Closed [House of Immortal Pleasures] Dark Inquiries (Aislin)

[Abashai]

Timestamp: 18th Day of Fall, 512 AV

Night had fallen upon the aptly named Plaza of Dark Delights. Pools of orange light, cast by torches and lanterns suspended over doorways and street corners, seemed to create more shadows than illumination. The air was thick with the ever present smell of the lake and the docks nearby. The sound of bawdy laughter, whispered secrets and lost inhibition echoed off the brick and stone buildings. It was repulsive.

Abashai had to frequent the Plaza on occasion, for it was his duty to go to the places, talk to the people, perform the tasks, that Kialandra could not, or would not. She was his dark hand, outside of the control of both Black Sun and Ebonstryfe, though they were not so foolish as to think either organization was unaware of his role in her house.

The benshiran lingered in one of the many shadows, leaning against the corner of a brick building, across from the House of Immortal Pleasures. He had refrained from carrying his khopesh, the large desert sword could attract too much attention at times. Instead, he bore only a broad-bladed dagger tucked inside his long coat. A breeze picked up off of the lake, blowing is dark locks across his face. He brushed them from his eyes just in time to see a man exit the brothel. He was short, clad in robes just a little too fine for these environs. His pate was clean shaven, but a scraggly goatee covered his chin. Galeal. Crystalline blue-green eyes followed the man as he disappeared around another corner. Slipping from his concealment, Abashai crossed the street and entered the House.

Stepping inside, he was once again assaulted with all manner of decadence. The stench of the docks was replaced with the heavy aroma of perfume and spice, leather and oil. Beautiful people milled with the mundane as deals, carnal and devious, were made. Abashai did not seek pleasure in places like this. Carnality was a measured luxury for him, managed by his mistress, or at the expense of house slaves in his own program of blackmail, intimidation and reward to ensure internal security and loyalty among them.

Galeal frequented the brothel regularly, and seemed to see the same girl each time. The suspicion was that the bald man was passing information. Information Kialandra did not want dispersed. Galeal was a trusted employee of the Salvatrice family, trusted until recently.

Abashai surveyed the room, seeking the raven-haired woman Galeal had just left. His hope was that she would be free of a client for a short while. He was curious about what exactly went on between the two of them. There she was, at the bar. Making his way through the busy room, the tall benshiran approached the woman. Looking down at her, the man spoke with a heavy accent.

"Are you...available?"

[Aislin]

The sounds of ecstasy ricocheted off the walls. Moans coupled with the groans and grunts of man. Aislin could scarcely hear them now, having dwelled above marble floors, and between dark wood walls for such a large portion of her life. And yet, the noise was enough to leave her ears prickling, as the occasional hair on the back of her neck stood at attention. The woman sat atop simple stool, cushioned by a small pillow encased in red velvet, drawn close to the bar. Silver laces circled her legs; like two pythons whose forms wound about a tree. Their forked tongues hungrily licking, tying together at the end of the road, in a narrow strip of string. In place they held simplistic sandal, a single strip of matching fabric, binding the arched sole of a each shoe. A heel which rested against the support of basic construct. Against pale skin, milky as the moon, lay a gossamer fabric. A silver, silken as the Chaon's flesh, although it appeared a mesh, draped casually over stomach held taut by abdominal muscles. It split down the center, displaying a narrow crevice of epidermal layer. Glistening a pale orange; the reflection of flickering flames, bursting above candles casually strewn about the room. An inner button swayed as her lithe form shifted uneasily, causing the gray cups which rested against her bosom to pinch what lay beneath. The flowery embroidery falling into shadow, as laced underthings were lost to babydoll's thin veil. As her impatience mounted at no longer having a patron to pleasure, so did the speed by which her nails drummed against the counter. Aislin could vaguely make out the beat of their tune, playing alongside the thundering of her heart. The reel of her iced eyes, as her gaze followed the bartender back and forth, across his keep as he cleansed dirtied glass, and served his customers various rounds. Frustrated, the Chaon sighed. A cool air passing between lightly parted lips, glossed to a soft shimmer. Given them a near waxen appearance, like a tulip's petals. What does a girl have to do to get a damned drink around here? she wondered, as she forced her fingers to cease, her hands to fall into her lap. Again, Aislin sighed, as she watched another of her sisters giggling as she was handed a glass of wine. Petch the filthy whore, she thought, as the irony in the statement was lost on her temporarily, as anger forced her to succumb. Leading her to stroke her thighs and near jump as the voice of the more exotic interjected. Breaking her from her thoughts, her dismal brooding. Iced irises lifted, falling onto those the shade of the sea. Onto hair the color of a boar's fur. Her own raven colored mane stirred, dancing about her swan's neck as it twisted to meet Abashai's intense gaze. She could feel the strands tickling, rousing her. Urging her to use all of her senses, make note of the weapons he carried, his tanned hide, and the strange symbols that were etched into his skin. Drawn, by darkened ink. Her eyes glistened, like the grass moistened by morning's dew. "Not anymore," Aislin whispered as she came to her feet. Standing near level with the man, with the aid of her heels, although, she was still a tad shorter. Her right hand came forward, reaching for his own. Seeking to weave their fingers through one another, bind their bodies together. "Would you like to go upstairs stranger?" she asked, as a delicate smile crossed her lips. "Or would you prefer to drink a little first?"

[Abashai]

Physcial senses, instinctual and instant, were the first to survey the woman looking up at him. Unclouded eyes ran the length of the harlot, from her midnight mane to her silver-strap entwined ankles. The nearly translucent garment certainly could not conceal a weapon, for it barely concealed her modesty. Nostrils detected specific aromas lifting from her ivory flesh and unbound hair, pleasant scents, both natural and formulated, quickly lost to the plethora of smells the brothel harbored. Abashai heard her well rehearsed voice, seductive, uttered at the right volume, inflection and direction to maintain its sultry tone and still rise above the incoherent and often primal sounds around them. She exuded sensuality without inhibition, a master of her trade.

Then the divine sense chimed in. The crimson scar at the side of his neck burned, a faint echo of the excruciating pain experienced when the drop of Rhysol's blood touched him. The sensation was relived, in a small way, every time he found himself in the presence of another Chaon. Not a rarity in the Chaos Lord's city, but notable. He did not mark many outside of Black Sun and their militants. Interesting.

Abashai's eyes did not leave her as the woman stood to her feet, his features guarded, as always. She reached for his hand. He had watched her do it several times, taking Galeal's hand as she lead him upstairs for whatever variety of vice she provided. When he felt the soft digits brush in between his own, the bensiran withdrew his hand casually. He offered the Chaon a smile. "A drink is not necessary. Alcohol diminishes one's ability to perceive...sensations." It also clouded the mind and slowed reflexes.

"But someplace private, yes..."

[Aislin]

Ivory blades shifted uncomfortably as offered limb retreated to Aislin's side. They danced just beneath the surface of her skin, as flickering light trailed across them, swirling just between. Imperfect sun, resting against lightly curved point stirred, smoldered with rekindling heat. Searing against the Chaon's skin. She thought she could almost sense it sizzling, hissing as a snake would as it licked the air with forked tongue. Dismayed, her eyes danced over that of the foreign. Molten moats glimmering as she forced her lips to curl into a delicate smile. Furled pink petal sliding into sumptuous curve. "As you wish," she whispered, the words pouring out of her mouth as smoothly as water would from a crystalline pitcher. "Come," she commanded, as her hips swayed, and she turned abruptly on her heels, offering the man a swish of her raven colored lockes, which tickled the length of her exposed skin, and little more than the back of her head. Lest he look down at that scarcely concealed behind scrunched fabric. Her flesh glistening with a hint of heated expenditure as she glided forward rather confidently, her heels clicking against the floor. Drumming out a tune by which he could march. Within a few strides, Aislin had reached a cascade of purple fabric. Clinging to the ceiling, draped over stilled air, it fell to the floor. It seemed to sparkle as the light hit it; the darkest moments of a sunset, somehow filled with Zintila's sparkling stars. As her smile widened, the Chaon extended her right hand, and pulled the veil back with ease, revealing the staircase which lay behind. "After you," she insisted, as she bowed her head in slight, and waited for her patron to make a move, before following behind. Dropping her hand, and allowing the drapery to swish back into place. Like a woman's skirts after offering her dance partner a hurried twirl. As soon as the door that barred the waiting room to the pleasure chambers upstairs had shut, Aislin moved forward, taking the stairs in measured strides. As she ascended, she could hear little more than the beat of hearts, feel little more than the density of the air, and wonder how best to bring Abashai to a more aroused state. For, as of now, he seemed to take little interest in her. Sighing to herself, she reached the brink; allowing her eyes to take a clean sweep of what was left of her to work with. Deciding easily, on which route to take, she tread the path less traveled. "Right this way," she insisted, as she meandered towards one of the rooms still left unoccupied. Upon reaching the red wood, glistening with unnamed stain, she forced mouth held slightly ajar to part. Widening into gaping maw. Smiling wickedly as the door revealed what lay beyond, she crossed the threshold, waiting for her partner to step inside before putting protective barrier in place and reminding herself of all she had to work with, with but a subtle sweep of her eyes. The large rectangular room was hardly furnished, although, it was still exquisitely adorned. The dark wood floor seemed polished, and simple rug imported from the far reaches of the world lay strewn across its center. It was of a simple make, dyed hairs of what appeared to be formerly white sheep lain in an ornate pattern of diamonds and roses. It was not great enough to stretch across the room, and was buried beneath the edge of the bed, which rested above it. A king's size, with cherry frame, into which snakes with glinting ruby eyes had been carved. They slithered up the length of support beams towards the ceiling, where rested a canopy. Over which gossamer red fabrics had been draped, bound to the boards by flimsy maroon ribbon, which gave them the appearance of curtains hanging in a window frame having been pulled aside to the let the morning light filter through. Silk sheets matching the shade of the snake's eyes rested against the feather mattress. Pillows in cases of blood and white hung in the shadows towards the back. On either of the bed sat two tables, their tops circular, with a single spine, which mirrored the carvings etched into the bed's frame. Each was the same, although the right's snake had an emerald eye, as well as a ruby one. Atop each table lay a plethora of things. The one on the right held a grouping of three candles. One black, one a light red, the other a deeper. Their wicks charred, curling, surrounded by a molten moat of wax. Flames flickering as waste trickled down central stalk. They were an embodiment of those strewn around the room to provide illumination. Although, taller, stronger. Less used. In their shadow lay a single black rose. Browned thorn glistening with what appeared to be a single drop of blood, plucked petal, buried beneath one of the outer support stands. The table on the left held a silver bowl. Broken, willfully, in that designer had etched twisting lines between the base and upper most point. Aislin imagined it was a depiction of gusting winds, holding the world's bounty. A string of green grapes, a polished red and green apple, and a handful of cherries, lying beside a similar bowl containing what appeared to be fudge, and another liquid cream. On the opposite side of the room, tucked into a corner, lay the final adornment. A coach covered in red leather, whose far end twisted into a rest, while the other lay flat, as though it were designed for lounging, or perhaps slumber, as opposed to sitting and chatting, or perhaps, a close cuddle. Beneath it Aislin could see simple crumbling chest, which she knew held several things- exotic oils and lotions for example, which could be used in the case of a patron desirous of a massage. "Welcome," Aislin whispered, as she moved towards the room's center. "Please, make yourself at home, unless, of course, you'd like me to do that for you," she finished, as she turned to face Abashai, wondering what on earth he could possibly lust for when he seemed so secretive. So enshrouded in mystery; closed off to the possibility of fleeting pleasures.

[Abashai]

Despite his stoic demeanor, Abashai harbored the capacity for great passion. Though the memories were buried beneath his conscious, the man had once possessed the ability to sate the primal desires of a Talderian forest cat made woman. Likewise, his sturdy ardor earned him a regular spot in Kialandra's bed. Yet, he knew at one time, in his tender youth, a woman had used him, bringing him great shame. He knew sex was a weapon, one he was wary to have wielded against him.

Regardless, The benshiran found quite a challenge in the raven-headed beauty, from whom exuded unadulterated sensuality. Abashai entered the chamber as if entering the lair of a Symenestra. The room was adorned with obvious intent, every detailed seemingly designed to appeal to a man like Abashai. Darkened wood, deep reds, greens and black were illuminated in sparse pools of flickering orange light. Silky fabrics, as pleasing as the caress of a woman's skin, draped about the bed. The carnal essence of the place tugged seductively at his libido, tainted with the lure of dark sin. And for the woman, Abashai suspected Nikali herself had fashioned the temptress with her very own hands. It touched his Rhysol-stained soul in a way he had yet to experience, and the better part of him struggled to maintain a diligent restraint. This was business, he tried to remind himself.

The benshiran offered his sultry host a smile, a measured gesture that simply reflected an appreciation of all that he saw. He shrugged the long coat from his shoulders. Beneath, he was clad in black trousers tucked into leather riding boots. A loose shirt of deep green with arm length sleeves buttoned up the front of his torso. A scabbarded wide-bladed dagger was thrust through a wide leather belt around his waist. Walking to a corner of the room, Abashai tossed the outer garment across the reclining rest of the leather couch. With a glance back to the woman, the dagger was also dropped onto the seat.

Unhurried steps brought him back to the woman's side. It was pointless to remain a stone wall before the professional companion, surely a display of indifference would raise suspicion, for who sought out one such as her if not to appease some desire? What he wanted was information. Yet, what incentive did she have to offer it for free? Help her line her pockets, then the lips would loosen...to speak.

Again he locked onto the deep azure gaze of the ivory-skinned woman, his voice strong but controlled. "I believe a massage would be in order."

[Aislin]

The Chaon offered the Benshira a slight smile as her hips swayed with the half step she took. Closing the gap that rested between them, as her right foot settled onto her toes. She could hear the soles creaking as smoldering coals lent iced irises to grow molten. The ring lapping against its confines, lending a liquid appearance, yet one of power as well. "If it would please you," Aislin whispered, as her bent knee slid up and down, against the length of Shai's calf. Her hands moving from her sides onto his own. Gliding over cotton fabric, ruffling the material as they crawled higher and higher, onto his pectorals, before dipping lightly. Forming a bottomless heart towards the line of buttons. There her fingers fumbled with the first of them, tugging the hemmed flaps apart. "Then you won't be needing this," she added, as she worked her way down, tearing all the buttons away from their holes, before helping the larger man shrug the garment off of his shoulders. Toss it aside, with the heap he was beginning to form. She smiled wickedly then, at the bed of newly freed skin. Glistening in the candlelight. Tentatively, she ran her fingers over him, from abs to pectorals, where they settled a moment, before falling away. Returning to her side. "Why don't you make yourself comfortable? The bed would do, if not the couch you have piled everything on. The floor, even when laden with pillows, tends to be a bit hard. But, if that's what you'd prefer, feel free to settle onto your stomach for starters," Aislin instructed. "I will return once you've settled in, there are a few things in the chest that may be of service. So they shall be fetched," she smiled sweetly then, as she receded into the shadows, crossing the room towards the couch beneath which the chest lay in wait. Once there, she bent her legs at the knees, and scrunched her form tightly together. Pulled the chest out, and retrieved a few bottles of exotic oils. All labeled, for her convenience. Within an instant, Aislin had straightened herself out and kicked the chest back into place. With her hands firmly furled about the necks of each bottle, she crossed the gap towards her patron. "Hopefully you like lavender and lemon," she confided, as she set one of the bottles down on a bedside table, before squeezing lightly as she rotated the other, squirting some of the lavender scented oil onto the center of his back. "Sorry, it may be a little cold," she whispered, as she set the bottle aside, and placed her palms on his back. Pressing lightly, so there was next to no pressure, as she rubbed the oil around. Making sure to cover as much ground as possible; make his flesh glisten as the firelight danced across its length. Her budding shadow. "Do you know if you prefer a firm massage, or a softer one?" Aislin asked, as she lifted her fingers off Abashai's back, leaving only the heels, which she drove upward, following the length of his spine. Upon reaching the shoulders, she dropped her fingers, allowing them to cascade over the sharp indentation of ivory colored bone, layered beneath a thin blanket of tanned hide. Aislin's fingers molded about Abashai's skin, as the flats pressed in. Digging lightly as her knuckles rippled. Her thumb, trapped on the other side, swishing from left to right, just above the final curve of his blades. At first, it was as though the flesh was only brushing, but gradually, the Chaon would apply more pressure. Whether or not Abashai felt it however, had yet to be determined. OOCHopefully this is all alright.

[Abashai]

The woman moved, each motion fluid as he felt her slide along his leg, then peel the shirt from his torso. Each action was performed with seductive intent, no movement wasted. Abashai wondered if this skilled behavior was so cultivated within her that she conducted herself this way in all aspects of her life, or if she was able to contain it within the confines of professional encounters.

The Benshiran offered little reaction, light gaze unhindered by the half-lidded eyes of a man relinquishing himself to the touch of a beautiful woman, nor the anticipating grin of one who's lust sees satiation near. A simple nod was his sole response, and Abashai glanced at the offered locations until he decided on the floor.

He kneeled, then stretching out face down and prone on the plush rug, A rugged hand brushed dark strands of hair from his face as the man rested his head on its side, the seductress in view. Abashai did not flinch as the cool oil splattered onto his skin. He moved his arms to his side, feeling the tug of the scarred tissue at the back of his right shoulder where the tattoo of House Salvatrice had been branded over with the same symbol, as if his mistress' mark had been embossed in his flesh.

"Do you know if you prefer a firm massage, or a softer one?"

"Very firm" He spoke softly.

As she began to ply his muscles with skilled hands, Abashai could feel unrecognized tension start to bleed from his body, and after a few deep, aroma-laced breathes, he began to relax. Information, he reminded himself.

"Do you have a name?" He inquired.

[Aislin]

"Aislin," the whore whispered as a delicate smile crossed her lips, "and what about you, stranger from afar?" she asked, as her nail traced the outer line of his shoulder blade, before swinging back to trace the inner. "Do you have a name?" There was a pause in each of her thumbs; a place where they settled towards the middle of each of his shoulder blades, and as her remaining fingers dug on the far side of his shoulders, her thumbs began by lightly pressing into this place, before she drew his skin towards the others. She watched it form a small wave, as it neared the farthest reaches, and then snapped back when the lightly tanned could take no more. Again, Aislin repeated this motion, this time drawing it out further, as her nails sank into his skin. Forming small lines, white at first, although they darkened each time she retraced her steps, until they grew to be a shade similar to blood's crimson. After a few chimes had passed, Aislin allowed her fingers to roll back over the length of Abashai's shoulders and onto his back. Relax, the magic cooed as each of her palms made their way down its length, towards his hips, before making the rounds. Take a deep breath, it insisted as she slid each of them in a fraction of an inch so that each thumb's nail pressed against the other before she pushed them back up in the opposite direction. Making a note of digging her heels into the flesh surrounding his spine; for she thought that would make the gesture far more firm. When she reached the top, the woman's hands slithered towards Abashai's neck. As his fingers entwined; allowing his veins to pulse against her flesh she leaned over him; her thumbs falling back as the remaining fingers trickled over his Adam's apple. Relax, her hypnotic djed insisted as her fingers began to ripple against his skin, save for the thumbs which she fanned back and forth. Pressing as firmly as she could so that Abashai's flesh sank beneath her touch. She could feel the rest of her fingers tickling his Adam's apple, toying with strayed hairs that lined his neck. She nibbled her bottom lip nervously, the crennallated tops of a marble wall the shade of pearls making soft indentations in the plump strip of flesh as all rosy color fled them. Ticks later, as she continued to work on the same area, Aislin pulled her teeth off her lower lip, allowing it to snap back into place. The indentations to fade as red pigmentation flooded the pale petals. "Are you enjoying your massage?" she asked as her woven fingers unraveled, and trailed over onto either of his shoulders, where they pushed down every few ticks of the clock, in measured intervals. "Or is this not your true pleasure?" OOCSorry this took so long. The storm and NANO is keeping me busy. Sorry it's also not my best. Hopefully the next few posts will be far better than this.

[Abashai]

"Of course I have a name." Abashai replied from the floor. His tone was not derisive, just stated flatly since she knew well he must have a name. But, as her gifted hands sapped hidden tension from his toned muscle, the benshiran almost unconsciously stumbled over his answer. Jefrek...Ardrem... "Abashai."

The Salvatrice servant inhaled deeply, flooding his senses with the erotic and soothing aromas laced through the air, fabric and the woman Aislin herself. As Abashai contemplated how best to pursue the interrogation, the whore continued to minister to him, working every kink, every mote of stress from his body. Abashai sank deeper into the cushioned floor, his breathing drawing deeper and deeper. He could feel gravity drawing him down, and a serene calm washed over his being like a drug.

Information. The Traitor.

Nails dug into his flesh, pleasurable pain to which he had grown accustomed, from Kialandra...and someone he could not remember. Fingers on this throat, soft and light. Was he enjoying his massage? Very much, entirely too much. True pleasure. He was sure Aislin could provide it, it exuded from her, it was her gift and her job.

"My mistress knows my true pleasures, and it is she alone who gives them to me." Abashai exhaled, trying to shrug the lethargy Aislin's massage had produced. "But there is something else I would have of you, Aislin."

[Aislin]

"If that were true Abashai," Aislin began as her fingers pressed firmly against his skin, "you would not have come to the brothel, seeking a second mistress," she finished as her nails lifted the occasional hair from his skin. They glided back and forth for a time, balancing the thin strands against the supple curve, before allowing it to fall away, settling against warming flesh. As her hands moved, her icy irises sparkled with a knowing glimmer; a hint of what she had always been aware of: whatever another woman could do, she could do several times better. But, she was not about to flaunt such knowledge through her words in front of her latest patron, merely show him through the fluid and practiced movements of her lithe form. Slowly, she guided her hands down from the man's neck, to his lower back, where she twisted her hands so that the thumbs were pointed towards his head, and her remaining fingers, off to either side of his lounging form. Her appendages held tightly together as she dug her palms into his back, and pushed upwards a few inches, before gliding back down, and then back up, over and over, before wiggling his form after a countless number of ventures. I am better than your mistress. You like me more than her. Everything my hands can do to you... A wicked smile crossed the Chaon's lips as the dark mark upon her ivory blades tingled. She could feel the gnosis growing hot as the day she was first gifted as she continued to knead the Benshira's skin, as her brow grew etched with creases. One which her highly arched right brow easily slipped between. "Oh?" she asked, not at all surprised by the man's want for something more than she was currently giving him. "And what would that be Abashai? How is it that I may pleasure you?" she asked, as her thumbs dug into the man's flesh alongside the rest of her fingers. Forcing his skin to meld around it as her butterfly hands slid up and down a little farther. Up the full length of his spine, trickling over the knobbed bones, before running back down, towards his buttocks, at times onto it, as though she were offering the man a slight tease. A hint at what may be yet to come, if only he asked it of her, or perhaps, forced it upon her when his lust overtook the rest of his senses. Made him lose sight of his true reasons for having come to the brothel, seeking her out. Relax, Aislin's hypnotic djed insisted as her temples throbbed dully. Her veins pulsing beneath the surface of her skin; the flesh itself rippling against the onset of pain. Let yourself enjoy this.