Time's come and gone; passion's been spent. The moon has risen, a fat, almost full globe of swollen and pregnant light washing over the city; a good omen, some of the late-night patrons say to one another, nodding sagely. Tiernan is not one of those patrons.
It isn't that he thinks it's a bad omen; far from it. It's just that in his present state of mind, who's thinking about omens? He's had his second bath of the day (night) and now he's groaning a little as he pulls his trousers back on. He's dressing slowly, lazily, offering you a grin as his fingers make absent work of ties and buttons and clasps. At least you and he should be able to keep your hands off one another for an hour or so, while raiding the midnight market of its wares (although with more honest coin and effort than your brother, perhaps).
That's his belief...
That he'll be able to be leisurely about this shopping trip...
Proof of the pudding is in the eating, though, isn't it? "So what did you have to offer to this Melissandre in exchange for her apartment?" Tiernan's pulling his boots on as he asks, stomping one foot lightly to get it situated comfortably. "She seems well off..."
Those odd clothes, for This Place, are on him again. He moves with no sword tonight, but he never goes unarmed. You know where he holsters his pistols. Highly decorative and adorned, one might make the mistake of merely thinking them heirlooms. They are quite operational.
As you finish dressing, Iowerth has gone to the window to let down the fire escape once more. "An exclusive engagement," he notes softly. He looks at you over his shoulder and he smiles, his gaze returning to the alley you and he will once more enter. "With my father. I think she hopes he will make her sing the high notes." You can just imagine. "I suspect he will hire her to perform at the next court function. That's up to them. I simply arranged a business meeting."
It's up to his father to be a cad or not. Men are men -- Iowerth is under no illusions that the high king denies himself pleasurable company. He is a very social creature, his father, for all his solitude.
Spinning about and sitting on the window ledge, Iowerth smiles. His eyes narrow, the intensity sparkling there. He studies you. How you are, how you dress, what those small, insignificant motions may in fact signify. "Melissandre makes a nice living peforming for the dignitaries, special private concerts and recitals. And of course, there's the theater, the cabaret. All legitimate." She's not an official whore. "Are you ready?" he wonders.
Looking back outside, Iowerth tips his head to look at the moon. "The tides will rise high tonight," he whispers. When the moon tugs this hard, whirlpools open in the strangest places. He is suddenly aware of one in the center of his heart.
One eyebrow quirks upwards, but really, it's of no consequence to Tiernan. His own mother's behaviour isn't exactly saintly - no matter whose bible is being used for measurement. He is dressing slowly; meticulously, but as if the act of wearing clothes right now is almost unbearably pleasurable, cloth weighed down against his skin. He straightens, stands, stretching with arms outspread, eyes closed as his head tips back for a moment. "...Nice place," he murmurs. "Remind me to take the sheets away with us."
Us. That word. It's so strange to him, that he's actually using it; that he can use it. Use it, and be sincere.
Your lover picks up his cloak, pulling it about his shoulders and pacing towards you with a small and private smile which is aimed at you alone. Even if there were twenty people in here, it would be for you. "I still haven't learned to swim in ocean currents. Rivers and lakes - I've dabbled in those. Nothing like this."
It could have a double meaning, but for once, he is innocent of such. Tiernan steps up next to you, brushing your shoulder with fingers and then a palm. "Ready as I'm likely to get. Shall we? Or do you need more time?"
The whirlpool may drown us both. I must not let it. "No, we should go," Iowerth replies softly. "The alley is vacant." My brother is good, his word a golden thing. He protects us unseen like a guardian angel. "Go ahead, I will need to lock it on my way out so that only you and I may re-enter. And ...we," he smiles as that term hangs in his throat, "... will have even finer sheets, trust me."
His thumb presses at the cleft just beneath your lower lip, the fullest part of your lip gently tugged. Eyes opened, he kisses you. It is a tender thing, after so much primal grunting and urging. Just a taste to remember you by as he walks with you before the face of the world.
Go on his voice teases within you, returning to this internal dialog you share. Before I lose my mind again, or shove it for safe-keeping, he smirks, in your mouth. Mind. Brain. Brain. Head. Head...well, he suspects that needs no explaining.
Iowerth steps aside to let you pass, holding the drapes aside. Still the alley is sheltered, devoid of craps and cards.
He starts to answer you, but your thumb stops him. Eyes that had been clear and open now go heavy, half-lidded. The kiss makes him sigh, a quiet sound in the back of his throat; a settling sound. What did he intend to say? Now he doesn't remember.
One hand lifts to touch your face, the kiss responded with kiss in return before he pulls away a little, just a little; then he returns, leaning in to kiss you. One more kiss. Once more, and we'll go. Pulling away is as difficult for him as it is for you.
I was thinking of taking the sheets so noone can use our essence against us, actually. Tiernan smiles at you, eyes still closer to closed than open, lips just slightly parted as if his jaw's gone a little heavier than he can carry. He turns away abruptly; a slow parting is more painful (no matter how brief) and heads past the drapes, heads to the ladder, climbing onto it and hanging himself by his grasp, suspended.
Either wash or burn the sheets. They wouldn't know about me, but sympathetic magic's a bugger to guard against if they get hold of something that - intimate. Unless you're absolutely sure this singer's going to remain an ally?
We can't be seen walking around with bedclothes, His words are silent but his laughter is not. Iowerth follows you easily, quickly. The last few steps, he merely slides down. Only captains and firefighters can move down ladders so swiftly. I will take care of it. In fact, the entire room will have to be reordered. I will do that tomorrow...don't worry. No one will know, and Melissandre herself shall not.
The fire escape rolls back up to the windows, the windows themselves covering over with brick. It looks like the back of a building, and nothing more. I'm relatively sure she shall... as long as there's something in it for her. Or something in her. Riot. Iowerth chuckles as he heads down the alley.
As relaxed as he seems, you may know his body language well enough by now to know that he is hyperalert, aware of the surroundings. And his holsters are unlocked, so that the pistols may be accessed easily. Just in case.
The market is in full swing. Still. Only now, it is a different kind of market. The children are a-bed. The belly dancers are wearing less now than they were at the hottest time of day. The fire-eaters light the way, and jugglers also. Hanging lanterns hang over the open-air shops, strung across the boulevards from building to building. Torches and incense burn.
"Well, Prince Tiernan..." Iowerth gestures to the marketplace, "...you wished the marketplace and here it is, in all its glory." He smiles to a passerby, his eyes then going to the way ahead. He walks slowly, preparing to follow you wherever you would wish to go. What would you like to look at first?
I was thinking of stuffing them into a sack. But your way works, too. Tiernan gives you a silent grin, moving slowly away from the ladder and out of your way. Ah, greed. I know it well. The courts still turn around it, don't they?
He is relaxed - almost drowsily relaxed, though there's an alertness to him as well that seems almost inbred by now. You've seen him truly relaxed, when alone in bed with you; but all other times, when there is even the hint of other people around, he simply does not relax so far as all that. Absently, he rubs a hand against silk-covered ribs, adjusting the shape of his sash slightly. He is taking in the sights. They are not usual to him; do you see that? He is impressed...
"I appreciate your willingness, your highness," Tiernan answers gravely, "to play tour guide to me. I do not know how long, after all, my mother will choose to remain in your mother's kingdom. Have our mothers actually met yet, do you know? I doubt she'll leave without having met her, so maybe your queenly mother's absence is to my benefit."
He walks more slowly now, looking around with fire reflected in calm blue eyes. A jeweler's, if there is one. Someone who makes trinkets and toys, I suppose you might say - I want to see what other people make, and ... pick up some supplies, especially if we are going somewhere else. A chocolatier's, if there's one of those, also - and, ah, perhaps not Mistress Bobbin's stall, but one which sells herbs and oils. I ... have an idea ...
A fiery eyebrow cocks up at the mention of an herbolist Specifically Not Mistress Bobbin. Iowerth smiles a crooked smile. "Of course, prince. The first rule of diplomacy is giving a proper tour." The grin is both congenial and political. Warm, but not too warm. "I do not know whether your mother has availed herself of my mother's company. I try not to meddle in the affairs of queens."
He can't even believe he just said it. Iowerth grins, his fingers lacing behind his back in his stroll. (The better to keep them off of you). My mother will be back eventually. She will get on the queen's schedule and meet her eventually. We'll be gone by then. How delightful.
Iowerth leads you to the covered arcade portion of the marketplace. The pickpockets run rampant at night. So many people, such shadows. But the arcades are well lit. "There is an herbolist here, I believe. Yes...Madame Fleur." He gestures to a shop ahead. Glass jars abound, incense wafts and the proprietress is working a mortar and pestle.
"We can inquire of a jeweler," he notes, "I'm sure there are several." And he is intrigued. He doesn't voice it. He doesn't even whisper it in your mind. But you can see it in his stance, read it in his motions.
His lips purse together dreadfully as he bites himself to keep from laughing out loud. "Ah, well," Tiernan manages after a moment, "I wouldn't meddle in my mother's business, either. I'm sure they'll connect. Eventually." And he is in wholehearted agreement with you about not needing to be there for it.
You receive a brief glance; only a brief one, but that glance is for you and you alone, showing a flicker of emotion in his eyes before he looks away again. To where you point. "Thank you," he says with all due courtesy, saying nothing else as he enters, looking for the proprietress. And he is immediate in his business - courteous, still, even cordial, but speaking to a purpose, with purpose. "Yes, I'm looking for something a trifle unusual, a bit expensive, I'm afraid. Saffron oil and essence of gold star orchids. Do you happen to have either of those, or could you recommend viable substitutions?"
He is smiling, secretive. You will learn of his purpose. But Tiernan is giving nothing away...
This is no Mistress Bobbin -- whose name has little to do with sewing and everything to do with the ...bobbin' of her head when performing upon her male customers. This proprietress is quite studied, quite accomplished. She is older in appearance, but still quite handsome. Her long blonde hair is streaked with silver, turning it frosted. Her green eyes light upon Tiernan.
"I have both, lord," she notes with the slight upward tilt of her chin. She's inspecting him. "If you have the coin to purchase them. They are both ...quite dear." And the she notices the crown prince. He smiles and slightly waves at her, but does not interrupt. She looks back to Tiernan. "How much do you seek? Buds or by half-ounce?"
Although Iowerth says nothing, you can cut his curiosity with a knife, serve it on a plate and call it dinner.
"Half ounce, please; it should be sufficient." Tiernan smiles at the woman, an unbending, of a sort, did she but know it. "I have coin enough." From within the sash is dredged up a purse, blue eyes now alert upon his task. "I will not require more than a half ounce of each. If you have desert glass containers, so much the better, but ordinary glass is adequate for my purposes."
The pouch is pulled out, weighed in his palm, the cup of his hand concealing its weight from any eyes other than Madam Fleur's or your own. He moves to the counter, shielding it with his body as he loosens the strings. "Do you carry bee-stings? And," a glance to you, and he changes his mind, "that will be all."
To you, however, he asks quietly, privately. Is there a shop which sells sounds, here? I know that it is ... not a magic practiced by most. My mother would carve my hide if she knew I were even mentioning it to you so casually ...
Not that I am aware of. Though... I know some... what do you need to do? Iowerth looks to you, sparing only a glance to the woman. His attention is too well caught by your... plan...whatever it is. His thoughts are nearly audible to all, the whirl of gears and the clicking of ideas.
"Bee stings," the woman murrs as she puts together small glass containers of the previous two herbs. "Hmm... it is becoming a true, rare thing. But we are lucky that we are in summer," she smiles. "I have some, my lord. How much do you require?" she wonders, spooning the other herbs into the vessels. The spoon is tiny, made for creating ounces and half-ounces.
Iowerth folds his arms against his chest. He has no order to place of his own. Periwinkle eyes flicker between the two of you. You might inquire of her... she might know of such things. Pity my twin is nowhere to be found. This sounds like something he would know...
"I only need perhaps ten," Tiernan assures the woman. "Not so many - not like some things." He offers her another smile from his supply, spilling coins onto the counter and silencing them with the sweep of his palm. "Tell me what you require in exchange for these things. And if you know a hunter of sounds," he takes your advice, so silently given, "I would appreciate direction."
You know how music creates magic of its own? There's a magic in all sounds. A cat sighs as it settles, that soft, half-moan of comfort and satisfaction. An infant in distress cries in the middle of the night, the sound unique and something which any mother will react to sympathetically, intuitively. These are some of the simpler sounds; the more complex the sound, the more magic it might have. Not complex as an orchestra; but complex as in what it expresses, its rarity playing a part as well, Tiernan explains to you. He is too willing. You can feel him almost reining himself in, trying not to overwhelm you - something which he can share with you, something which you have not known, not had already. The sound of a virgin being sacrificed - whether the virginity or the individual - that's a sound which is in frequent demand, where I come from. It fetches a price which would ransom even you.
He counts coins out with two fingertips, sliding them with blue gaze never leaving Madam Fleur's moving hands. I ... am going to make something I've read about. Maybe not tonight. But ... I want to try it. I think I can do it. And it never hurts to have a little extra magic on our side. I am of no use when it comes to magic which does not rely upon such tools, Io. It's my handicap.
It is no handicap, prince. Just a different type of magic. In then end, if it is successful, it is as worthy as any other successful spell. He has nothing more to add here, not just yet. He will have to see what you create. It is something he has not seen, does not know.
The woman leans forward, murmuring her price as she places the several buds into glass for you. Packaging each bottle in a separate silken wrap, she slips the merchandise into scented bags. "Hmm... a sound seller," she mulls. "You will have to traverse the fringe of the market for that. I would try the south east corner, your highness." For only a prince would have the coins to afford all of this in one sitting. She glances to the crown prince before facing you once more. "There are three sisters who deal in sounds and fate. Drusilla... ask for Drusilla..."
I can barely stand it... all of this curiosity. It is as palpable, as tangible a thing as his lust. The same intensity, in fact. It is all he can do not to grab you, demand that you show him. Then demand that you kiss him. It is too much. Iowerth steps aside momentarily, getting some fresh air...
"Thank you, my lady." Tiernan bows his head politely, tightening the cords on his pouch and returning it to his sash. The little packages are similarly slipped away; a skilled thief could make away with them, perhaps, but only by being ... rather ... intimate with his highness. "I will remember."
He bows to her slightly once more, then moves to slip out, brushing past you with a secretive grin that promises you something troublesome, a glint in his eyes. What is it, my handsome lover? Do you think that I will keep you forever in suspense, forever unfulfilled? That I'll tease you, never to surrender to your desires and demands?
Like he is teasing you now, no doubt. He is already heading for the southeast corner as he was directed, ruffling his fingers through his hair. Would I be so cruel to you, my flame-haired prince? When I don't even know the consequences of such actions...
Amusement warms his expression, turning it from merely sardonic to affectionately so. "Thank you, Madame Fleur," the crown prince croons with a wayward, wandering smile. Iowerth strolls toward the south east, leaving the arcade alongside you to walk toward the fringes of the marketplace. The fringes are where semi-legal and illegal trade are wont to occur. Especially where the arcades discontinue and the market dwindles toward the docks.
"Hmm... there is a philtre I think I will buy. Something for later. It is nothing like amber-willow," Iowerth grins suddenly as you and he walk in the dark, the fire and fire-eaters now behind you. "Don't worry. But... enjoyable all the same. It it like brandy, only... quicker."
To take effect, he must mean...
As you and he near the docks, the conversations are coarser. I do not think you would be cruel. Iowerth grins in the darkness, his voice sliding within you in humorous tones. Wretched... yes... cruel... no...
"Quicker? And here I thought the purpose was to take your time and enjoy it," Tiernan drawls. He is as wretched as you accuse him of being, and you get a far too sunny smile from that Unseelie prince. "But by all means, get what you like. I'm hardly one to stop you!"
But now he is equally curious, and you can see it glint in his eyes in turn. What sort of philtre could you mean? After the last two, he has good cause to wonder. It does not slow his footsteps, though.
I admit that I like to torment you, Io. I like to goad you - just a little. Because I do wonder how you will react. And I enjoy ... mmm ... seeing you react to me. I enjoy provoking you - I even enjoy it when the tables end up turned...
Or when he ends up across the table, he means...
Tiernan gives you another lazy grin, then leans around a corner. I think we're almost there. Drusilla, she said? Shh ... I feel I'm a little out of my neighbourhood, all of a sudden. Rogues' row, this ...
Iowerth laughs as he saunters beside you. He doesn't seem in a hurry, but your point is well taken. "Is that so?" he wonders, his smile cocking sideways as he looks ahead, occasionally glancing at the wares that you and he are passing. "What about the quantity versus quality argument? Sometimes, it's not what you have but the fact you have a lot of it."
Somewhere maybe Gwilym is laughing. I miss him. Maybe I seek to find him in others. He and I, close in every way that is possible outside of taboo. Maybe that is why I seek the company of men. Hmm... I wonder what that means, if it is so.
Fingers still laced together, his arms behind his back, Iowerth glances to you. His eyes return to the darkness ahead, the twists and turns of the outer market. He smells the sea, in all its closeness. Drusilla, yes... she is not one with whom I'm familiar. I have heard the name. But she is not one with whom he affiliates.
I suppose I am easy to torment. I quietly react to everything. He grins at himself and then at you as his hands let the other go to slide into the pockets of his jeans. I do not know that it is much of a challenge...
"Quantity and quality at the same time, best of all," Tiernan suggests to you, with a slanting grin. His hands go into his pockets after a ruffle back through his hair. "The more, the better; the more, the merrier? Mm... I think in the long run, I prefer quality... I'd rather have what I can get of what I really want, rather than a lot of bits and pieces of things I don't want."
Like you. You do not need to feel his glance to know that. He is looking around, cautious of unfamiliar surroundings, though he does not show that inner wariness. You know it by the way he places his feet. But the way he holds his shoulders. You know. You can tell, where the world cannot.
He is not paranoid or insecure. He is - merely cautious, as befits a prince who has dwelled in corruption...
You are always a challenge. It is not that you react to everything. It is that I do not know how you will react. And I like testing that. I like that we will have space in which to test our limits. Tiernan glances to you with a quirked smile, then turns to examine the shadows. Drusilla. Well. We will find her, and we will see if she is willing to do business with us. If not - I can capture sounds for myself, if need be, which I can make use of. I will see what price she charges.
Your brother, of whom you think now, sits where you do not see. He is nestled between alcoves of rooftops, where gabled windows slant. He is as one with the shadows as if he had been born there. And he is watching you, as if he were some gargoyle, hunched beneath dark cloak and hood. Who will see him here?
I do not know what to make of you, brother. This is your prince, then - as if I did not know. As if I did not know exactly where you have been and exactly what you have been doing. I see him and how he holds himself, I see his expressions and I hear his words. And I do not understand.
Why him? What makes him so special to you - so precious. So that you would risk nightmarish fates to be with him - it cannot be just lust. Lust alone is a powerful thing, but I have only ever been motivated to cross town, not barriers, for lust.
He is thinking of you, much as you think of him. His attention on you, as some perverse guardian angel. He is brooding. Gwilym has become good at brooding, lately.
Why him ... what does it mean ... I don't know anymore, and I wonder now if I ever knew you as well as I thought. In my confidence. I am a fool...
The hairs on the back of his neck stand at attention. He is always alert when he is on this side of the marketplace, so near the docks. Not far, the Red Light district begins. You can hear the revelry from here. When the wind blows just so, you can even hear a moan or two. There are not many shops left. The market is dwindling to nothing...
Are you nearby, brawd? You are just in my thoughts. You would laugh at me if you knew how much. Gwilym. The thought is not pushed like a leaf upon the water toward Tiernan, but rather given to the air, to One In Particular who might hear it. Brawd... if you are out there... watching out for me as usual....I want to see you. Tomorrow night. The Old Broom.
An old public house frequented by magicians ...not here, but in London, between the bricks.
He returns to the here and now, his stroll with Tiernan. He smiles a little. "I hope that's her," he notes quietly. "We just ran out of market..." Ahead, the last stall on the southeast corner. There are three women who remain, all of whom are draped in rich fabrics: one in black silk, another in blue silks and Drusilla, with her pierced nose (a diamond stud) and her many-colored fabrics and saris wrapped around her willowy frame. Her dark eyes look to you as you approach. Full lips neither frown nor smile...
He reddens faintly, your lover does, for some of the sounds he hears. He still blushes to know that others will make love, will rut, will fuck, now that he himself gets to do all those things. And then he glances to you, to see if you notice his blush, a moment of self-consciousness before he resumes his amble.
Tiernan's eyes widen as he looks from one woman to another and to the last. "My lady," he offers politely, self-consciousness still making his skin tender. "I apologize if my companion and I intrude. Might you be the one whom we seek, Drusilla, seller of sounds?" He bows slightly, and he straightens, hands tucked behind his back.
She is ... impressive. He tells you this quietly, gaze flickering to you and then to her. If her robes are indication of her skill, I do not know that I can afford her services.
A figure moves on the rooftop, edging closer to the docks - soundlessly leaps across an alley, rolls along a gutter and then inches to where he can see you, see your lover. Gwilym gives no sign of his presence away - after all, who looks up? But you receive answer nonetheless.
Midnight, then. Alone? Or are you bringing your lover...
The silks she wears, the bangles of gold upon her arms. That is only a fraction of her wealth. The one called Drusilla (that is not her name) stands tall and proud. Her motions are a dance to a sound perhaps only she hears. Her long black hair is oiled, shiny and fragrant, the curls spiraling heavy to her waist. She smells of almond and clove. Her skin is dark coffee and the lids of her eyes are painted magenta and pink as sunset. Her nose is pierced with a tiny diamond stud. So, too, her navel...but with a much larger ruby. This is visible between the layers of fabric only when she bends.
Turning toward the dark-haired noble, she raises an eyebrow. "I am the one they call Drusilla," she repeats, but in her own musical cadence. Her voice is controlled, barely more than a whisper, and yet you both may hear it quickly. "I have sounds to sell, yes. What sounds do you wish to purchase. I have the whisper of a cricket, and the roar of a loud whirlpool in the middle of the darkest sea," she glances to Iowerth, Prince of the Dark Seas, but only a moment before her appraising gaze returns to Tiernan.
She... is quite beautiful. Mysterious. She smells intoxicating. I fear the sounds she herself has inspired. Iowerth lifts an eyebrow at the mention of the whirlpool's roar. He has heard such a sound, even between his own ears. I can help, if need be...
Iowerth glances away from the transaction, his eyes sliding upon the other wares nearby. Of course alone... it is you I wish to see, thoughts to a brother are given to the air. He does not see you, cannot see you where you are, Gwilym, but his eyes seek you. Just you and me... no women... nor anyone else...I will see you at midnight. On the ship?
Drusilla proffers a shell from the seashore. It looks like an ordinary shell, but it encloses a great sound. "This holds a most extraordinary sound. Normally, I would charge several rubies for such a sound." A high cost. But you are accustomed to having jewels...from time to time. And she gives a price expecting you will enter into a bargaining with her.
She smiles at you with the lift and lowering of her long lashes...the tips of her lashes dew-dropped by even smaller diamonds.
He is staring and aware of staring. He is more able to keep expressions from his face than when he is with you, but nonetheless, he is unaccustomed to being so - drawn in. "Lady," Tiernan says aloud, "then you have a very ... varied collection. I would say that your skill must be great. I only hope that there is someone who values you at least as highly as your wares." The words come to him from somewhere, and he offers them up quietly, turning his head for a moment to look at you as he finishes speaking.
It is important, to be valued. As something more than a piece, a prize in a collection. I know this now.
Funny, how I never knew it before...
He takes a deep breath, turning his attention forward again, a hand touching the shell lightly. One fingertip rubs slowly against the rough edge of it, and blue eyes for a moment meet black. "Several rubies, my lady? The sound must be extraordinary indeed. How am I to appraise its worth, without knowing what the sound is?" Dark eyebrows try to meet, and he drops his gaze to where his fingers play now against the shell's rim. "There are sounds," he murmurs, "which have been heard for centuries; and sounds which have yet to be captured, even by the bravest, most courageous of recorders. Sometimes, it takes a venture - a leap into the unknown, to discover such things." He lifts his gaze again to her, an enigmatic half-smile now on his face. He's found his feet. "How much of a leap is this likely to be, lady? Tell me what I get for my coin... and I'll tell you if it's coin I'm willing to pay, hm?"
You are seeing him as he is at home, in his own mother's court. He is not unaffected by her; by her beauty, and you can sense it beneath his skin, bubbling and hissing along within the blood behind the veins. But ...
You said that you wanted to see me with a woman, Io... is this what you had in mind? We could unwrap her from her silks, if you were so inclined ...
This is different. Gwilym has perched himself along a gutter, eyes narrowed as he watches the tableaux unfolding. He has no need of magic to sharpen his sight; thieves and cats see perfectly in the dark. He is listening, as well; so hard that he almost misses the words you echo for him.
... On the ship, if you insist. You wish to trap me, brawd, is that it? Turning me over to the guards to pay for my wickedness at last? The quip is automatic, red-gold hair hidden beneath his cowl along with the jade green eyes. I will see you at midnight. Possibly even before - but at midnight is when you'll see me.
If you don't land yourself in trouble sooner, brawd...
Would you rather your chamber of chambers, brawd? If you think we may remain there unbothered... unless, we of course, wish to be bothered. I will see you at midnight... let me know sometime during the day where you would prefer to meet...
Distracted by his second conversation, Iowerth has missed much of the interchange. Coming out of a seeming reverie, he notices you stroking the maiden's shell. The corners of his mouth lift up. Let us see how the deal goes...perhaps she would be willing...she is...breathtaking ... and...the perfume...
The trapper of songs smiles as you stroke the shell. "Hold it up to your ears, you shall hear it for yourself." Prince Tiernan. Her dark eyes are a brown so deep they may as well be black. But there is a rivulet of blue within them, making them a dark violet. She takes a step toward you, smiling mysteriously, and she lifts the shell to your ear, pressing it there for you.
There comes the sound of water, dripping not on stone or against the side of a ship, but against her skin. It ripples, echoing back and forth in your mind. It pings her like cymbals, as if she were walking naked in a hard rain. She even sighs, that too is captured. Then there is a whipping sound, like wind, wind that could also be the panting of breaths, her breaths, another's. It whips like the wind, it becomes a storm, a hurricane, an orgasm, the thunder of a storm.
Slowly she withdraws it, having given you your sample. "Large and small, we have them all. There are harsher sounds, smaller. Hmm... it is up to you. What are you looking for, my lord... perhaps we should start with that..."
She smiles, daintily plucked eyebrows lifting. "My skills are to be envied, my lord. The collection is a separate matter." Touche.
She is ... inspiring. But ... potentially dangerous. Your lover tells you this, even as his gaze stays on the woman as the shell is drawn away. She is as a dark goddess. But then ... we are neither of us sunlight children, are we?
"An intriguing sample, my lady." Tiernan allows his gaze to rake slowly up and down Drusilla, with appraisal but not insolence. "I would say that the captor of that sound were exceedingly fortunate. But such sounds are not for me; not held captive and replayed. Those sounds are best heard for oneself, and I do not think I could dare place a price on such an experience."
He leans forward, one hand braced on the table of wares, his other hand skimming the outermost layer of silks and then withdrawing. Left behind with a showman's grace is a loop of gold thread from which dangles a pristine emerald. "A token, for your time," Prince Tiernan murmurs as he straightens. "And for the sample. For business... I would like three sounding drums, jarred if you have it, and four flasks for capturing sound. Aside from the drums, the sounds I need are more difficult. The sound of a heart breaking; the sound of a star falling; and the sound of an angel's feather as it finally comes to rest. Do you have any of those, or can you recommend substitutions?"
He smiles. "Once that is done, lady, perhaps you would be willing to accompany me and my companion somewhere more private, for a drink, and ... discussions of a less commercial nature..."
I would like to see your skin against hers, I admit. Eleven words, spoken to you and you alone...
Your ship will do. Your brother falls quiet. Four words for him; he is less wordy than your lover, tonight. Perhaps this is worrisome. But Gwilym has other matters on his mind. He does not take his attention from you, not now. But he is thinking other thoughts.
Hmm... I do not wish to be ... recorded in a shell, I do not think. Nor... us together. She captures sounds, which means she captures information. I think... we should...
And then you make your offer, one you cannot help, perhaps...
Let us see what she says... but I do not think being intimate with this one would be... a very good idea. An exquisite night, to be sure... but... not our brightest by far.
Drusilla places the shell back upon the shelf with the other items, many and varied. All have sounds in them, inscribed upon them, or cast within them. Quite ingenious really. She holds his gaze as her silks drip from his fingers. That, too, makes a sound. A slender hand lifts, making a motion to one of the other similarly draped young women. They rise to get the bottles as requested. "An angel's feather falling, I have such, from the Plains of Chaos, the Outer Rim of The Great Marches." She makes a motion to the other woman. "It will be very dear indeed," she smiles beautifully, "... the most expensive item in the entire City, I should think. Second only to a night with me." Yes, you have to pay for that too. She is a business woman and time is money.
"The sound of a heart breaking... this is not so difficult. Hearts break every day. One heart may be said to break repeatedly within a given day. It is not expensive, nor difficult to find." She removes a ring from her finger, setting it before you. "Remove the quartz, and you will have your heartbreak. As for the sound of a star falling..." Her voice trails off and she looks to the other women -- her sisters. They are as beautiful as she, and as dangerous. "My sisters whisper to me that we do not have such tonight. If you come back tomorrow night, we shall have procured it. Or, you may use ... the sound of a firecracker in its place. We do have this. Captured at the festival of the Dragon on the Yangtze River."
All the things but the falling of a star are delivered to you. "The cost for all of this, prince, will be two silvers each for the drums... for the angel's feather, a diamond... or four rubies... or two sapphires... or ten gold and a sound of your own. I will give you the firecracker at no charge. The others will be one silver for all."
Iowerth watches this unfold. Were we not a couple, were I not here, she would have lured you into something, or you her. Iowerth smiles at his own thoughts. We will have to find a ... reasonable substitution. I know where we can have an Indian princess who is not half so dear...Her name is Tamarind. She bathes in rose water and wears almond and cinnamon milk on her skin.
He looks away, eyes drifting off into the night as Tiernan finishes his sale with Drusilla. I will see you... on the ship... I know this has been ... difficult. I am sorry, brawd. I should have ... had more care with your heart. We'll talk about it tomorrow. And...
He pauses briefly. I like that you ...watch out for me. Knowing you're out there... somewhere... maybe watching, maybe not. Either way, it is ... comforting...
Nothing will compare to the brilliance that is you. Tiernan tells you this without lifting his gaze from the woman, expression almost challenging to her, that enigmatic smile still in place. But I agree... caution. Her danger is part of her attraction, but there are other women as lovely, in their own way. Besides, now that I have you in mind, I am disinclined to share you.
Aloud, he says, "Then I will return tomorrow night. A firecracker is simply not sufficient for my need, and I accept no substitution. I will place down," fingers nimbly tuck into his pouch, "two rubies tonight, to hold the lot. Tomorrow night, I will return for the rest." He leaves ambiguous, open what 'the rest' may contain, and he smile has nothing of the sweetness you've seen it. Something worldly, masculine, but with confidence and the poison spikes of that Unseelie court of his childhood. "Good eve, lady, and thank you for your ... skills, upon my behalf."
If you wish ... this Tamarind ... then we may. I am willing, Io. But I ... find myself thinking of you ... your skin, your taste, the feel of you against my skin. Inwardly, his words are touched with something smoky, clove and incense. I ... will not talk of it now. Later ... remind me. You catch a blue-eyed glance, and Tiernan turns away after a brief bow to Drusilla and her sisters. His mind is going other places, now. Not to the join of her thighs. Perhaps not to the join of yours, either...
I have no heart, brawd. You should know that. Light, the words from your brother, dancing back into shadow as your lover turns. No need to apologize; you fell in love. It isn't the end of the world, Io.
He can say such things, but can he mean them? Maybe. But Gwilym is not there for you to read his eyes, read his face. Both are clothed in shadow, cloaked in darkness, now. It is my task - whether or not set upon me by our parents - to watch out for you, brawd... do you think I'd stop, just because of this? By the by, mind your step when you head back to Melissandre's. He cannot resist. He is a rogue. She is a singer, and she likes having her voice advertised. I ... closed the echo chamber so that nothing was heard beyond the walls, but you'll need to close it when you two go back ...
How close was he, when you and Tiernan were there? Or is he making it up...
Posted by rowan at May 22, 2006 05:26 PM
