Open [Job thread] Brega's Bagnio Braggart

[Remaello]

. Fourteenth Day of Winter, 513 AV Remaello lounged upon the edge of the dresser, his pupil-less eyes devouring the girl even as his tongue dripped with honeyed words of adoration and flattery. Oliphia was dressed in a wispy gown of fine rose-colored silk. The fabric molded itself to the curves of her ripe body before blossoming into a full, ruffled skirt. The neckline was low cut, plunging just above her navel and revealing her creamy white skin beneath. The bodice of the gown was decorated with white embroidery, the sleeves edged in delicate white lace. Her long, honey-colored hair was held back by a rose and white striped ribbon and around her neck was a simple copper band. All in all, the outfit probably cost her a week’s wages; a worthwhile investment, however, for Oliphia’s clientele appreciated her elegant taste as much as her inviting skills and luscious body. On this particular evening, however, she was mired in a deep sulk, unmoved even by the little Pycon’s effusive bouquet of flattery. Brega’s was busy, near full-up, and Oliphia had been passed over by every man that entered, all of them opting for the younger girls in their near-transparent dresses or tartish two-piece costumes of beaten copper. It was nearing the midnight bell. And so the older girl, who in truth was not many seasons past twenty herself, scowled in a self-pitying huff as she peered out the window into the rainy-streets. Sure, her nose was a little on the largish side, and her teeth were anything but straight, but was her body not inviting? Was her dress not beautiful. Remaello had been nearly worn to exhaustion saying as much for most of the evening, but that was not paying her wages to Brega, or buying her new gowns. The tinkling of a silver bell announced the entry of a new patron. The man was short-statured, of middling age, dressed in red leather breeches and a leather tunic, a soaking wet cloak and mantle swept over his shoulders. He had the look of a merchantman, though Remaello did not recognize the man, and did not know him to be a local or a traveler, newly arrived. He looked around the gaudily-decorated foyer, taking the place in, and then his gaze fell upon Oliphia, admiring her voluptuous body, but upon staring at her face, he frowned. Seeing no other girls available, he turned to leave, when a voice leaped up at him from what he had thought to be part of the brothel’s baroque adornment. “Why, good sir, do you not see the rich goddess of sensualities that stands before you? Are your eyes blinded by the rainfall? You are truly a fool if you choose the cold streets of Sunberth over a warm featherbed with Oliphia, whom they call a tigress of passion!” The man started at the Pycon’s words, the sight of the little man enough of a curiosity to keep him from departing just yet. Remaello jumped down to the floor and swaggered over to where the potential customer stood. He beckoned the man closer, whispering into his ear, though loud enough for the girl to hear. “No doubt, goodman, you will be amply rewarded for your discerning tastes. She is no alley-cat, this one, a fresh flower is Oliphia, a spring bud that has only just come to blossom. She came to us from a once-noble family in Zeltiva, where she was cloistered in her family's estate. I assure you, her innocence and inexperience are most genuine. But do not worry, she is a handsome feast for those with a lustful appetite, I guarantee, she will leave your desires more than satiated...” The man looked back over the girl, then back to the little statuette, nodding, apparently the Pycon's lies had hit the right target. Besides, it was awfully wet out that night, and the more he looked, the more he liked. With a lusty grin, he swept off his cloak, tossing it at the silver-tongued Pycon, and grasped for the blushing girl, before sweeping her up and charging up the stairways. Remaello was left alone in the foyer, his please for aid muffled beneath the sopping wet canvas cloak.

[Remaello]

. Mid-afternoon, Sixteenth Day of Winter, 513 AV Upstairs in one of the bedrooms, there was some sort of hubbub, sounds of a girl crying, a man swearing, and a cacophony of chatter. Remaello wove his way through the knees and ankles of a gathered crowd of Brega’s girls and peeked round the doorway to have a look for himself. Inside, the room was simple enough; a plain feather mattress with white linen sheets, copper washbasin and mirror of polished tin. Red tapestries, with golden embroidery depicting nude amazons hunting lions hung from the walls. There was a large window, looking out onto the streetway below, and the glass had been broken, the winter chill wafting through the curtains and droplets of rainwater pooling on sill. One of Brega’s girls, a petite, waifish thing called Pixi, was seated on the bed, sobbing. When she lifted her face from her hands, Remaello gasped at the bruises and cuts lashed across her delicate little face. Someone had beaten her badly, and rage swelled in the little Pycon’s heart. To savagely attack something so beautiful was an affront to his nature; Remaello couldn’t abide iconoclasts. Moreover, Pixi was barely a hundred pounds, such viciousness was the epitome of cowardice. His fists unconsciously grew in size, his knuckles becoming pointed studs as his face twisted into a snarl. Brega sat next to the girl, dabbing a cut with a washcloth, trying her best to calm the girl down and console her, while one of the bouncers, a beast of a man Remaello was quite afraid of, stared out the window, his face a picture of fury. “I begged 'im ter stop, miss Brega, I swear I did. but 'e just kept beat'n on me. I didn’t did nowt ter him, and then when Brock came runn'n in, the bastard ripped me silver locket rite from me throat and jumped rite out de window. Me momma gave me dat locket!” The girl collapsed into Brega’s lap, sobbing uncontrollably, as the madame tried her best to soothe her. “Shh, shh, it’ll be alright girl, we will take care of you. Don’t you worry.” Presently one of the other girls elbowed into the room with a glass of brandywine. Brega took the goblet and held it to poor Pixi’s lips. Remaello began forming a plan of action. His eyes darted around the room, there were no wisps of cloth on the broken glass, nor any sign the assailant had left anything behind. He looked over the window again, as the rain fell, and then his eyes widened, leaping to the wooden floor of the bedchamber. There were two sets of wet bootprints on the creaky floorboards. One was clearly Big Brock’s the bouncer’s: hobnailed boots of the kind soldier’s often favour. The other set was different indeed. Rem was no tracker, but he knew a little about boots and such, given his mother's profession. The Pycon could deduce only that they were heavy boots, the heels were well-worn, and the soles were rugged and gripped. As no one was paying him any particular attention, the little Pycon wandered into the room, and stooped over one of the best specimens. Mud, from the streets to be sure, but also sand, and flecks of something white. His hand brushed the dirt aside, picking up what looked like a piece of porcelain…no, shell. The man had been in the harbour recently. Sailor’s didn't wear heavy boots. Dockworkers, however, often did. Remaello turned on his heel and marched out of the room, down the stairs, and out into the streets, marching towards Baroque Bay.

[Remaello]

. Twenty-first Day of Winter, 513 AV Remaello nearly retched at the stench. Reddish-yellow vapours curled up from the cast-iron pot as it bubbled away atop the stove, its contents a putrid admixture of various herbs and sugars and the principle smelling culprit, boiled black puccoon root. According to Brega, when properly prepared, it was both a potent contraceptive and it’s reduction was a cleansing anti-venereal treacle. And so Remaello stirred the viscous mixture with a wooden ladle while the foul vapours wove about his little clay frame and danced below the ceiling. This was not particularly what the Pycon had had in mind when he burst into the House of Happy Endings requesting employment. He had more rather expected much more pleasant tasks, primarily involving bathing the many beauties that aboded in the bawdy house, perhaps attending to other special requests from high-class female patrons. Grumbling under his breath, he scanned the shelves for the additional ingredient Brega had asked him to add once the treacle began to settle. It was difficult, however, to listen to what the woman was saying when her very presence radiated unbridled desire and lustful dreams in the little Pycon, and so he hadn’t really paid any attention. It was green, he thought, or maybe white. Shrugging, he grabbed several sprigs of a leafy plant and walked back towards the pot. Brega intercepted him just as he was about to toss the leaves into the stew. “No you little fool, that’s Halbriar! That’s the last thing we want! We use it in the incense burners in the foyer to make the patron’s eyes fill with lust, but we’re looking to decrease fertility chances. Here.” The divine woman tossed in a handful of white petals, before smacking her finger upon Remaello’s rump and leaving him to finish stirring. When the mixture cooled, it held the consistency of molasses, and did not smell nearly so terrible. It was a sort of ruddy-yellow colour, cool and soothing to the touch, and was an essential ingredient in running a productive and happy brothel. The Pycon lugged the kettle from room to room, re-filling little clay pots in each for the ladies to use.