[The Spot]Take a walk on the wild side

[Cosmo Diaz]

Spring 30, 513 AV Cos leapt nimbly from the gunwale to the dock, as Serret bumped the tiller with his fist, skillfully angling the small ketch one half a degree closer to the thick wooden planks. Rope in hand, he quickly tied off the bow of the Sunshifter to an iron ring bolted to the pier. There were no pilons, sunk down to the lake bottom to hold the dock in place. It was far too deep, and the Docks, like the rest of the city, simply floated on the water’s surface. Serret tossed him a lead line, which in turn was attached to another hawser as big around in diameter as Cos’ wrist. With this, he secured the stern to the dock as well, as Serret began to heft a basket of fish off the deck and onto the walkway. Cos jumped back down onto the deck and together they offloaded all dozen baskets – a good night’s work. The silvery-black sides of the bass shimmered faintly in the growing rays of the dawn. Syna was once more resuming her rule, her lover Leth long since sunk back into the depths of the lake. The two men worked mostly in silence, tired after having worked through the long hours of the night – readying the small craft for sailing, traversing the lake to reach the area they had chosen, setting the nets and trawling for hours on end, and then the journey back to the city. It was a ritual repeated over and over, day in and day out. But Cos was happy to have the work, what with the events that had been going down in Ravok these past months. Besides, he was young yet, and able bodied. So he worked with a will, trying to ignore the growling of his stomach. Once they had the fish ashore, he helped Serret and his eldest son, who had appeared with a hand cart, load the catch on the cart, so they could haul it off to the market. Setting two of the large bass aside, one for his mother to cook for his parent’s mid-day meal, Cos made his good byes to his friend and employer. He pointed his boots towards The Spot – not a spot – but The Spot. He’d gotten to be friends with one of the cooks there, and if he gave her the other fish he carried, she’d see that it was fried up proper and give him a good bit of it, along with some potatoes and onions and bread, and then have the rest for herself and her boss. It was a fair deal all around. The way to the floating tavern/improvised employment office was a bit roundabout, for the dock where Serret kept the Sunshifter berthed wasn’t connected directly to one that would allow Cos to walk right to The Spot. But in the course of fifteen chimes or so, he was there, having to cross only one small bridge between floating bits of the city. The cook greeted him with a smile and a kiss, that lingered and progressed to an invitation for something quick out back – which is to say on the three feet or so of wooden planking between the exterior wall of the boat-tavern and the dark waters of the lake. With some skill, Cos made some fast and easy half-promises of later, and slipped from the girl’s grasp. She was a great cook, but no beauty, and Cos had other things on his mind this morning, and no desire to take a cold plunge in the lake if the girl got overzealous with her spirited exertions. He’d been with her a few times and knew that she was not the meek and mild kind. So he left her with a lake bass in hand instead of the trouser trout she might have wished for, and came into the front, and only, room of the tavern. It was, for the most part, deserted at this early hour of the morning – though eventually a crowd of those who worked around the Docks would form for a quick breakfast. The choice of seats was his to make, but first he went to read the board of job listings – drawn by curiosity. Not that he needed a job, so much, though extra cash was always helpful. And not just that he was intent even on reading the postings. No, what mainly drew him closer was the presence of another, who, with their back to him, appeared to be scrutinizing the board. To see someone perusing what was on offer wasn’t so rare – that’s what the listing were there for, after all. But the slim figure, the long, pale hair, some air of something that said this person was perhaps just a little out of place for this rough and tumble establishment, intrigued Cosmo. Dressed as he was, in clothes rumpled and dirty from his night’s employ, and his hands and face also grimy and stained with fish residue, he had no delusion that he presented well. But a man just simply was not a man if he let such details stand in the way of chatting up what might be a pretty face. At least, he hoped that this one was prettier than the cook. Coming up beside the girl, Cosmo made some pretense of looking over the various slips of paper, before saying in his low and somewhat night mists roughened voice, “See anything that looks interesting?”

[Amatus]

A marine front zephyr lurched wash lines onto dank rooftops, a mock of beating wings until the sagging pinned cloth matted into a bunch of sea worn ruins, bleached by the sun, wrinkled, and flailing. The aroma of fish and soured ale adhered to the inner grottoes of the youth's nostrils. He was habituated to the spoor of Ravok’s dock, but detested that it was so. His pastel cotton tunic reeked of flavored tobacco, woman's perfume, and the wheat germ blend of a sultry silver rinse.

Beyond the berths, the city smelled of sweet roasting meat from spicks in large window displays, dabbled incense palmed along refined silks, and a coppery bouquet wafted from the Pit and settled along the moist creases of any stranger's tongue. His mouth dampened at the consideration, mind not long peripatetic from its purpose, the panel of fanning parchment glowered back at him with fat plasters of blocky lettering.

The sun lodged amid the flaws of the finger print smeared window rinsing his iridescent flaxen threads into an aureole of white. He ferried himself half a stride closer to the board, functioning in contradiction of the veracious glare; the trot of feet in the exposed space behind him began to fill. The night was concluded, for some work with a hangover was beginning, and for others, like him, the shift had only just ended a number of bells earlier.

Barmaid: Young, Fine, Hardworking.

WANTED: KITCHEN BOY

Hardworking Slaves, Fair Prices.

In Need of Fisher's Aid

A Night of Pleasures:
Tips Encouraged

Each flier further inauspicious than the last, he slipped a section of hair behind his ear. Why was he even bothering? Clara could do as she pleased. Only, he preferred she undertook it without pestering him about it. She actually expected him to contract her a position at the Silver Sliver. Petch if he was going to occupy all his days under her dissecting watch. In fact, there was little pity he presented her plight. His cousin had turned down the advances of her erstwhile employer and now found herself out of work. How demanding was it to toss the grubby old man a bone and collect an added Miza for her trouble? She always was such a prig. It made it all the more noteworthy of a triumph bedding her himself. The thought drew a grin across his soft cheek. His digits frolicked against the pale flush of plumped lips.

The shadow at his side slunk up the wall and climbed along the board. Though his chin did less than incline at the voice that accosted him, silvery stones drew to the corners of ghosted lash. He feasted eyes upon the rugged layer of grunge and ink rippling beneath the well-toned muscle of a man who earned a living on hard work. Amatus, in his own skin, appeared willowy and delicately curved in comparison to any such creature.

"Hardly." The word crooned, drawn out by the saccharine melody acquired of a life in customer service and pursuing pleasures. "It was out of some possession of generosity I thought I would attempt to assist my cousin in finding new employment." Amatus flung a tapering arm toward the panel of screaming announcements, running his fingers over a fasten sheet scribbled with an advertisement for unpublicized services, a known Ravok code for substantial favors at a hefty price.

"Fruitless, and thus far a waste." the blonde eyed the man over, dragging his sights over the dock worker and summing up his worth in altering the course of his morning's providence. Little could be said, a sheen of sweat still clung to his brow. Though the peek of a broadened chest from beneath his damp top reminded him of a man Clara may have picked from a crowd with bashful flirtation. Amatus usually found himself most enticed by a nicely worn suit and a flash of gold encircled fingers.

[Cosmo Diaz]

Cosmo allowed his glance to turn to the girl as she answered, and suddenly he wasn’t quite so sure it was a girl. The garb was ambiguous – plain shirt and trousers – something any man or woman might don for work or everyday doings. They certainly weren’t of fine material or particularly well cut. So the clothing wasn’t giving anything away – except for the fact that, if this was a woman, she was especially underendowed when it came to her chest. But if the garments were ambiguous, the features of the person he stood next to were downright inscrutable. Whoever, or whatever, she, or he, maybe, was, they were not looking directly at Cos, but instead stared still at the notice board. Without meaning to stare, and not particularly bothered if he was caught out doing so, Cos looked at the delicate facial bones, the exceedingly and naturally long, thick lashes, the tiny ears and the graceful column of pale marble of throat and neck – and he was still none the wiser as to this person’s sex. The silken strands of platinum that fell about those slim shoulders were overlong for a man – but then again, there were those who chose for one reason or another not to cut that which sprouted from their scalps. Cos was far too impatient with long tresses falling into his face annoyingly while he worked to wear his any way other than short. Those luxurious lashes framed large, round eyes of silvery blue, which looked out beneath heavy brows, yet while resting atop finely arched and very feminine looking cheekbones. And his eyes were drawn particularly to a full set of plump lips, such that had no business being on the face of a man – unless it were they were being pressed to said face with sensuous ardor. Still, if he had to stake his life on a guess as to what he now scrutinized, he’d be hard pressed to hazard one with any feeling of comfort. His life might well be forfeit at the end of it, for guessing wrong. The voice too was of no help whatsoever, though it fell sweetly enough on the ear – almost a purr, like a well contented cat. What a marvelously intriguing mystery he had been presented with…. A slight, wry grin played about Cos’ own weather roughened lips and his eyes turned back to the board. His corded forearms crossed over his own not insubstantial chest and he appeared to be studying the job offerings. “That’s a pity then,” he said, easily, his gaze scanning up and down. “Time wasted is money right out of a man’s pocket – or a woman’s, for that matter.” He paused with an inner smirk. It rather tickled him that he wasn’t canny enough to really figure out whether his momentary companion was a pretty but flat chested girl, or a far too pretty looking man. “But it’s a kind gesture on your part – to help your cousin out,” he added, before taking a half step closer to the board, so that he then thrust out a calloused finger and jabbed it down on one of the slips of paper. “Barmaid?” His head and eyes turned to take in the enigma’s face fully, front on, his eyebrows rising in question. He jabbed the next one down. “Kitchen boy?” His lips twitched, as he tried to hold back the grin. “I’m guessing either one or the other of those won’t work, for your…cousin.” He shook his head with a gesture of mock disappointment. Then finally he plucked a third notice right off the board and held it – not exactly offering it to the other, but simply holding it with the text facing out, so it could be easily read. “Or…how about this?” A night of pleasures – tips encouraged read the scrawled words. Cosmo finally let the smile grace his lips. It was somewhat wolfish. “Not quite so picky, it would appear. Maid…boy…seems like either might do.” He paused a fraction of a second, before adding, “Oh but you were looking for your cousin, that’s right. As I said – that’s a pity. If you were looking to make a few extra coins for yourself, you might just have seen something that… piqued your interest."

[Amatus]

The smoothly casted line hooked him, yanking the fleshy curvatures of pastel hues into a broadened smirk. The allusion was there, the stares long and seizing. Amatus reveled in it, batted his paw out to swipe for more of the draggled yarn the stranger offered with his playful assistance. This was a game he fancied, an unanticipated delight among the mundane, and the people of Ravok were usually such willing participants. "I suppose it is.” He hummed. “There are scarce affairs that justify wasting time, though the ones that are, are typically the most enjoyable.”

Careful not to give too much, his head tipped sideways, sighing at the view of the interminable timbered panels, now a tedious and lopsided pincushion. His hand clasped about his opposite forearm and ankles twisted about one another. "What a shame." he huffed letting his discernments glaze and lips part ways, the thought of how his schedule could have been farther constructively...wasted, wrestled about in his mind.

A petite note of a laugh chimed as product of the first recommendation offered. Clara was well suited to be a barmaid; she had grown up alongside him in a tavern. Her talents lay elsewhere now, and she preferred to put out of her cognizance that she could become accustomed to living that life once again. 'I'm a lady, Amatus, not an attending mannequin daft enough to live my life chatted and fondled by drunken ruffians.' How very high and mighty of his dear cousin.

The second suggestion was even less suited. He participated in the obvious feign of a search, scrunching his nose and shaking his head along with him. Even so, Amatus pulled the vertebrae of his slim neck straight and let a coy smirk sink into his features as the third option was laid out before him. "A night of pleasures." he recited aloud with no absence of approval. His eyes gradually ascended to the hungry grin that fronted him.

He took a bell or two, circling the brooding caramel that was as eagerly picking apart the apparent riddle he detained, as the young bartender was appreciating the brazen exploration. "You think I qualify for such a vocation?" his lids hooded down the upper plain of his warming vision, a playful seduction of inquisitive brows played over them. "Do I look especially satisfying?" he teased with the bud of a flushed tongue slithering free to dampen the corner of his mouth, quite intentionally, a surreptitious laugh followed behind the shadow of a palm.

"You don't look the type to pay for company." the blonde exaggeratedly diagnosed him from head to toe. "Believe me. I know all varieties and types."

"If you were, however, to amble into this place-" he slipped his agile fingers between the other's shell covered digits and apprehended the slice of paper and let it ebb toward his chest. "On a special night, feeling especially lonely after a long day’s work. How much would you pay for 'a night of pleasures' with someone like me?"

“1 Gold Miza? 5? 100?” his thumb tucked under his palm revolving the rim of his burnished ring about his finger, not truly anticipating an answer, but pulling the strings as he pleased. “It is so much more entertaining when you’ve caught them for free though isn’t it? It’s the conquest, the taming or being tamed that makes it worth it.”

[Cosmo Diaz]

The eyes were amazing, though Cos would wager they weren’t the most valuable asset this creature had to offer – should there ever be any such offer. But they did, literally, speak volumes – a tale of sensuality and malice, promise and payment expected. They were provocative, but with a hard core of practicality – they were…Ravok…at its finest, and lowest. The bottom line was always…the bottom line – what’s in this for me?. It was the anthem of their city, one to which every citizen raised here was bred and molded. He noted that quick, darting pink bud of tongue, but he wasn’t fooled. Only enticed. There was no such thing as a free ride in Ravok, and here was no exception to that principle to which they all lived, and sometimes died. Thus, the sultry, almost teasing tones in which the blonde’s first two questions were offered were met with an exceptionally blunt and unsubtle return gaze from those dark eyes. A wolf would not have looked thus at a lamb – for this creature was far, far removed from that innocent aspect. No, the unveiled want that lay in their dark depths would be more that of the alpha male for the bitch, a look that said clearly that resistance was to be expected, even perhaps desired, but ultimately futile. Though he was ready, and willing, to play the game of pursuit, and vanquish. Cos, greatly enjoying the show thus far, laughed outright. “100 gold mizas? That’s a mighty high price to pay for a pretty girl like you. It’s even high for a pretty boy like you.” He tilted his head a bit, openly running his eyes up and down this intriguing bit of flirtatiousness. That one touch – the delicate hand against his hard and calloused fingers – had left him with no better clue, nor had the voice, or the soft laugh. He was beginning to think that he preferred it this way - not knowing. “I’ve no doubt you are well experienced with all types, as you so aptly put it. You probably know better than most that there are some who are more than willing to pay for what they desire – down to some very specific requests.” He paused, watching those small, graceful and unconscious movements of hands, legs, neck, knowing he surely wasn't the only one to be intrigued by this mystery. “It’s not without it’s own appeal,” he continued, his voice dropping in volume. “The power to know that you can buy what you want.” His eyes came to rest on the slip of paper now held like a marquee in front of the blonde’s chest, and then lifted to those silvery eyes. “Or to take it, without it even being offered.” One heavy eyebrow lifted – was it a threat? Or possibly…a warning? Or perhaps it was simply an observation – one which any resident of this dog eat dog town would clearly understand. He held the blonde’s eyes for a moment before reaching out for the paper. “You’re right. I don’t pay. Not with mizas.” His fingers plucked the paper back and he went to the board again and casually tacked it back up. Turning with the slightest grin playing about his lips, he said, “I guess your cousin is out of luck. Looks like you’ll have to tell her there was nothing of interest here today.”

[Amatus]

Revealed and laid plainly out for his pierced judgments to see as if the drape had bowed and permitted him a screening in the form of the other’s galvanizing gaze. Amatus now knew of to what sort he was speaking to. This man was a discreet predator, claiming prey with well-aimed shots that experience had erected; baits and traps to his aid, made of honey touched words laced with adulteration and a feral examination that pervaded the gut with fire. He speculated in vain whether he had come across as particularly appetizing or it had been the hunt that presented itself especially appealing.

What did that mean of him? Could he have been the formidable serpent winding through the low branches for a sumptuous hiss to whisper sweet nothings of pleasurable intent? This creature lulled from above until the victim paused to unwrap the luring mystery of the vibration, string by string, until a drip of venom trundled from a forked tongue and soaked into the supple bed of waiting lips. The youth had played this role under the coaxing of generous payment, either in gold rimmed coin or the satisfaction that only ill contempt could breed from tainted intent borne through a selfishly reckless disposition despite a contrived rearing.

As every conversation of any value, their words only clouded the proper message of their exchange. He listened, the dance of their movements keeping them at arm’s length. An incisive slice of a grin carved his appreciation at his statements. This man was enjoying himself, assuming nothing and sanctioning them to merely be as they were: ambiguous acquaintances. Did he expect to extract the answer for himself? “Perhaps 100 gold mizas is a bit ambitious. Though I have come to understand a bedded desire buds into a necessity, and need stirs even the soundest of men to great lengths in their pursuits.” He chuckled upon the surface of his avowal despite its message, because he knew the other man would understand.

Contributing no verbal response, Amatus held his stare, the defiance glazed in a dare for him to reach out and try it. He suffered the throb of his pulse and a chill that pressed into his throat and brought him to life. A necklet, beneath the embrace of a gold chain that hung beneath his shirt, an ornamentation made of the pallid smile of a faded scar about the base of his breakable neck was the souvenir from a peak of this sensation: his fate seized in another’s hold and the adrenaline so consoling he allowed himself to impel farther and drown in it. The reach for the parcel of paper had him suspicious of those large hardened hands and his lids pinched ever so faintly to stable the hitch of his breath.

The crunch of the pin delving through the fractured wood broke his stare. Flaxen hair was driven back through the rivets of his spread digits. “Just as well, she should be doing this on her own. I had not intended to spend my day at her expense.” Some irritation spun into his voice, likely as much from the thought of Clara as was the imageries strewn through his awareness despite the pacified rhythm his heart had taken.

“Do you have plans?” he at last enquired when the air had allayed beneath his nostrils. Silver rings still cohered to the planks of timber and absent from the consuming auburn watch. “Today is something of a significant date to me and seeing as much of my time is consumed by work I made no real preparations.” It was partially correct, though Clara had made plans to purchase him a meal this evening. It was not exactly the kind of amusement he was hoping for when something so tempting dropped into his lap.

“Buy me a drink?”

[Cosmo Diaz]

Cos noted the subtle yet definite flinch, as he reached for the scrap of paper, and he knew, this one had seen and lived a life of risk. She, or he, had that guarded, wary edge behind the smolder of superficial allure. But in this, the blonde was not so very unlike most of the inhabitants of this part of the floating city. The Docks were a rough place, and if the blonde worked somewhere close by, he or she must have a very good instinct for both danger and self-preservation. The caress of long, thin fingers through those silken locks was another sign of alertness, and a gathering of thoughts. Cos figured the blonde wasn’t quite done with this little dance, just as he himself was far from being through, if he had anything to say about it –which, he meant to have. So he didn’t immediately turn away, but stood watching the other, not caring if he looked like he was waiting for something. This wasn’t really a subtle game. Oh the language was such that one needed to be skilled at saying things with tone and eyebrows and the shifting of weight. But the message, in the end, would be a foregone conclusion. The only real variable was the price – and Cos had not been lying or coy when he had said – he didn’t pay in coin. At the suggestion – or was it a request – maybe it was a command – Cos merely nodded, once, and then gestured with a turn of his head, to the empty tables, a small smirk on his lips but his eyes dark and not without their own wariness, though it was not for his physical well being that he might have been taking caution. “I’m all yours,” he said lightly, waiting for the other to choose a seat amongst all the many available. “Body, soul and purse. Drinks, I’ll pay for.” He himself took a seat, once the selection was made, choosing the one directly next to the blonde as opposed to across from. When next he spoke, he did not turn and stare right into that pretty face, but he leaned in a bit, and asked casually, “So, what’s the occasion? Let me guess….wedding anniversary? Or... are you a grieving widow?” One eyebrow lifted at what he found to be humorous about his suggestion, but as it was the one on the far side from the blonde, it might not have been noted. "If so, then my condolences - though I'll warrant he died with a smile on his lips..."

[Amatus]

The seat of the chair was dilapidated, polished of its splintered notches and varnished from generous ware. The endless stretch of limber thighs spread over one another in the sanction of the seat and an elbow rested upon the bridge of the table’s surface to cradle his crown in the direction of his forfeiting bachelor.

The brazen of this man had yet to cease as he had seated himself next to and not across from the blonde. If actions spoke louder than words, than every action he made painted the vibrant adroit portrait of his intent and that it stemmed far from any conversing in Common tongue. He could not help but appreciate it. A whittled smirk gleamed with the snippets of white rimmed tines, aching to bruise.

The hush of breath swept against his cheek as he was tended into, charmed upon. He turned from the sensation, appreciating the singes of tobacco cinders blotting the gnarled table, despite the shudder that tingled across his collar and adjacent to his sides. The young bartender’s face emulated partisan indifference; the pastel filaments of gold were drawn along his shoulder and pirouetted against his cheek with each thorn of punctuation in respire and left his tongue skimming the ridges of the roof of his mouth to satiate a want.

With a quick elevation of a loose paw he knew they would be waited upon quickly, he had noticed the bar staff eaves dropping since their banter had begun. They pasted to his companion with a surveillance he was now refusing him for there was no negating the sight they were beholding. Though the boy would wrinkle his nose and shy away, he refused to make anything easy, when all the pleasure was had in dragging it out.

“Quite aggrieved,” he encouraged, his chin resting in the upturned clutch of his palm and tipping on the well-oiled axis of his slender cervix toward the other. “Though I find some comfort that it was not such a terrible fate: to die in the throes of…” a fashioned arc of gold curved up over the playfully lidded steely dew ponds as if he had taken some time to envisage the appropriate terminology, “Fervency.”

A maid sojourned at his side patient for the end of his sentence in a rather irksome bemusement, all plumped breasts mounting over her décolletage of her body-hugging fit to her cheaply knit dress, like the yeast had taken hold of fresh baked bread, and the tightly pulled corset left her noticeable exasperated by the hindrance in the hum of her breath looming over him. The blonde straightened in his seat and eyed her in one swift motion with a tilt of his head, a regard that wrenched a deep red tint to the apples of her cheeks.

“Two ales.” He ordered for the both of them, addressing her with a smaller amount of interest than a house cat flouncing across a stranger’s lap. It was expected to grow weary of the same visualization of bar maid after flustered bar maid. The miss cast a wary look toward the fisherman as if supposing him to add to the instruction or to at least acknowledge her in a tone less final, or substandard. “That’s all dear.” He finished tolerating her sight as it wandered back to him with a disconcertion excavating a sense of insecurity.

“Yes sir.” Somehow the flurry had dispelled her, keeping a watchful eye upon the apathetic patron, as if she had only just noticed some appeal in his harsh shrug off, or the way his features were smoothed into salubrious planes rounded by the rising sun. She made her way to the bar, order in mind, and an upsurge of blather inflaming behind them.

There was no offered apology for placing an order for the two of them. He did not find one necessary. Once she had scurried off, he directed his attention back where it had never truly left, but kept his sight from straying too far from the table. “It is my birthday.” He at last confessed with a snag of a chuckle, snaking a finger in the whorl of a helix cut of wood that may have been misguided as a shy gesture if he had seemed the kind to function that manner. That may have been the beauty of it, it may have been truly honest, but it would be difficult to trust noting the method of his usually presentation. “Ill-fated I have no suitor that treasures me worth 100gm, though I suppose I could transiently settle.” The grin broadened and melted away as he turned to seize the other’s eyesight, all-pervading.