh line.

Sal wasn’t sure if he had ever found humans attractive. Deep within the marrow of his bones, he suspected an innate hatred for their kind. Whether that stemmed from his own mistreatment or simply the mistreatment of his people, he couldn’t say. But he knew that, based simply on his understanding of human interaction and the scales for which human beauty was measured, this woman oozed the sort of elegance and vitality that many coin holders would seek out. And, in part because of that, Sal wagered the bartender was pleasant to her for more reasons than simple employment and collegial pleasantries.

Reaching into his pocket, the Komodo pulled out a small envelope of folded goat hide. Setting it down next to the tankard of half consumed ale, he placed a single golden coin on top of it to weigh it in place. And if the woman should approach close enough to see the currency and hide, the large figure would offer her a few words with upturned eyes.

“Pardon me, Ms…” His words were laden with the accents of the West, revealing the distance he had traveled to get here. He leaned back in the fur lined chair, feigning embarrassment and frustration as he strummed his fingers against the handle of the wooden mug. “I do not know how this place works.”

Sol Minerva

 

[Sol Minerva]

Off in the corner, a bard plucked a tune from a standing harp that could not be heard from where Sol sat. From the way in which the young male bard guided his hands over the chords so fluently and with ease, Sol figured that whatever he played was as graceful as his hands. She wished to hear it and decided to move near him. Peering around the room in search of an empty settee, she spotted one reasonably closer to the bard than her current position.


She slid off of the stool gracefully and gathered her wine. With the bottle in one hand and the cup in the other, she began to cross the room, careful of where her foot landed with each step. The wooden floor, despite being as well kept as it was, could be too generous with its splinters.


As Sol neared the settee she had chosen, she passed a table occupied by a single patron. Beside him sat a mug, a parcel wrapped in hide of some sort and a single coin atop it. She glanced at his face habitually. He had already been observing her so their eyes met and on instinct she lowered her gaze.


Having been born and raised in Alliria, Sol had grown accustomed to the wide variety of species found within its boundaries. However, it had been quite some time since she had seen a person of this stranger’s build within the Inner City and the last one was not as pale… or particularly friendly. The man, who resembled a sort of reptile, was not grotesque or unattractive, though his unusual and brawny appearance made him seem rather intimidating to her. She was surprised when he addressed her politely. His accent was thick and hard to place. He took on a bit of a sheepish demeanor as he spoke, unexpectedly to Sol. There was a pause as she considered his statement. “Forgive me, you don’t know how a brothel works?” she asked with raised brows, hoping she had not misunderstood him; though her tone seemed to portray negative judgment on his intellect, she meant no harm.

As the bard in the corner finished his piece and began to dismiss himself, Sol noticed and sighed inaudibly with disappointment and impatience, pushing loose strands of her platinum hair away from her face.

 

[Salogan]

Her sigh prompted the Assassin to shift his gaze, taking in the view of the troubadour as he moved about the raised settee. The table to the composers side was adorned with a similar light, fire ensnared by a stained glass cup with a carbon coated rim. He wore the self-hedonistic clothing of fashionable bards, a strongly colored doublet with riveted pauldrons of auburn and lavender embroidery. But what caught Sal's immediate attention was the instrument, slowly sliding back into a hinged case of black stretched leather.

One of the ships-men carried a citole as well. Though this one was far more extravagant, clearly carved entirely from a single piece of wood. The neck was thick enough to need a hand hole cut into it and while the fret-board was a separate piece of agathis wood by design, it appeared to flow seamlessly into the aesthetics of the instrument. The soft and deep resonance was a natural result of the catgut fiber, spun up into taut strings that ran the length of the instrument in eight equal increments.

Sal didn’t have much of an eye for art but that object felt display worthy.

“I understand the idea of it.” He admitted as he turned back to the woman. Her features were soft, softened further by the play of the lights, even when she was visibly frustrated or caught in a moment of disbelief. For one who sold pleasures of the flesh, she seemed distracted from the task at hand. Sal assumed this meant she was talented enough to not be in need of additional work or she was coming down to the tavern for a brief respite. “But this is my first time in a house such as this.”

He assumed the notion of his origins were a potential mystery for her, one he was never quick to reveal. Conversely, he had listened enough through his travels to discern the tongue and shape of syllables through the Allirian Strait. She seemed local enough.

“I can pay for your time. And your drink.” He found it odd that she would need to exchange coin for anything in this place. But the establishment, and how it was managed, was also foreign to him.

Sol Minerva

 

[Sol Minerva]

For Sol, this man was hard to read. He seemed to be unusually attentive to his surroundings in comparison to most visitors of the brothel, perhaps likely because he had only drank half of his ale or he had other intentions there. He had an air of mystery about him, but most foreigners seemed to.


He said, “This is my first time in a house such as this.” She was unsure if he referred to its extravagance or its methods. She figured telling him that a ‘house such as this’ being literally fueled by the bodies of slaves would not be appropriate conversation. Either way she found it difficult to believe that the man required instruction on how to operate in this type of establishment. She presumed he could be interested in her service and was simply initiating conversation. His next statement seemed to confirm it; “I can pay for your time. And your drink.”


She looked him over, regarding him thoroughly. He was fairly handsome, considering, and he seemed agreeable enough. Though Sol had intended to retire for the night, she found herself intrigued as he was quite unlike her regular clients. “Can you afford it?” she teased as she slid into the chair across from him and set down her wine. Nearby firelight flickered off of her golden jewelry and made her blanket of long hair shine like snow in the sun. “One coin is not enough...” She folded a leg beneath her and rested her elbows on the table which allowed her to lean closer to him and hover over their cups. “Unless you have another sort of package to offer.” She put her tongue to her teeth as she smiled wide, watching him with a new playfulness radiating from her.

 

[Salogan]

Closeness had never made Sal uncomfortable, though he often felt he lacked the appropriate souling components to appreciate what such a gesture entailed or implied. In most cases, the rumors of his kind bred reluctance and hesitation, sometimes even approaching revulsion. The studies of diseases were as wide spread as they were dividing, some scholars suggesting that it was miasmic affliction that carried illness with demons suspended on still winds.

Others posited that it was an affliction of blood, an ingrained evil that set about the birth of a child and tormented those who were destined for terrible things. And the most controversial of these philosophers believed that disease and sickness were carried through the natural world; a dead body left in a water source, a famine brought by insects that harbored the disease, or simply a natural development in a constantly changing world. Sal had no place to decide which was right and which was wrong, but he knew that his people carried a certain fortitude. This fortitude brought them the strength to combat these diseases, while depriving them the ability to entirely fight them off. He secretly hoped that the miasmic theory carried the most weight, suggesting a holy war took place in his body and he was doing just enough to prevent the scales from tipping. Such an idea would give his specific afflictions some purpose or meaning.

The nearness and the firelight only further played to the young woman's features, illuminating delicate facets that were merely hinted at from a distance. High cheek bones, presented with the slightest notions of blush, and a pale skin tone and body shape that was teased out by the color and fitting of her clothing. Eyes, he first thought were black, were revealed to be a more subtle darkness of blue, like the coveted zaffre dyes off the northern coast of Elbion. The shade of her free flowing hair seemed almost metallic, fit for inlay in the table she was resting against.

“I do have additional coin…and various baubles.” He admitted, the sliver of a smile parting his thin lips as he tried to mirror her shift in attitude. “And I have stories and secrets. The sort that might interest you.” His words trailed off, as if it was a statement flirting with a question. Back in the courtyard, the whimsy of sleep danced gracefully between the occasional moans and sighs, shadows of bodies rhythmically rocking in the light of a grand fireplace.

Sol Minerva

 

[Sol Minerva]

Sol was pleased by the man’s response; so much that the smile she had adopted prior became a bit authentic in her amusement. His ability to match her jest with no hesitation displayed finesse and cleverness within him that he had not revealed at the start of their conversation. And while few guests offered more than coin or jewels to partake of her time, even less offered secrets. Whether or not it was necessary for him to go to such a length to convince her seemed not to occur to him. She would have been content with the extra coin, but she was completely sold by the rare promise of information, whether or not any of it would be relevant to her.

More often than not, those that offered information sought it in return. Sol was no stranger to this method, and though it was unlikely that any of what he intended to tell her—if he actually told her anything true—would be useful for her, she wondered what knowledge that a man such as he would be in search of from a whore. She did not betray her awareness, only her curiosity.

“How can I refuse?” she replied. Her smile had shrunken into no more than a slight upturn at the corners of her red-stained lips but her eyes reflected a great deal of interest as she eyed him. She was now gauging his expression for any evidence of falsehood of emotion or otherwise under the guise of admiring his features. In truth, it was not difficult as she did find him worth admiring. His amber eyes had been the first to bring forth her attraction and in doing so allowed her to look past his peculiarities to find an unconventionally handsome man within them; a plus for her situation.

She hoped that acting ignorantly enamored by his charm would induce him to lower his guard around her, that way she could fully take advantage of the opportunity she had been presented—with him and what he offered—even if only to make her night more noteworthy than the rest.

Still leaning forward, she reached out and offered a dainty hand for him to take and tilted her head just so to portray an air of innocence that would never be genuine. She knew that, and she knew the men did too. It was part of her act and it was always eaten up. “My name is Sol Minerva, though you may call me whatever suits you for the remainder of the night, as I am yours. But who are you?”

 

[Salogan]

Despite his youthful appearance, pale skin mired by scars across his cheek and bottom lip, Sal was well worn and wise to the ways of deception. His adopted human parents, who called him son at their best and slave at their most honest, had inflicted upon him the many uses of the silver tongue. Perhaps that afforded Sal the sort of manners and social habits he now displayed, but it also provided him a certain attentiveness towards its use against him. He was uncertain of the woman’s authenticity but he could not deny the charm of her smile. It had erosive qualities and Sal believed, wholeheartedly, that many whom had considered themselves stoic and resolute had fallen victim to it.

He took her hand in his, four cold digits with manicured claws at the end. The same pale tone that washed his face spattered the top of his hand like paint flicked from a brush, showing an uneven spread of white and tan. “Sol suits you…” A star. “I am Sal. You must forgive my lack of surname, but we have only just met.” Discretion, he knew, was a form of economy in the sort of establishment that dealt in skin. He wondered if a lack of admittance would foster a distrust in the young woman, or if she would respect his decision for the simple nature of business.

Parting his calloused fingers from her soft hand, he pulled back his black overcoat to reach across his belt. Untying the bow, he placed a pouch on top of the goat hide envelope at the center of the table, suede strung tight with a golden ribbon. The purse introduced itself with a jingle, coming to a lazy slump in front of the pair.

“May I tell you a story?” Flecks of amber gold watched her carefully, moving slightly to the barkeep who returned a nod and approached. “Two fingers of Aberlour, please, and another cup of the wine for my new friend.”

The barkeep nodded but it was only noticeable with the shift of his mustache in the dim lights. With a hand out, Sal filled it with a few coins plucked from the unlaced pouch. The barkeep would be back in a few moments, giving the pair time for additional pleasantries as they waited for their refreshments.

Sol Minerva

 

[Sol Minerva]

Sol made it a point not to look down at his hand. She could feel it, the texture and form, and that was enough. If she reacted, she would appear to be rude. It was not as though it repelled her so much as it had taken her by surprise. She grasped it firmly for the brief moment in which they met; a lady’s handshake.

The man introduced himself as Sal and nothing more. Sol had grown accustomed to this type of greeting and paid it no mind. Names were insignificant in the beginning, if at all. “Of course,” she replied politely as she withdrew her hand.

A tied pouch of what was implied to be gold was put before her. Drinks were ordered. It was all part of the routine. Stories were not. He was serious?

Her expression, which naturally had reverted back to a neutral one between conversations, now adopted an amused smile once more. “You may. Truthfully I look forward to it.”

 

[Salogan]

He sincerely doubted the woman would enjoy the story once it unfurled from his lips. The barkeep came and went, dropping a round tumbler on Sal's side and a filling the copper cup that sat in front of Sol. The fluid resting in his glass was dark, tinted by the obvious tones of oak that were used for the aging process. The keen senses of the Komodo sat primed as he flared his nostrils, taking in the hints before consuming half the contents.

It was difficult to become intoxicated for his kind. But it was easy to pretend.

"A man is born in the Outer City of Alliria. He fares well in his life, using deceit and morally questionable methods to become a wealthy vendor on the Eastern Port of the Strait. While he is clearly of nefarious nature, it only truly blossoms once he becomes an accomplished merchant. It begins as things always do, an itch that must be scratched..." He moved the pouch of gold over and unfolded the goat skin envelope. Turning it around, he shows it to Sol. On the dried skin, the image of man was burned and stained with pine tannin.

Sal leaned forward, illuminating his features by the firelight and ensuring view of any eavesdroppers. There were none around that could hear these words, over the sounds of moaning and laughing from the foyer.

"This man has killed countless women and children, after using them, and frequents bordellos across the city. He sleeps peacefully in that foyer, resting gently by the fire on a chaise lounge." Sal withdrew a stack of coins and slid them across the table.

Sol Minerva

 

[Sol Minerva]

At the beginning of Sal's tale, Sol wondered if the subject of his story was himself. He had taken on a demeanor that was unlike the one he possessed before and while the change was slight, it put Sol on edge. The atmosphere had become eerie in its own right. Sitting back properly in her chair, she brought her cup to her lips and sipped delicately, careful not to take her eyes off of the man for too long.

Sal revealed the portrait of a man within the envelope and claimed he was a criminal that lingered within the brothel. Brows furrowed, she turned to find sight of him. There sat a man identical to the one drawn, his head reclined back on the arm of the sofa and his mouth ajar, likely mid-snore. Sal removed coin from his pouch and slid it to her.

Though Sol had initially suspected the man before her was in need of information, she had not expected his intentions to be revealed as quickly as they were. It was rather disappointing that their titillating banter had so hastily found its conclusion. "An interesting story. I assume you're here to kill him," she said over the rim of her cup before she took another drink and set it back on the table. Her playfulness had all but vanished. While he presented his cause as a noble one, there was no proof that Sal's target had committed any monstrosity--at least none that could immediately be found by her. She could report Sal to the authorities but she had nothing to gain from it, whether or not he spoke truthfully. He must have been aware of that, yet he risked speaking to her anyway. Either he was a fool or the opposite; it was difficult to tell.

Sol looked at the stack of coin before her. It was true that she knew some things about Sal's target that could be of use to him if he truly wished to be rid of the man. He was a frequent client, though Sol had never serviced him herself. She could acquire more details from one of his favorite girls if the need arose. Or, if Sal presently had enough coin in possession, she could deliver the man's death herself. It was simple; she had done it before, though without the promise of payment. "If so, I can make it easier for you--though more costly," she said as she gestured toward the coin he had displayed. In her private apartments below the brothel was a half-filled vial that would be suitable for the occasion at hand.

 

[Salogan]

He could feel the tone of the conversation shift, as if he was suddenly far removed from the fire and a cold draft rattled against his door. He wasn't sure he was one for games, mental or otherwise, except in matters of passing time. However, he got the impression that his story had disappointed the woman. And clouds passing over the sun never truly brought relief.

"I would not ask such a thing of you." The dealing of death was not a trifling matter for Sal. In fact, it was one of the most sacred acts he could practice. With prayer came life, with death came redemption. Without even knowing Sol, he felt obliged to keep her hands as clean of the act as possible. This distillation of judgment was something of import to the Komodo but for her, it was an exchange of coin. And such greed was prized by Tabin-Ur and the three.

Leaning back in his chair, softly mirroring her movement, Sal's clawed appendage played with the stack of coins like its owner stood as a bored gambler, weighing the odds. Clinking the top against the remaining stack softly, he set one coin down and pushed it to her. The currency was pronounced, formed of solid gold.

"Your options are clear. You can report me to the big armed man at the door. You can ask or command me to leave. Those will find me gone for good and you will never see me again." He plopped another coin down and slid it towards her. "Or you can aid me by in-disposing of this man. But I cannot allow you to take his life. It is owed to others."

Sol Minerva

 

[Sol Minerva]

As the conversation progressed, the amount of gold that Sal offered the courtesan continued to rise; with each proposition presented, another coin was placed before her. Whether it was a learned behavior from her profession or simply her love of luxury, his display of generosity with his coin was sure to move Sol under any circumstance. Likewise, his immediate refusal of her offer to eliminate his target despite the expediency it would grant him exhibited commendable qualities. This intimidated Sol a bit.

She had been correct inferring Sal's purpose at the brothel. The man that slept in the foyer was marked for death and oblivious to its proximity. Her opinion on the matter was not significant. As far as she was concerned, Sal was only doing his job and she had respect for that. What it consisted of was none of her business, nor did she particularly care. She was in no position to make judgments based on morality.

"What would you have me do?" she asked as she reached forward to take a coin from the pile and held it up into the light where it glittered as she turned it, looking over its details. One could not be too careful; fake gold circulated through Alliria regularly. "If you wish to get him alone, that is my specialty." She put the coin down and smirked at him. Her playful demeanor had returned.

 

[Salogan]

He had no doubt that she wielded certain powers over men and women alike, depending on her choosing. Her capacity to move effortlessly between disappointment and glee, wearing her heart outright on her sleeveless dress, was enough to paint her as captivating. It invoked a sense that, despite the way Sal was conducting himself and her obvious youth, that she held a certain influence that danced menacingly beneath beige skin and delicate zaffre.

Or perhaps he miscalculated just how much she valued the coin.

Scooting his chair back, the wooden fixture rubbed against the creaky floorboards with surprising silence. He stood and enveloped the remaining coins in the pouch, pulling the drawstring tight. Tying it to his belt, he finished the remainder of his whiskey and moved around the table to approach Sol. It was now, for the first time, that she may have seen the true entirety of his foreboding size. Holding out his hand in front of her, one last coin rested in his cold palm.

"Take him to a secluded room with a large window. Offer him whatever you must. Do this for me and I will double what I have offered you." The smile moved effortlessly across his pale lips. "He will not have the opportunity to experience you. I will not allow this."

Sol Minerva