• Mature • Blind Disregard

[Pyrre Ej'qy]

8 Vhalar 722

The Siren's Embrace

“Come here.” Zarena’s words were like a whip as her hands snuck to the sash the Biqaj wore around his waist, kept tight and in place with the woven belt he wore.

He felt her give it a fierce tug upwards which sent him swaying uneasily on his foot and peg and he involuntarily sent a hand to her shoulder to steady himself.

A brief pause passed before the pair exchanged pointed looks. Pyrre wisely retracted his hand and chose a more solid and less volatile and dangerous thing to support him - like the nearby vanity.

Zarena returned her focus to her ministrations, consumed with trying to gussy him up for the evening and the celebrations the brothel had planned. She picked at the top of the sash, drawing it up and making it more visible while her face rearranged to express her distaste.

“When was the last time this was washed.” It was a statement, a rhetorical question at best, and she rubbed her fingers together as if doing so might rid them of the transferred grime. She did not want to know the answer.

Pyrre was beyond talking so he did not even attempt to voice one. Instead, he allowed her to fuss but not without his quicksilver-like eyes expressing his disdain of it all.

“That’s,” she paused and took a step back before turning her painfully discerning and scrutinising gaze on him, amber hues running up and down his frame before she sighed audibly, “as good as we will get.” She gave his comparatively fresh cotton shirt a final tug and resettled his collar before glancing at his mess of hair. The internal war she waged within herself not to further primp was visible on her features.

She did not have the willpower. That hand moved to pick at a section of his dark, wavey hair that was clumped together, too tempted to tuck it behind one of his slightly elongated and pointed ears.

However, that was simply a bridge too far for the Biqaj and he swung his head away and glared. “Enough,” he cautioned in prickly Common and it was her turn to wisely retract her hand and preen no further.

He did not want to be here.

Everything was too much. The over-perfumed boudoir they were in was suffocating. There were too many cushions, too many gossamer thin curtains swaying in the equally saturated breeze. There was too much Zarena - too much of her touch and skin exposed due to the flowing wraps of supple fabric she wore fashioned into a dress. And, worst of all, he was and would never be enough.

Of all the decadent, vibrant and lush decor, Pyrre was drab and dirty. He was not the sort of individual the Siren's Embrace catered to and no amount of work Zarena put into him would change that. It didn't stop her from trying, however, and he could see her fidget as she stood there observing him with a critical eye, one arm wrapped around herself while the other propped atop it, her lightly curled fist set against her chin. The look he returned was pitifully filthy.

"You know.. we could-"

Ymbre's well-timed entrance ended whatever train of thought the Mixed-Blood had, his hand finding her waist before pulling her back against him into his arm. "You know.. we could what?" he asked, sending a quick look down in her direction before shooting the Biqaj an apologetic look.

Zarena's words were an unintelligible buzz as she flapped her hands at his arm and eased herself forward but not entirely out of his embrace. Her eyes snapped to the Lotharro before glancing back in Pyrre's direction, considering. She must have thought better of voicing whatever she was thinking, because she slipped free of Ymbre's hold and stepped towards the door to pause in the threshold. Turning back to them, her eyes narrowed mischievously as she arranged herself in a sleek yet playful pose, "You know.. we could go and have some fun." Her amber eyes burned as they flickered between both, settling at last on Pyrre as if doing so might further emphasise her wishes.

[Pyrre Ej'qy]

A light touch was all Zarena offered the Biqaj as they made their way down to the main area of the Siren’s Embrace. Whether it held the weight of the world in it or meant nothing was a mystery to Pyrre; he knew she knew of his attempt trials earlier, yet he couldn't tell if she was simply being cruel or using this evening as a way to keep tabs on him and it frustrated him endlessly. Ymbre, for all he lacked when it came to communicating, was at least clear with his gestures and nonverbal cues. Zarena loved being all smoke and mirrors when she wasn't being vindictively direct.

And while Ymbre was often a difficult man to pin down during the course of a trial, never in one place unless he put himself in the locations the other two frequented, Zarena was easily found. As such, Pyrre was familiar enough with the brothel in-so-much as to locate the Mixed-Blood. He knew she would be here most trials, sticking to what she knew, so it made her the easiest to find out of the pair. And, to no surprise, he always had to go to her rather than the other way around. Ymbre was the opposite, showing up unannounced at his leisure.

Zarena had fully utilised all of her persuasive prowess to get the Biqaj here but it didn’t change the fact that it was the last place he wanted to be. He did not feel like celebrating. He certainly did not feel like being touched or toyed with - if, for whatever reason, any of the workers of patrons were to give him the slightest bit of attention at all.

The Siren’s Embrace was not a place for his ilk. That was Nellie’s. Yet here he was, struggling down the stairs with his peg leg and crutch, feeling all too out of place amongst the sensual flow of pipes, strings and drums, practised laughter, lush fabrics and exotic decor. He accepted and endured the daggers Zaxis’ eyes and thoughts sent in his direction - physically and mentally - yet, thankfully, most chose to act as if he wasn't there - despite how much he didn’t blend into his surroundings. Like a stain one might ignore in hopes it miraculously disappeared.

And, oh, how he wanted to disappear.

The scene around him was heady with perfume and the smoke of Ambrosia and Scalvblack, of skin and music and artful indulgence of what appeared to be all the senses. This particular trial’s take on the Fesitval of TouchCalendar event; the last trial of the Fesitval of the Immortals was meant to be a nod to the genuine one - yet, in keeping with the nature of the establishment, the silk blindfolds, ear coverings and tied hands held a more erotic element, where any free hands - and mouths - were encouraged to roam and explore.

Pyrre let his eyes take it all in as if he were some glutton for punishment, noting those he recognised from previous visits. Some were in various states of undress, others were encouraging others to partake in said undressing. There was a sense of casual comfort mixed with the thrill of excitement and anticipation amongst those present, a tantalising blend of trust and nerves. Bodies swayed and shuddered; laughs and giggles and pleasant chatter flowed like wine.

At some point, he managed to find a seat.

Perhaps, before, he would have seen it all as the ‘fun’ Zarena intended. Instead, he saw it all as an ugly form of torture.

[Pyrre Ej'qy]

Over a break had passed, easily - maybe two, Pyrre’s mind had drifted as he remained absconded within the seat and table he and Ymbre had claimed for themselves earlier. Somewhere along the way, he had become a passive, dead-eyed observer, watching on as his frustration and bitterness slipped into numb ambivalence under the influence of time - and, quite possibly, the effects of whatever hung in the air.

He had lost sight of Zarena at some point amid the undulating bodies that had surrounded her, yet she popped back into his view, auburn hair looking gently tousled. She was languidly reposed upon a lounge, an arm bent, elbow upon the cushioned armrest, cheek pillowed on her palm. He noticed she wore her dress slightly differently and he struggled to ignore the way it hitched up just enough to expose her bare legs from her mid-thigh down, which were curled comfortably towards the one next to her, one arranged purposefully over the man's leg. She had the fingers of her other hand in the cropped hair of the older Biqaj she lounged against, her full lips moving and eyes flashing in a manner he hated that he recognised.

All at once he was thrust back into the present as he felt a stab of shame, this ebbing away into the icy bareness of loneliness. His lips turned down into a scowl as he acknowledged he was far too sober for the intensity of his feelings that reflected plainly in his eyes, and he set them to roam the table to his side, desperate.

He could not afford what was on offer here, but Ymbre could.

The Biqaj caught sight of the gold-plated tankard sat slightly off to the side in a manner Pyrre figured meant it had been forgotten. A quick glance in the Lotharro’s direction being all he needed to confirm this, as the large man’s lap had been chosen as an ideal seat for a light blue-skinned woman*Red Ravens, fourth Shark, the pale triangular top and matching long skirt she wore looking liquid on her frame. Pyrre’s hand reached out and he hooked two fingers through the handle and half lifted, half dragged the tankard towards him.

Ymbre had something new to indulge in; he could spare the Biqaj whatever was left of his drink.

His eyes roved the innards of the tankard hungrily once he pulled it into both his hands and then down, cradled directly under his face, and his scowl flexed his full lips, anew. Just dregs. Of course it was just dregs. He tipped it back and swallowed them down, regardless, depositing the tankard back on the table thereafter only to see two sets of eyes on him.

Ymbre’s head had turned fully to face the Biqaj, bearded chin resting on his own muscled shoulder, unreadable brown eyes watching. The woman’s own face had turned slightly, her cheek resting against the Lotharro’s far temple, lips slightly agape in a whisper of a parted grin as her white eyes took him in.

Pyrre did not have the experience to note the expert way in which she subtly arched back against Ymbre’s chest to get the Biqaj in her sights. What he did note was the profound lack of more of what had been in Ymbre’s tankard, the warm remnants that he drank doing little to thaw the icy tendrils that still held him in a vice-like grip.

Pyrre heard her laugh softly, watched her peel her upper half away from the Lotharro as she twisted more to face him, saw her languidly lift something to her lips before she drew in a breath and breathed out a plume of smoke into the air above them.

Pyrre felt his cheeks burn.

She slipped easily from the Lotharro’s lap to an adjacent chair, hands nimbly manoeuvring the item attached to whatever she had smoked from so that it was positioned next to her, movements and skirt fluid and fluttering. One hand was on his thigh in a matter of trills, the motion effortlessly calculated as her pupil-less eyes roved him, pausing on his prosthesis. Her lips turned upward as her hand squeezed playfully before sliding outward, long fingers reaching up his good thigh before fingers blazed a trail back down to his knee.

Her voice was as sweet as an Ashan bloom, “Surely you’d like something a little more..” Her hands expertly swapped, then, as she took another inhale, the fingers of her other hand fluttering over the leather straps that bound his peg to what remained of his right leg as she blew the smoke in his face. Her grin greeted him as it cleared and she leaned closer, pearl-like curls falling around her shoulders, light touch and movements all done with intent while she flexed her fingers near the end of his stump as emphasis while she crooned out the last of what she had to say, “suitable.. to sate your particular needs.” Her chin dropped to show she was once more acknowledging the leg she was toying with.

[Pyrre Ej'qy]

Pyrre did not intend to breathe in what had been deliberately exhaled in his face yet no amount of straightening away from it - or her - would provide him any freedom from either. He felt her hold firm, felt the implications of her actions and the deeper meaning behind what she had said.

He didn’t like it. Or, at least, what he interpreted her words to mean. His grasp of Common wasn’t the best but she had been clear with her word choice, and he had enough of a grasp of how the context of things could alter - or influence - the meaning of something. To Pyrre, she had been explicitly clear: he was different, broken, and she saw that plain as day.

As far as he was concerned, nothing she had and nothing she could offer would make him whole again.

He wasn’t interested. But his bitterness spilled out, icy cold, “What is it you think you have to give?” His eyes had darkened further, yet the flickering light of the brothel revealed the rich indigo reflecting his loathing - of her, of himself. His head cantered to one side as he eyed her and he resisted trying to pull his leg from her grasp. “How you go sate” he used her word even though he had no idea what it meant, “my needs?” His voice was low, words spoken just over the din of the music and patrons in the background: this was now a private conversation.

He was too focused on the woman to notice that Ymbre had yet to turn his attention away.

Instead, the Biqaj watched the light blue-skinned woman move with a silky grace as she abandoned the tall metal smoking pipe and moved easily from her chair to his good thigh, felt her sit - to his surprise - as light as a feather. He had often thought of Zarena as cat-like, her posturing and movements intentionally dignified and fluid, yet the Mixed-Blood couldn’t hold a candle to the woman with him now. Zarena tried hard to be effortless, but it came naturally to this other woman - like breathing.

He was surprised she did not wear the same intense look as the Mixed-Blood; instead, everything about her seemed soft and sweet. He was unnerved by the fact that her white eyes meant he could not tell where she was looking, however.

She made herself comfortable, one hand moving to his shoulder before she walked her fingers along to his collar, then beyond, her movements lacking urgency as she slowly positioned that arm around the back of his shoulders. The other hand remained at the straps of his prosthesis, still gently pawing at them with her fingertips. Her face was relaxed, albeit far too close to his own now, and her legs hung between his own, crossed neatly at the ankles.

She smiled gently as she glanced over him then leaned her head forward so they may continue to speak in private whispers, her lips close to his pointed ear, “Before I share my secrets..” She paused long enough to glance down at him, reading him before she continued, “What is it they call you?”

Pyrre’ nose flared as the feel of her breath on his skin and stared resolutely ahead, eyes unchanged.

Begrudgingly, he replied on a ghost of a breath, “I call myself Pyrre.”

He didn’t notice the slight arch of her brows or the way her lips pulled into more of a smile.

Her far hand gave his shoulder a squeeze and then a gentle caress, “I’m Alyra*Taking liberties and making up a ‘stage’ name.” She leaned back and grazed fingers along the side of his neck, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Pyrre.”

His dark eyes shot sideways to her, brows still lowered, lips still threatening to turn downward.

Her head moved and he had a feeling she was regarding his right leg again.

“Does it hurt?” She asked, sounding cloyingly innocent.

His eyes narrowed as his face finally turned back to regard her. “No.” he bit out, making sure to launch into what he said next to draw attention from how poorly he lied. “It nice to have leg torn up,” he added sarcastically, as if he interpreted what she said to did it hurt. In truth, whether it was at the forefront of his mind or buried down, he was always in agony.

He watched her eyes narrow slightly yet her grin remained. She tugged at one leather strap.

“Truly?” She asked with hushed surprise, her sweetness exaggerated as she played along, “If only the rest of us knew! Peg legs would be quite the fashion statement.”

She leaned in again, tone shifting like the colour of sea during a storm, “But if you are looking for a distraction from how.. nice..” her finger trailed around his knee, tracing the very end of his shortened limb, “it is,” then it continued along its path up the inside of his thigh, pausing just before it reached his lap, “I could help.”

Pyrre froze. He had no words. He wasn’t sure he remembered how to breathe. Just trapped, like a mouse at her mercy.

Her fingers continued and traced him deliberately.

He didn’t see the wickedness in her smile, too focused on not looking at her.

“Not like this, of course,” she teased. “I don’t think this is what you want” her hand made a point, punctuating that word before she finally gave him a reprieve, fingers slinking down to lightly brush his inner thigh, instead.

It did not give him much relief.

“But there are things that feel even better than simple pleasures of the flesh.; things that can make this,” he hand moved swiftly, softly to his stump and cupped it, "feel like this," and then it moved to his left knee, teasing at his shin for emphasis.

Her lips were at his ear again, breath stirring the messy waves that hung around it.

“If that is what you want.”

[Pyrre Ej'qy]

Pyrre huffed out a small gasp, suddenly regaining his faculties and remembering how to breathe. He tried to shift away, feeling all too vulnerable, and hated that he was considering what she was offering. The logical side of him knew there was no point in going down that route, in torturing himself further by making him think he could be whole, knowing it would only be a fleeting, temporary thing that he would undoubtably chase out of sheer desperation to feel it again and again. But the effect she had on him was strong, words tantalising him with the very prospect he so desperately longed for.

His face must have reflected the turmoil within him because she sat up slightly and drew her hand away from his leg.

“Enough”, he breathed intelligibly, voice too low for the word to truly form. He was trying to school himself, regain his wits, and his eyes flickered to the side to the tankard long forgotten. He glanced back towards her and uttered again, “That is enough.”

Drink had always helped to take enough of the edge off, albeit the effects were short lived. But it was enough, and always had been.

She made a soft sound in her throat but whatever she was going to say fell by the wayside as Ymbre’s large form moved to eclipse Pyrre’s view of the belly of the Brothel, dwarfing himself and Alyra. His big hand found the one of hers that still remained on the Biqaj’s shoulder and he used it to unlace her from Pyrre’s being.

“Come.” The Lotharro’s voice was a low rumble, attention fully on the light blue-skinned woman as he offered her the silk she had left with him earlier. He turned with her hand still in his own and made to walk her away and she rose elegantly, skirt cascading down her long legs like a waterfall.

Pyrre watched dumbly.

She cast one final look in the Biqaj’s direction as Ymbre took up her hookah.

“Tell you friend,” she made the smallest motion with her head towards where Pyrre had last seen Zarena, “if you want to find me.” Then, with a salacious grin, she slipped off after the large Lotharro.

It took a few bits and deep breaths for Pyrre to return to himself. He didn’t even think of visually pinpointing Zarena - as he usually would have - or to see where Ymbre had led Alyra to. Instead ,he realised, with every fibre of his being, that he needed to leave and he shot up awkwardly out of his chair, the motion sending his crutch flying and clattering against the floor. It was enough to catch a few stray eyes and for Zaxis to express his displeasure within Pyrre’s mind. The Biqaj ignored it all, even Zarena’s curious amber look, and grabbed up his crutch before setting it beneath his right arm and hobbling out.

[Pig Boy]

RPG Rewards:

Pyrre Ej'qy

• XP: 10
• Knowledges:
  • Resistance: Needing booze to fight off intense feelings
  • Resistance: Enduring the second-hand smoke of drugs
  • Socialization: Understanding the deeper meaning of what is being said
  • Deception: Changing the conversation to hide a lie
  • Discipline: Forcing focus elsewhere to distract yourself from the present
  • Intelligence: Alyra: A contact for a different type of 'good time' and where to find her

Link to Review Request on the Forum: viewtopic.php?p=195524#p195524

Skill Review: All Skills used appropriately to PC's level

Notes: I really enjoyed the picture you painted with this collection of scenes. There's a physicality to the action of each character, that makes even the slightest action such as adjusting Pyrre's sash from Zarena feels impactful. For lack of a better word I'd call your writing style not only brilliant but also tactile. There's a lot of emphasis on physicality here, and I really enjoy that.

As it should be for a thread set in a brothel. I had no trouble at all envisioning the smells, sounds, and physical movement of the bodies involved in the scene as it unfolded in front of Pyrre. I also like that you used a little used NPC fro the NPC roster, as well. The Eidisi seems like a fun gal.

I could say more, but I don't want to embarrass us. So I'll just say Great writing to conclude! Wonderful story.

If you have any questions, comments, or concerns regarding this review, feel free to PM. Enjoy your rewards!