2 Summer 522
Despite his general disposition, in which he very rarely says no to things – especially new things, amusing things, things that promise to lead him down captivating avenues – there are some things Caspian hasn’t done.
And one of them is visiting a brothel, specifically with the intent to utilize the establishment for its express purpose.
Even then, he’s no stranger to them. Back in Ravok – the memory thudding a little too keenly in his heart for something so far and away – he’d spent many a morning, afternoon, and night at his friend Saticath’s apartment, across from the Plaza of Dark Delights. Saticath was a beautician, and most of her clientele were the hosts and hostesses from across the way. Maybe that was a hint, one of many that he had chosen to sweep under the rug, that he was never going to escape the underclasses. That the veneer he had tried so desperately to craft, when he’d run away to Ravok, of a refined, upstanding citizen was futile. History and experience tell him now - he was always this person, was inevitably going to return to this. It takes a certain kind of individual to be this at ease in the murk.
Someone’s been following him for the past few blocks, and the brothel just up ahead is the closest escape available in his immediate surroundings. He would have preferred – anything else, really, but he dips in anyway, crosses a threshold painted in candy stripes of pink and white, brushes past a curtain of bells and ribbons that ring damningly loud and clear. Tries to feign, with his body language, that he’s not someone becoming increasingly anxious about what he suspects is behind him. That this had been his destination all along.
The parlor he steps into is standard fare. Dim, reeking of tobacco. Brightly dyed feathers and silk flowers meant to distract one from the peeling paint. Three women of varying levels of boredom and listlessness are draped on the couches. Caspian accidentally makes eye contact with the man filing his nails in the corner, who based on his general lack of clothing, clearly also works here. The man’s up on his feet immediately, making a beeline towards Caspian, like a magpie after a shiny coin.
“Nope,” Caspian says flatly, holding one hand up.
“Nope?” The man raises a dramatically thinned and arched eyebrow, painted blue.
“Nope.”
The man crosses his arms, sizes Caspian up. “If this is part of your game, know that convincing you will still cost you by the minute.”
“No petching game, friend. I just –” Unable to help himself, Caspian steals towards the window, peers out at the street from behind the curtain. There are plenty of people out, strolling by. But no one appears to be waiting and watching for him to emerge. Still, he can only see so much from this vantage point. Whoever’s been following him could easily be just out range, loitering one house further down the block. “Petch,” Caspian growls to himself, not very much in love with the prospect.
“If you aren’t going to pay – ”
“I’m sorry, alright?” Caspian turns back to the man. Glares at the three women on the couches, all of whom –
Nope.
Still lolling half-asleep, and entirely uninterested.
“I’m sorry,” Caspian says again, with less ire. “Someone’s been stalking me for the better part of a half-bell. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s the case. I just want to throw them off. Do you have a back door I can use?”
Blessedly – Caspian really doesn’t have the patience for it today – the man ignores the very obvious opportunity to make a lewd joke.
“We might,” the man says, crossing his arms. “But it’ll come at a price.”
No surprises there. “I’d be disappointed in you if it didn’t.”
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