- Messages
- 2
- Character Biography
- Link
The manticore kept its vigil over the bathing pool while it rested its front paws on a toppled stone jug, spewing fresh bathwater. The manticore sat on a stone plinth that jutted out from a blue tiled wall at the back of a narrow apse recess. Its perch was elaborate masonry carved to be the towering canopy of palm trees. The half dome that covered its alcove was ribbed like the inside of a seashell. The manticore itself was red granite and adorned with glittering gilded accents. The sculpted feathers of its eagle wings were leafed in gold. Bright blue painted eyes were set in gilded lashes and its claws were polished bronze.
All along the lengthy and cavernously tall bath palace, the manticore’s identical sisters watched the bathers below from their own apse alcoves. The communal bath that they guarded was a long single pool from which the bathwater waterfalls of the manticore’s collected. Lining the pool’s edge were white stone columns adorned with intricate masonry, fashioning them into the shape of twisted olive trees. The branches atop them met in the middle to form leafy archways that acted as gateways to a vaulted cloister that ran a ring around the pool. More images of manticores, assembled in thousands of glazed mosaic tiles decorated the walls and the floors, emblems of the chief idol of the bath’s luxurious resident city.
These patrons, were the wealthiest of maidens and matriarchs, come to gossip and soak their commercial aristocratic worries. Many were the mistresses of the merchant lords, the Silver Margraves of the infamous messa fortress city, Mardiakhor. They freely pampered themselves and indulged in fine fruits as their rival sisters in avarice, the very wives of the Silver Margraves, bathed with their maiden hands and slave eunuchs. They held squabbling courts, swollen with the echoing sounds of chuckles, hissing whispers, and grunting scoffs. Misinformation, slander, and rumor were the currency in their exclusive economy of manipulation and status.
Fully shuttered, the vapors of the hot bath and the remaining air melded together into a thick haze that hung everywhere. The hall became a sweltering tomb of heat and mist, as the air was choked into beads of condensation that dripped down surface in teary streams. The only source of chilled reprieve came from melting blocks of ice inside the many brass chalices filled with milky honey-water and flakes of mint. An opulent speciality for the wealthy patrons of the Orchard Bath Palace.
Reaching for her chalice, Harlot took it all in. From the piercing heat of the bathwater to the intoxicating aromas of the oils and powders on her body. Weeks worth of tension, sand, dust-storm grime, and sleep deprivation from restless dune nights washed away.. She had finally made a helpful sum of Kaliti silvers and she was going to put it to good use. She brought the chalice’s rim to her lips and tipped its sweetness into her mouth. When finished she plucked an ice cube and rested it on her forehead. She slid it across her face and cheeks. Reaching her lips she pushed it in and crushed it, sucking on the cold as she loudly chewed.
Three weeks riding across the red dunes of the Sohrmarggian Sea had made her skin rough and body sore. Chasing a quarry while being chased herself by Salamandra Raiders had made her nerves tight and her mood even sourer. But, now she would finally have her rest. The quarry was delivered, and the silvers collected. The baths of the Orchard was just the first stop. It would be the tea rooms in the Dancer’s Ward next and a night at the Songstress’ Parlor nearby. Such were the planned delights of her favorite healing residence. Though the merchant margrave’s fortress city may have its reputation as a swirling maelstrom of the coin hungry, illicit lusting and merciless vagrants and thievers cadres. To Harlot it was an oasis.
Finished playing with the ice, Harlot leaned her head back and tucked her neck against the rim of the bath. She listened to the splash of the bathwater and took in slow breathes. However, the familiar metallic thuds of a cane staff added an unwanted melody to Harlot’s soothing symphony. She winced at the sound and grimaced. Rolling her head to the side she shot glares at the approaching group.
It was a pack of young boys and girls, dressed in sheer and barely obscuring linen tunics that were held at the waist by thin silk ribbons. Their bodies teased by the hints of their forms as the tunics hung from their curves. Two of them were slender and pale, almost ashen, with pointed ears, hollow cheeks, long silver hair and glimmering green irises. They were female elves. The others, young boys with ochre skin. They had broad shoulders, slim forms and braided auburn hair, with bright blue eyes. Harlot recognized them as children of the humid Shundorbon jungle deltas. Together, none of them, seemed past fifteen name-rites ceremonies. If slaves such as them ever celebrated such ceremonies.
All of them wore gilded collars and bracelets, inscribed with runic curses and wards. They carried silver platters with grapes and cut pomegranate halves. Leading them was a crone. She wore her hair in a long grey tail beneath a lace veil and propped herself up with a tall iron staff. She wore a long red gown embroidered with visages of falling peacock feathers in black brocade. Waddling slowly she corralled her fleshy merchandise in a procession of smiles and fluttering eyes directed at Harlot.
“A pleasure to have you back, Harlot,” the crone wheezed. “A delight for your bath my dear?”
Harlot shook her head and waved her hand dismissively.
“No bath-whores this time Matron,” whined Harlot.
“I’m too sore. Besides…”, continuing. “I don’t bed whores younger than my horse.”
“Don’t mistake me for some caravan hound, hurt from the camel’s ride and looking for a softer one.”
The Matron smiled and giggled, feigning hearty pleasure from Harlot’s barbed rejection.
“Come now Harlot, I know you,” she said. “You’re patronage at the Aviary is well received. I thought you would be pleased to know that I have extended my services to the Orchad Palace.”
“My patronage ended when you paired me with an assassin last time,” Harlot replied.
“Oh but he paid well to get in,” the Matron said, leaning on her staff with her hands both stacked on top of its orb pinnacle.
“Besides, one look at the cur and I knew you would handle him with ease...And you did.”
“Delivered his head later for some silvers back at the Brotherhood of Silver Swords.”
Harlot plucked another ice cube from the chalice and broke it between her canines.
She gargled back, “I said no.”
“Come,” the Matron persisted.
She clutched one of the elven girls and dragged her towards Harlot.
“A new and strange fruit to you perhaps, but, nonetheless even sweeter than the usual ripened one.”
“Go away,” Harlot growled, “Before I decide to drown your lust-pixies.”
It was the Matron’s turn to frown. But, she instead let a sigh slip from her cracked lips and put on the performance of a lamenting and worried, motherly merchant. She violently pulled the elf back and pressed her against her withered body. Much shorter than the elf, the Matron face was cradled in the elf’s chest. She closed her eyes, bent her brows upwards and sighed once more.
“Such a shame, Harlot,” the Matron said. “This one is new to the arts and I had wished you a gentle introduction, as I know you are well loved by the other exotic birds in my aviary.”
“But, I shall just have to bring her to the Theiver Lord next door. Brutish boar of a man. Batters more than beds. However, he is a more, reliant, patron.”
The Matron tugged the elf away and turned around. Harlot said nothing as they began to leave. The drip of bathwater and the loud chewing of Harlot the only sounds that responded to the Matron’s bluff. As they reached the doors, the clinkering of two imperial silvers bouncing in ringing echoes halted their leave.
The Matron smiled and prodded the boys with her staff.
“Pick it up,” she snapped. They hurriedly did so.
She looked to the chosen elfling and nodded. The elf sheepishly returned the nod and hesitantly walked away to return to Harlot. The Matron maneuvered her other merchandise out. Now it was just the elf and Harlot. The elf tried to recall some of her amateur seductive guile and attempted the imitation of a swaying saunter on her way back to Harlot. She kneeled down and sat in a courtesan’s posture, with her lower legs tucked beneath her thighs and her buttocks resting on her heels.
“My lady would you like something to eat or shall I disrobe and join you?” the elf said, flatly reciting a prepared tease, rather than any spontaneous flirtation.
Harlot sighed, "Just sit there and be pretty my dear. Perhaps bring me some pomegranate."
Once again Harlot closed her eyes, this time making damn sure nothing bothered her by placing a hot towelette over her eyes and forehead.
All along the lengthy and cavernously tall bath palace, the manticore’s identical sisters watched the bathers below from their own apse alcoves. The communal bath that they guarded was a long single pool from which the bathwater waterfalls of the manticore’s collected. Lining the pool’s edge were white stone columns adorned with intricate masonry, fashioning them into the shape of twisted olive trees. The branches atop them met in the middle to form leafy archways that acted as gateways to a vaulted cloister that ran a ring around the pool. More images of manticores, assembled in thousands of glazed mosaic tiles decorated the walls and the floors, emblems of the chief idol of the bath’s luxurious resident city.
These patrons, were the wealthiest of maidens and matriarchs, come to gossip and soak their commercial aristocratic worries. Many were the mistresses of the merchant lords, the Silver Margraves of the infamous messa fortress city, Mardiakhor. They freely pampered themselves and indulged in fine fruits as their rival sisters in avarice, the very wives of the Silver Margraves, bathed with their maiden hands and slave eunuchs. They held squabbling courts, swollen with the echoing sounds of chuckles, hissing whispers, and grunting scoffs. Misinformation, slander, and rumor were the currency in their exclusive economy of manipulation and status.
Fully shuttered, the vapors of the hot bath and the remaining air melded together into a thick haze that hung everywhere. The hall became a sweltering tomb of heat and mist, as the air was choked into beads of condensation that dripped down surface in teary streams. The only source of chilled reprieve came from melting blocks of ice inside the many brass chalices filled with milky honey-water and flakes of mint. An opulent speciality for the wealthy patrons of the Orchard Bath Palace.
Reaching for her chalice, Harlot took it all in. From the piercing heat of the bathwater to the intoxicating aromas of the oils and powders on her body. Weeks worth of tension, sand, dust-storm grime, and sleep deprivation from restless dune nights washed away.. She had finally made a helpful sum of Kaliti silvers and she was going to put it to good use. She brought the chalice’s rim to her lips and tipped its sweetness into her mouth. When finished she plucked an ice cube and rested it on her forehead. She slid it across her face and cheeks. Reaching her lips she pushed it in and crushed it, sucking on the cold as she loudly chewed.
Three weeks riding across the red dunes of the Sohrmarggian Sea had made her skin rough and body sore. Chasing a quarry while being chased herself by Salamandra Raiders had made her nerves tight and her mood even sourer. But, now she would finally have her rest. The quarry was delivered, and the silvers collected. The baths of the Orchard was just the first stop. It would be the tea rooms in the Dancer’s Ward next and a night at the Songstress’ Parlor nearby. Such were the planned delights of her favorite healing residence. Though the merchant margrave’s fortress city may have its reputation as a swirling maelstrom of the coin hungry, illicit lusting and merciless vagrants and thievers cadres. To Harlot it was an oasis.
Finished playing with the ice, Harlot leaned her head back and tucked her neck against the rim of the bath. She listened to the splash of the bathwater and took in slow breathes. However, the familiar metallic thuds of a cane staff added an unwanted melody to Harlot’s soothing symphony. She winced at the sound and grimaced. Rolling her head to the side she shot glares at the approaching group.
It was a pack of young boys and girls, dressed in sheer and barely obscuring linen tunics that were held at the waist by thin silk ribbons. Their bodies teased by the hints of their forms as the tunics hung from their curves. Two of them were slender and pale, almost ashen, with pointed ears, hollow cheeks, long silver hair and glimmering green irises. They were female elves. The others, young boys with ochre skin. They had broad shoulders, slim forms and braided auburn hair, with bright blue eyes. Harlot recognized them as children of the humid Shundorbon jungle deltas. Together, none of them, seemed past fifteen name-rites ceremonies. If slaves such as them ever celebrated such ceremonies.
All of them wore gilded collars and bracelets, inscribed with runic curses and wards. They carried silver platters with grapes and cut pomegranate halves. Leading them was a crone. She wore her hair in a long grey tail beneath a lace veil and propped herself up with a tall iron staff. She wore a long red gown embroidered with visages of falling peacock feathers in black brocade. Waddling slowly she corralled her fleshy merchandise in a procession of smiles and fluttering eyes directed at Harlot.
“A pleasure to have you back, Harlot,” the crone wheezed. “A delight for your bath my dear?”
Harlot shook her head and waved her hand dismissively.
“No bath-whores this time Matron,” whined Harlot.
“I’m too sore. Besides…”, continuing. “I don’t bed whores younger than my horse.”
“Don’t mistake me for some caravan hound, hurt from the camel’s ride and looking for a softer one.”
The Matron smiled and giggled, feigning hearty pleasure from Harlot’s barbed rejection.
“Come now Harlot, I know you,” she said. “You’re patronage at the Aviary is well received. I thought you would be pleased to know that I have extended my services to the Orchad Palace.”
“My patronage ended when you paired me with an assassin last time,” Harlot replied.
“Oh but he paid well to get in,” the Matron said, leaning on her staff with her hands both stacked on top of its orb pinnacle.
“Besides, one look at the cur and I knew you would handle him with ease...And you did.”
“Delivered his head later for some silvers back at the Brotherhood of Silver Swords.”
Harlot plucked another ice cube from the chalice and broke it between her canines.
She gargled back, “I said no.”
“Come,” the Matron persisted.
She clutched one of the elven girls and dragged her towards Harlot.
“A new and strange fruit to you perhaps, but, nonetheless even sweeter than the usual ripened one.”
“Go away,” Harlot growled, “Before I decide to drown your lust-pixies.”
It was the Matron’s turn to frown. But, she instead let a sigh slip from her cracked lips and put on the performance of a lamenting and worried, motherly merchant. She violently pulled the elf back and pressed her against her withered body. Much shorter than the elf, the Matron face was cradled in the elf’s chest. She closed her eyes, bent her brows upwards and sighed once more.
“Such a shame, Harlot,” the Matron said. “This one is new to the arts and I had wished you a gentle introduction, as I know you are well loved by the other exotic birds in my aviary.”
“But, I shall just have to bring her to the Theiver Lord next door. Brutish boar of a man. Batters more than beds. However, he is a more, reliant, patron.”
The Matron tugged the elf away and turned around. Harlot said nothing as they began to leave. The drip of bathwater and the loud chewing of Harlot the only sounds that responded to the Matron’s bluff. As they reached the doors, the clinkering of two imperial silvers bouncing in ringing echoes halted their leave.
The Matron smiled and prodded the boys with her staff.
“Pick it up,” she snapped. They hurriedly did so.
She looked to the chosen elfling and nodded. The elf sheepishly returned the nod and hesitantly walked away to return to Harlot. The Matron maneuvered her other merchandise out. Now it was just the elf and Harlot. The elf tried to recall some of her amateur seductive guile and attempted the imitation of a swaying saunter on her way back to Harlot. She kneeled down and sat in a courtesan’s posture, with her lower legs tucked beneath her thighs and her buttocks resting on her heels.
“My lady would you like something to eat or shall I disrobe and join you?” the elf said, flatly reciting a prepared tease, rather than any spontaneous flirtation.
Harlot sighed, "Just sit there and be pretty my dear. Perhaps bring me some pomegranate."
Once again Harlot closed her eyes, this time making damn sure nothing bothered her by placing a hot towelette over her eyes and forehead.
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