A Night to Remember

[Amael]

55th Day of Winter, 513 AV

Brega’s House of Happy Endings was impossible to miss. Just beyond the city gates (if you could call them that) stood a three-story building that was constantly patrolled by scantily-clad, pleasure-promising men and women, making coin by luring in the desperate and the unsuspecting. Of course, Amael was neither, but she had a different end in mind, one where she’d be orchestrating the death and mutilation of another being. And while under normal circumstances, she was relatively tenderhearted, the Isur was set upon her task with grim determination, if only to avenge the women whose lives he’d stolen.

As per usual, she moved at night, veiled by her heavy cloak and the inky darkness, moonlight spilling across the cobblestone street. The last thing she wanted was to be seen. They had to do the job with finesse, leaving no one trail to follow. Of course, she knew Noven would have a better idea of just how to do that. She left those things entirely up to him.

Thinking of the young mercenary brought a giddy smile to her face. Working with him brought her joy, though she couldn’t really explain why. Naïve to the relationships between men and women, she hadn’t attributed much thought to why she reacted as she did. She wasn’t really in a position to question it much, after all. She was just a contractor, a business associate.

But still. He was a spot of eye candy if she’d ever seen one. With a grin, she approached the preordained meeting spot, where he was sure to be. The woman fingered her pack from beneath the cloak, mentally taking inventory of the items necessary for the task at hand. Chalk, a small metal saw and her toolkit would be all that she would hypothetically need, were things to go smoothly.

Not that they ever did. But such was life.

She lingered at the spot for a moment, eyes filtering the blackness, searching for the man she worked for. It didn’t take long to find him either, just a few feet away. She had to be careful not to surprise him; Noven seemed the sort to pummel first and ask questions after.

”Hey,” she called softly, low enough for him to hear. ”It’s me.”

[Noven]

Leaning against the shadowed walls of Brega's lucrative establishment, the dark haired mercenary watched as people passed him by with mild interest. Some strolled, some stumbled, and still others ran, though for amusement or necessity he couldn't be sure. Every once in a while, the wall behind him thrummed with impact, followed by moans and throaty laughter.

Where was that red headed Isur?

He heard her before he saw her. Amael's soft whisper followed her even softer footsteps, though she kept a distance as she approached. "Hey, it's me."

At the sight of the gadgeteer, bundled as she was beneath her cloak, Nov's nerves suffered an involuntary, spastic twitch that had nothing to do with surprise. Veiling herself was useful for night time misadventures out on the streets of Sunberth, but it did little to bog down the merc's memory. Gods above, how he sometimes wished beautiful women weren't so petching distracting in times of risky schemes.

He turned to face her in acknowledgement, expression somber with just a ghost of amusement. "Let's go."

As Nov led the way to the entrance, he mulled over their plan one more time. It wasn't the best and rife with chances for things to go wrong; they hadn't had the time to come up with anything more elaborate. This was a hair short of crazy, but they had no other options in dealing with their two, biggest obstacles.

The first being that Brega was as shrewd as she was reportedly divine in the sack. The mistress of Happy Endings was soft hearted, but not stupid. She had long since ensured there were no easy ways for potential customers to evade paying their fair dues. Thugs guarded every known entrance to the building, and spies of all varieties kept a sharp eye on most of the lesser known ones. If this was a one time deal, he could have muscled their way in with ease. But, it was not. They needed to return, and Nov relied on Brega's tolerance of him to continue gleaning bits information from her staff and taking the occasional opportunity to dispose of yet another Daggerhand rat.

The second, that Nov had something of a reputation at the brothel. He turned down more whores than he actually ever bedded, including Brega herself, though more for reasons of business than pleasure, and maintained no more than one or two favorites at a time. He didn't necessarily petch his so called favorites either every time he came a calling, but that didn't matter to those who had ambition. The ones who weren't already neck deep in Daggerhands and itching to dig up dirt on him for extra coin seemed to have turned his ornery behavior into something of a competition.

He was surly, he was obstinate, and his continued indifference to the great majority of Happy Endings spurred on their determination almost as fiercely as gold did. Well, Nov figured, if one's entire life consisted of sex, sex, and more sex, he supposed it wasn't strange that one would want to be known as the best. And, what better way to prove that than to petch the petcher who refused to petch even the most sought after whore in Sunberth?

He was a bit of a sore spot for Brega, and her inferiors leaped at the chance to capitalize on it.

Normally, this wasn't much of an issue. Sometimes their antics grew irritating or tiresome, but they knew better than to incite his wrath. Gavin was likely some frozen, crooked nosed corpse out there on the cold streets right now and Evy barely overcoming her hysterics. No, the problem wasn't them, or even him.

The problem was Mae.

As they entered the warmth and raucous noise of the establishment, Nov shouldered past the small army of thugs without so much as an obligatory hello. He balked a little, however, when the pair was greeted by none other than the Mistress herself. Not good. She had an infallible memory, and Amael would be scrutinized, memorized, and categorized within an instant. Their only hope was to make this fast, before the others caught wind.

"Well, well, well," Brega addressed with a slow turn and smile, her every movement a paragon of sensuality and grace. "What do we have here? Is that a woman other than one of my own I see you with, my dearest Nov?"

Petch. He had no choice now but to go with the unexpected. If they could distract her long enough for another customer to appear, they were home free.

Nov grinned in mock surprise. Then he took a step toward her, close enough to smell her subtle, signature perfume. "And why does a goddess like yourself need to know?" the merc murmured against her ear in a rare display of flirtation. Experienced as she may be, Brega was still human, and his unanticipated compliment and proximity threw her off guard, even if just for a moment.

"I'm feeling daring tonight," he said with a shrug, not giving her time to recuperate."Won a big fight at the pits a few nights ago. Thought it high time I celebrated in earnest, instead of lying there on a whore's lap like some pitiful, wounded dog."

The merc jerked his chin in Mae's direction. "And this one's to make up for lost time, on top of Isme. Literally. We'll pay double, 'o course, since we're both customers. No objections to that, I take it?"

Brega narrowed her eyes at him as a devious smile stretched across her ruby lips. A hint of hunger was growing in her gaze. "Ohh," she moaned, "no objections whatsoever. Only, perhaps, that you have once again spurned me for another. What makes me so unappealing that you must run to nameless little strangers instead? You know I'm worth more than this whole city combined..."

The Queen of Whores leaned in, her scent and flesh now borderline intoxicating. It was her turn to play the game now. And she had been waiting so, so long for this opportunity. He was in such a fine mood, ripe for the picking. It would be a shame not to pull out the thorn in her side and break his will right then and there.

"...or," she suggested huskily, one elegant, pale hand trailing down the front of his chest, "is it because you know if you have me, you'll never want anyone or anything else?"

Something wasn't right. He wasn't drunk, exhausted, or angry, yet it felt harder than ever to resist her. His mind was growing far too complacent, and her words seemed to be softly murdering every single one of his fears and objections. The plan, he tried to focus. Daggerhands. Traps. Amael...

And then, like the sky after a storm, his mind cleared. A group of rowdy Daggerhands had sauntered in, reeking of ale and lust. Brega had enough time only to spare him a single, disappointed glance before she was summoned to greet the obnoxious newcomers. Feeling every muscle in his body shake with relief, Nov turned to Amael with a look that all but said, that was petching close.

"Time to go," he muttered, then guided her up the stairs to Isme's room with one hand at her elbow. It was important to stay close on a busy night such as this. If they became separated incited trouble prematurely, their plans would be shot.

Or, at least, that was what he told himself.

[Amael]

She fell into stride just a step behind him. It was essential they get in and get out as quickly as possible. Of course, she knew in the back of her mind that somewhere upon this little misadventure, she’d be implicated, irreversibly tied to Noven in the minds of all that saw them together. It was almost inevitable. She was an outsider, an Isur and nowhere near as common as say, a local like Jillene. No, she had a (regrettably) notable face, at least by comparison to the regular crowd. Which of course, would almost certainly get her into trouble.

Amael would be taking her first step into his world. His was a life that had been, up until the moment he fell in her window, so very far removed from her own. Hers was of tinkering, of gravity and clockwork gears, each day consumed by a thirst to create. Alone in that vaccum, she had been detached from the lawless city, in no way tied there. But walking at his side, she found a light heart beating in her breast. There wasn’t another person she could think of that she’d rather get into trouble with. If she wished to be tied, let her be tied to him.

Having acknowledged that, she resolved to have courage in what was to come, the very same of which was promptly tested the minute they stepped through the door. There they stood, face to face with none other than Brega - the Goddess herself. Panic churned in her gut for a moment and stunned, she dropped her gaze. Noven was doing something. Wait - what was he doing? Weakly, she glanced back up to see him take a calculated step forward. Was he flirting with her?

Oh, for the love of Izurdin. He was flirting with her.

Mae mumbled a hasty prayer under her breath, too low to be audible. Her eyes trailed patterns in the floor, so as to not give anyone a ready view of her face. Not that the damage hadn’t already been done. Brega had already gotten an eyeful. No, she simply couldn’t bear to look at this. The way he whispered just beyond the curve of her ear… It left her feeling ill.

But why? Why couldn’t she bear to look? The Isur tried, casting a brave glance back up at the exchange. The Goddess made an offer. He hesitated to refuse. The tension was thick for a moment, only cleared by the timely appearance of a bunch of Daggerhands.

Well, kismet did happen from time to time.

At the sight of him, she gazed back ruefully, eyes stricken with sadness for just a tick as they continued onward. It was just the flash of a look, really, but enough for Noven to get the gist. Petch, why couldn’t she just keep her feelings at bay? The God of Patience had taught her better than that.

Back to the task at hand, and not a moment too soon. The tension ebbed from her just knowing he was close. As for the mission, they were out of danger… For that moment, at the very least.

Gods knew they’d be back into it in less than a chime.

[Noven]

A laughing couple bowled past them halfway up the stairs, forcing mercenary and gadgeteer to huddle against the railings as sweaty, musky flesh squeezed by. Nov glared after them, instinctively using himself to shield Amael from the brunt of the contact, disdainful as ever of crowds. He was counting the ticks till they got to Isme's room and shut out most of the noise, smells, and bodies.

His spite faded easily enough, however, once he became aware of the softness pressed against him. Nov lingered for a tick longer than necessary, then took a step back and continued climbing. He didn't reach for her elbow again since people kept clambering up an down the stairs beside them, though the merc did glance back often to make sure she was still behind him. And, each time he did, he was reminded of the sadness in her eyes as soon as Brega had left.

Theories piled on top one another in his head as they made slow progress up to the second floor. What on Miz could have brought about that sorrowful look? Had he done something wrong? Was the bordello offending her tastes? Did Brega do something over his shoulder when he had been distracted?

Brega...

Revelation slammed against his senses. Nov halted without warning, likely causing the Isur to bump right into him. He didn't feel anything, though, as his mind reeled first with realization, and then with rage.

The whore had used her magic on him.

That explained everything. His compliance, his weakenss, her suddenly over whelming power. Petching hell, how did he not notice before? She must have masked her intentions, weaving suggestions so subtle he couldn't have traced them back to her at the time. If it hadn't been for that doleful look in Amael's eyes, he wouldn't have even stopped to question it. The bloody whore probably tinkered with his doubt as well, soothing it away until he dismissed it as nothing more than a coincidence.

"She's going to pay," he growled under his breath.

Nov turned to face the woman behind him. "If you ever meet Brega again, do not trust her under any circumstances," he warned in hushed tones, mindful of prying ears. "I don't know what kind of black magic she uses to do it, but it's the real source of her power. Playing with your emotions, your thoughts. It's a battle of wills, and I almost lost tonight. I'll have to be more careful next time. Don't let her charades of charity fool you."

To no one in particular, the mercenary turned back around and muttered, "Can't trust whores."

Brega had, once upon a time, promised never to use her tricks on him again on pain of...well, pain. She broke her word that night. Krysus smite him if he was going to let her get away with it.

When they finally reached Isme's room, Nov knocked three times against the door. It swung open moments later to reveal a lithe, dark eyed woman with waves of glossy, black hair and skin the color of rare, expensive coffee. "Noven!" she beamed, her smile reaching all the way to her almond shaped eyes. "What a lovely surprise. And you brought a friend, too, I see."

Isme peered around him, her gaze widening and smile growing wicked. "A gorgeous friend. Mm, I've always had a thing for red heads." She folded her arms and raised a single, finely shaped eyebrow at the mercenary. "My, my. Does this mean you're actually going to take off your pants this time, instead of lying around on my bed, moaning about how many boo boo's you have?"

Nov gave her a sheepish grin and shrugged. "You'll just have to find out, won't you?"

He stepped across the threshold into her small but lavish room. The bed was neatly made, the air free of the telltale musk of her profession. Good. She had done as he'd asked, then, and kept herself free all night for this little scheme of theirs.

Nov was just about to invite the Isur in when the sound of heavy boots thudded down the hall. It stopped for a moment before a slick, overly-honied voiced called out, "Well, hello there. Now, what's a fine, ripe little tomato like yourself doing out here all alone?"

For fuck's sake, they hadn't even begun and they'd already run into the two worst possible people in Happy Endings. Brega, Queen of Whores, and now Torgen the Torturer himself. Nov ground his teeth as the Daggerhand chuckled in what some might consider a seductive manner. If he tried anything...

...wait. Actually.

In a spur of the moment, the merc nudged Isme forward. "Get out there," he hissed. "Entice him. Make Mae look like a regular."

The whore didn't even bat an eyelash. She sauntered out of the room and wrapped one arm sensually around Amael's shoulders. "She's not alone," Isme retorted in the sauciest tone she could muster. "She's with me, and we're just about to get started. So, if you don't mind..."

With another flash of a devilish smile, Isme planted a single, soft kiss against the Isur's cheek and began pulling her into the room.

"Hey, hold on a tick ladies," Torgen called out. Nov cursed under his breath. If the Daggerhand grew too interested too soon, they were done for. "Mind if I join in? You two look like you know how to have a good time."

One would think, with a reputation like his, Torgen ought to be crass, frightening, or at least horribly disfigured. But he wasn't. Instead, the Daggerhand was as handsome and charming as they come, with clear, grey eyes, rich, brown locks, and a smile to die for. Quite literally, in fact. Oh, and that silver tongue of his, too. Nov made a mental note to carve it out of his mouth when this was all over, as an added flourish that may or may not impress the Hound.

The merc watched in worried silence as Isme stared down Torgen, her face a smooth facade of calm as her mind whirled to find a solution. One of them was going to have to say something soon, or risk losing their chances for good.

[Amael]

Her eyes were heated for a few ticks as the two of them stood pinned against the railing. The raucous laughter that traveled past them seemed strangely far away, all of the sudden. Her nostrils flared, picking up a generous amount of his essence, fractions of an inch away from the exposed flesh of his neck. Of all the places, she was pressed up against him in a whorehouse. Oh the irony. But the moment inevitably passed, as moments were wont to do and Amael was freed from the broad shield of his back, though he did still continue to cast lingering glances in her direction. The gadgeteer couldn’t help it; she grinned in reply.

Of course, then he stopped. Mid-stride. ”Eee!” She squealed, bouncing off his halted form. If it weren’t for the railing, she would’ve gone rolling back down the stairs, too. Noven wore a serious expression as he turned. It was as if he'd had an epiphany. Wait, Brega had used magic on him? The woman raised both eyebrows. ”That sounds like hypnotism,” she replied in a muted voice, having learned a least a nominal amount about it in her travels. Well, that spelled trouble. No wonder everyone said she was the best.

She couldn’t be more thankful when they finally found Isme. She even had the grace to blush at her compliment. No one had ever called her gorgeous before. Amael wasn’t about to forget it, either, even if it had come from a prostitute. She smiled earnestly in response, admiring the rich teak color of Isme’s skin. Skin like that only existed outside the Kingdom; the Isur simply didn’t have it.

Amael froze at the sound of the footsteps, turning a bewildered gaze to meet Torgen’s. She didn’t know who he was, but she knew that his very presence spelled trouble. She cooed at Isme's show of affection, giggling at the other woman in a way only lovers did. But of course, it left the man unsatisfied. If anything, all it did was bury them deeper into trouble. Amael’s brain struggled for something, anything to say.

”Esil’a,” she shot hastily, turning to Isme with wide, almost frightened eyes. ”Resif eratas telatra enu mo?” Unable to think of a single other thing to do, she pretended to be foreign. That would be enough to potentially put him off. Continuing to babble in fluent Isur, the woman clung desperate to the whore’s side, wrapping both arms around her as a child would with their Mother.

”Iol’astra? Yustra telana yui?” She cast a glance at their room, locking eyes with Noven afar. It was near impossible not to laugh, but somehow, she managed to keep a straight face. Clearly, she was completely unaware of the gravity of their situation. ”Tell him to go away,” she continued in the mellifluous language. Of course, they couldn’t possibly even hope to understand her. ”I don’t know who he is. I only like women!”

Oh, if only her Mother could see her then.

At a certain point, she ceased babbling and hid her face in Isme’s breasts, as if she were too scared to turn and face him. That’d have to do. She just hoped it’d given the other woman something to work with. After all, what was more unappealing than a frantic, foreign, monolingual Isur?

[Noven]

When Amael's eyes met his, her expression deadly serious, the mercenary had to turn away and shield himself behind the door.

Noven's shoulders shook with laughter. He had his face buried in one hand, the other holding onto the bedpost for dear life. Gods above, that was just about the last tactic he had expected Mae to employ. Glare Torgen down or flee, maybe, but babbling and blushing like some foreign virgin? Krysus. He couldn't even remember the last time he had laughed this hard, except maybe when Eleaz was wearing a ball gown and sporting ribbons in his hair. His stomach hurt, his chest wheezed, and his vision blurred with tears.

Isme seemed to be faring no better, though she kept it together long enough to say, "Sorry, my client is a little shy. Maybe next time?"

"I like the shy ones," Torgen purred, not missing a beat.

This was enough to cut Nov's mirth short. Particularly when the Daggerhamd commenced taking slow, confident steps forward. "And I'm not a very patient sort of person, either. I can pay double the amount you get for the whole night. Both of you. Wudya say?"

Isme visibly hesitated, much to Nov's dismay. He couldn't blame her; that was enough gold to make even him reconsider. Bloody, petching hell. He needed to do something. Fast. Before their cover was blown to oblivion. Any sign of alarm on Torgen's end and they would lose all hope of catching him off guard. It was now or never. No turning back.

"WAASS TAKIN' SO LONG?!" the merc bellowed, slamming a fist against the wall. Isme jumped, Torgen halted mid step, and even the folks next door yelped in surprise. Nov feigned a drunken slur, the slummiest accent he could manage, and sounds of mad stumbling and cursing about the room. "I AIN'T GOT ALL NIGHT WOMAN!!"

"A troublesome customer, I take i--"

"ME COCK 'S READY," Nov screamed and pounded the wall a few more times, inciting more fits of giggles from their neighbors and effectively silencing Torgen's sly attempt at appearing chivalrous. "COME 'N GET IT LADIESS!"

The Daggerhand cleared his throat. "Say the word, my beauties, and I'll take care of this ugly drunk of an oaf. No questions asked."

Fuck you, Torgen. If he could have bashed the little shyke head's face in right then and there, he would have. Instead, Nov threw down his coat, kicked off his boots, and stripped off his pants. Standing in naught but his shirt and unders, he sent his trousers flying out the door, straight into the faces of the two women. "GET. IN. HERE. NOW!!"

With an apologetic burst of laughter, Isme shrugged at Torgen and ushered the Isur into the room. Before she shut the door, the whore poked her head out and whispered, "Come back tomorrow. We'll be here. Alone." She gave a surreptitious wink, then locked the latch behind her. Isme sagged with relief before tossing Nov's pants back in his face. "You're petching crazy, you know that?" she hissed.

The merc yanked down the clothing to reveal a toothy grin. "You can thank me later," he hissed back. He was still modestly covered, but didn't hesitate hopping back into his pants before planting both hands on the bed frame and rocking it back and forth wildly.

"UNGGH. PETCH, YEAH. THASS MORE LIKE IT!"

He raised an eyebrow at the two women and jerked his chin towards the door. By the continued silence on the other side, it was safe to assume Torgen hadn't left. They would need to convince him not only to leave immediately, but to come back tomorrow hungry enough for a taste of his own.

Nov beckoned Isme over. The whore's dark gaze glittered as she approached with a sway of her hips, only to yelp in genuine surprise as he slapped her across the rear. The sound was ridiculously loud. He shook the bed faster. Isme's grin widened.

"Ohh, yess!" the courtesan moaned, bouncing around on the bed and clawing at the walls. "Harder! Nnngghh...Oh, oh! YES! Just like that! Awwww godddsss..."

Nov groaned with her between silent fits of laughter. It wasn't long before Isme grabbed Mae by the hand and yanked her down onto the vibrating bed. Growling like an animal, the whore planted several sloppy, convincing sounding kisses on the Isur's cheeks before announcing, "Mmmm, you're so beautiful naked. Ooohh, that body...NO, don't stop, faster! Give it to me hard!"

Isme gave Nov a reproachful look, as he had almost all but ceased the exhausting charade, his mind caught up in memories of an open window and scantily clad Isur...

"Shut up, whore," he snapped and gave the bed a flurry of furious shakes, eliciting another moan of exaggerated pleasure from Isme.

The two looked at Amal expectingly. She was the selling point, after all, and she was going to have to be damned convincing for Torgen to come back.

oocone of these days, someone is going to torture me with this thread.

[Amael]

Had it worked? The woman froze, half-buried in Isme’s breasts. But alas, Torgen only continued his aggressive advance, offering them both double for an entire night. She felt the color drain from her cheeks. What on Mizahar were they supposed to do? Noven was already in the bedroom – if he were to reveal himself, their cover was blown!

"WAASS TAKIN' SO LONG?!"

Amael nearly jumped out of her own skin. But soon after, the sound of Noven’s bellowing had her promptly in stitches. She had to keep her face hidden in the woman’s breasts, simply trying not to laugh. With any luck, her shaking shoulders would look more akin to fear than joy. But she just couldn’t help it; this had to be the single funniest moment of her entire life. Mae held onto the whore as best she could, especially as the pair of trousers flew out through the doorway. That was about all she could take. Mercifully, the woman pulled them both into the room, making sure to set the bait before she quickly shut the door.

The minute she made it in, Amael doubled over in silent hysteria. Noven was already violently rocking the bed, rattling the walls. Even the neighbors were amused, blind to the madman that stood out in the hallway. It was obvious enough to anyone that he continued to hover outside. Therefore it made perfect sense when Nov had Isme join in on the fun, calling her over only to land a stinging slap across her backside.

Mae could not stop. Especially as Isme hauled her onto the bed, liberally planting kisses all over her face. The Isur writhed and giggled, pausing only to notice that Noven had ceased his silly groaning. There was a dark look in his eyes, the kind that drained the power from her legs for just a tick, before he continued rocking the bed.

Two sets of eyes glanced to her and then to the door. She took that as her cue. ”OH!” The Isur shouted, tossing her crimson mane. “NAL’IS! NAL’IS!” She was nearly incapacitated with laughter. ”ISME, NA’LISIL!” It was getting harder to breathe. She hoped that somewhere amidst her wild declarations, Torgen would get the hint. Otherwise, they were screwed.

...Screwed.

The Isur giggled uncontrollably, her eyes finding their way to the mercenary. She was breathless, sprawled across the bed, looking upon him with nothing short of pure affection. Never had would she have imagined herself pretending to have an orgy in the middle of a whorehouse, trying to orchestrate a hit on a Daggerhand. Her turquoise gaze traced the line of his lips for a split-tick, before she turned to let out a low, throaty moan. That was close. She’d nearly lost sight of what they were doing.

The wild charade would continue, for better or worse, until the three of them were satisfied.

...Satisfied.

These puns would be the death of her.

[Noven]

It was getting hard to breathe in the tiny bedroom. Between his vigorous role in their absurd charade, poorly stifled laughter, and the combined warmth of their overworked bodies filling up their limited space, it was enough to tax even his experienced endurance. Nov grinned, the pun not lost on him even amidst a haze of exertion and stomach aching mirth.

Amael's antics were gold. She shook her molten hair, moaned just as loud as the others in this fictitious threesome, and continued spewing out words in a foreign tongue that both puzzled and intrigued him at the same time.

If Torgen wasn't buying this, he wasn't sure who would.

For one, unexpected moment, the mercenary's gaze locked with that of the gadgeteer's. He had been too distracted before by the way her body moved with the bed, generous curves swaying through the fabric of her clothes, to notice Mae was staring at him. When he looked up, he found her sprawled on the bed with Isme, the sight of their chests heaving and limbs askew tantalizing enough for any man to lose his wits. The Isur herself was giggling, breathless, and her sea green eyes filled to the brim with an emotion so intense, so open that it sent spots of warmth rushing to his face.

And then she moaned. Low and soft, the sound sending all the extra blood in his face downward. Nov swallowed and broke contact, feigning exhaustion instead as he panted over the flimsy bed frame. He fought to control his emotions, closing his eyes and hanging his head to will away the heat of the moment. Now was not the time to be pitching any tents.

As the rambunctious trio began to run out of steam, the tell tale scrape of boots against wood finally met their ears. Thank the gods, too, for it. Another chime and he would have collapsed. And from more than just weariness. Once the footsteps had retreated enough of a distance, Nov prepared himself for one last act of brute strength before lounging in well deserved rest. He gripped the bed frame and, with a grunt of effort, shifted one end until it rested diagonally from the wall. Then he walked over to the other side and did the same, muscles straining, until the bed was now parallel and several feet away from the wall.

Where the bed once stood was a trap door. A single, neatly carved square with a small handle at the top edge.

Nov wobbled over to the front of the small bed and collapsed haphazardly, too tired to care where he landed. There may have been a feminine foot or hand under his weight. Too bad, so sad.

"There it is. Get to work," he mumbled through scented sheets, flopping one arm out to point at the trap door.

[Amael]

With one hand, she ran fingers through her hair, stretching languidly. Between the warmth and the exertion, under normal circumstances a nap wouldn’t be out of place. Scooting her foot out from under the collapsed mercenary (and making sure of course, to wiggle her toes underneath of him) the Isur rose and began to dig through her bag, finding the chalk relatively in tact. Good. She’d need it to be. The only real requirements for animation were the circles.

”Now, the rule is that if you have a question, to save it. I can only respond at certain times.” She leaned down, trailing the chalk in a lazy arc. ”If I get too distracted, I might petch the whole thing up.” Which would be fantastic, especially after that whole pretending-to-have-sex thing. A small sigh escaped her lips. ”I’ll be very still, which may become nerve-wracking. But it’ll at least give you two time to rest. You know, for the next pretend orgy.” With a wink, she finished the first circle and moved on to the next one, this time pulling the shape wider, the trapdoor sitting in the center. It didn’t take too long. Mae gave a little flourish and connected the two with a short line, stepping back to survey her work for a moment.

It looked decent. It’d have to do.

The mage inhaled deeply through her nose, attempting to separate her mind from reality. It was time for her to immerse herself in the pale waters of djed manipulation, to stroll quietly into Kihala’s domain. Reverentially, she folded into the circle, withdrawing a small tool from her bag, which close inspection revealed as an awl. She gripped the handle, running the end across her flesh with care, leaving a dewdrop of blood in its wake. Amael paused a moment, just a moment, before she touched that finger to the floor, allowing the blood to activate the circle.

Anyone in the room would have a sense of awakened energy, though nothing had really visibly occurred. Rather, the atmosphere had simply shifted, the very air itself crackling with potential. Amael took measured breaths, focusing only the transfer of her own soulcore, allowing a moderate flow of power to ebb forth into the opposite circle. This would take at least thirty chimes to an hour, though the time would go by quickly enough. For her, at least.

The Isur was the outward picture of serenity, full lips slightly parted, her chest rising and falling in a slow cadence. She could feel the greedy tendrils of the object, urging life from the source, just as readily as that life supplied the destination. That was the danger of animation, aside from objects going berserk. You could give too much, strip your soul too completely and in the end, leave yourself as a husk, the nearest thing to what you once were sitting on the opposing end.

How cheerful, she thought blandly. The circle continued to draw life and she continued to nourish it, sweat beading at her brow. As the soulcore approached stabilization, it drew more furiously. This was the real challenge, at least in the beginning. Mae erected a mental wall with a phantom crack at the center and used it to moderate the flow. Too powerful a life-principle and the thing was liable to go berserk.

’Closer.’ Her teeth were clamped shut, brow tightly furrowed. ’Closer,’ she drew nearer still, the tipping point close at hand. Her body began to shake, fighting hard to resist the furious pull of the object. ’Almost….’

’Done!’ As soon as she felt the telltale sign of completion, the relentless suckling having stopped, Mae broke free, closing up the mental gap in her wall. As her eyes opened, she realized tears were streaming openly down her face. Whoops. She’d forgotten about that.

Mopping her eyes with the back of her wrist, she rose from the first circle, a fusillade of crackling joints permeating the air. ”The first part is done,” she said to the two of them. ”After this, I’d pay good money for a massage.” Rolling her shoulders, the woman moved to inspect her creation.

”It looks good. I can feel it; she’s alive.” The woman grinned down at the thing. ”Now that the basics are done, I’ll add some directives. Shouldn’t be too hard. Might take me another hour or so – all I have to do is establish the conditions in which it should open the latch and er, ‘let’ the person in.”

She cast a curious eye in Nov’s direction, interested to see how he was handling the whole affair.

[Noven]

He felt the bed shift as it became bereft of Mae's weight and warmth. Weary and addled as he was, it took Noven a moment to realize the Isur had wiggled her toes under his legs before extracting her self and setting straight to work. A sudden urge to yank her back by the ankle gripped him, but it was too late, and he was too tired.

Rules? Distraction? The mercenary turned his head enough to peer at the woman in curiosity. "Right. No questions. Got it," he muttered.

Beside him, Isme propped herself up on top of his prone form and sighed. "I guess this means we have to stay quiet, then?" The impish courtesan purred as she trailed a hand down his back. "And here I was, hoping to have a little fun, since you've bought me for the whole night..."

"Hush," Nov grumbled. "She's starting."

With a pout, Isme flopped down on top of him in a most distracting fashion and sighed heavily again. He shifted under her in weakened protest, to which she giggled and laid her dark head across his shoulders. For an entire stretch of untracked, uninterrupted silence, the two watched as Amael prepared and invoked her magic. Nov fought the natural urge at first to back out of the room and shut himself from such alien sorcery. But the longer he watched, the more he came to terms with its apparent lack of threat. It looked almost harmless.

Until, that is, Mae cut herself without warning and touched the floor with her blood. Out of nowhere, the room burst with energy, crackling with something the simple mercenary could put no words to. He found himself tensing, muscles flexing on fight or flight instinct. Fortunately, Isme was there to calm him with quiet hushes against his ear, easing him back into a state of languidness, though his heart till raced erratically.

Nov had never been the type to bother with pointless, womanly exercises like meditation. But as he watched the Isur sitting there, her visage a paragon of calm while she focused on some unseen task, he came as close as he ever did to tranquility. The gentle rise and fall of her ample chest certainly helped, though it induced more of a peaceful trance than visceral stimulation. He observed without much thought or worry, tracking the beads of sweat that began to form on her ridged brow and unconsciously timing his breaths with hers. The air still thrummed with energy, but it no longer concerned him.

Mae's brow suddenly furrowed, the muscles clenching around her jaw. With a few, rapid blinks, the merc fell out of his meditative state and narrowed his gaze. Something was wrong. She was in too deep. Tears had begun streaming down her face and her body was shaking. It was too much! She was going to--

Her eyes flew open, their vibrant hues once again meeting his corrosive ones. Isme had her entire weight on top of him, holding him down. For a moment, he stared in confusion as the Isur rose to stretch and spoke in playful tones, as though she had merely gone on a run and not tinkered with some unfathomable, dangerous magic. Then he realized that he was halfway through the process of rising from the bed, thwarted only by a prostitute and gravity.

After a handful of ticks, his mind jogged sluggishly back into action. It made him uneasy to hear Mae speaking of the altered trap door as though it were a living thing, but he would have to question her about it later. Right now, their priority was to allow her to finish, then figure out how to get the repulsive Daggerhand to stumble into it.

Isme, however, beat him to the punch. She had unwrapped herself from him and was now leaning against his side with a dramatic hand held to her forehead.

"Another bell! Gods, I don't know how much more silence I can take." The whore slid a suggestive look in his direction. "You know, there are other rooms we could use while this one is occupied."

He'd be lying if he said it wasn't a tempting solution, but it would only brew more trouble. "We need to stay here," Nov reasoned. "At least one of us does, to make sure nothing goes wrong. You're free to take a breather, Izzy. Just try not to bump into that lunatic anytime soon."

He should've anticipated what came next. Isme had somehow slipped herself onto his lap in that mysterious, sensual way only whores could, and was now straddling him, the thin fabric of her dress riding up her long, firm legs as her arms hooked around his neck. "Mm, and can I get you anything while I'm at it?" The courtesan undulated against him a little for good measure.

He paused to think for a moment. "Some food would be nice," Nov replied in a deadpan voice. "Oh, and water for our hard working gadgeteer. You thirsty, Mae?"

With a playful hmph, Isme shoved against his chest and sauntered out of the room. She gave the Isur a knowing look, mouth curled in a secretive smile, and shut the door behind her.

The merc grinned down at Mae from the bed. "So, how are these conditions going to be set?"