Though this story is but fancy, all who dwell within its pages are of age. Put your mind at ease, friend. Kick off your boots--your breeches and skirts--and light fragrant incenses. Thus begins a 'Tale of the Rose'.
* * *
Ballads and Blue Flames
I love the night. The crowd trickles in a little after five, throwing the molten light of the golden hour across the russet flagstone floor. Every customer has a story, each another thread in the rich tapestry of
Darosmere
--The Ever-Turning Compass. Traders, fresh from the road, boots caked with the dust of distant lands, drink shoulder to shoulder with dockhands, miners, lords, ladies, and foreigners. They come from all around, from distant and exotic lands, regardless of race, culture, or creed. They're all here for something: a drink, a bed, a lover, a deal struck in whispers. Or maybe they're here for me and the songs I weave--the colorfully hued threads of the tapestry, both merry and sorrowful.
The main floor of the 'Rambling Rose' is soon packed to the brim, teeming with mirth and spirit, every corner full with life and liquor. The great hearth crackles at the heart of the room, casting flickering shadows on pale stone and dark oak beams. Tables groan under the weight of tankards and platters, the scent of spiced lamb and warm bread mingling with the aroma of pipe tobacco and the lingering smell of alluring perfumes that waft from the private suites upstairs. Booths along the walls hold lovers leaning close, conspirators hissing in low voices, and the occasional drunk dozing with the table as a pillow.
From my perch on the small stage, I see it all play out like a private show just for me. From their seats, I am the entertainment, their gaze fixated on me alone; their eyes roam the contours of my body, settling on their favorite bits: My supple thighs in tight leather, my soft olive skin, my breasts boasting from my bodice, my face framed in chestnut curls, my full lips--and oh, how I love their undivided attention. I am the star. My name is Rosamund Lavoie, bard and songstress, willing weaver of the threads. This is my tavern.
* * *
Alaric, the innkeeper, moves through the crowd with the grace of a fox and the cunning of one too, His silver hair gleams in the lantern light as he exchanges a laugh here, a knowing nod there, always a step ahead of trouble. He steps between two patrons engaged in a heated argument and deftly diffuses the situation.
At the bar, Cedric pours drinks with a flair that's almost as showy as my own, his quick hand keeping pace with the demands of the thirsty mob. He shakes some concoction with a few fluid jerks and empties the tumbler into a wide-rimmed glass for the old floozy in front of him.
Isolde flits between tables, her elfish beauty a balm to weary and a spark to the hopeful. She pours a pitcher of ale for a group of dwarves from Meerholm, their tanned faces breaking in wide grins as froth pours down their salt-streaked beards.
They're my companions in this lovely dance, my supporting cast, keeping the rhythm of the night steady while I lubricate the crowd, loosening their inhibitions and purses.
I lift my lute, the strings warm beneath my fingers. The room quiets just enough to hear the first notes. The melody starts slow, like a river winding through the valley, winding and weaving its way through the noise. I catch the eyes of a few regulars--Merchant Harwin in the corner, the two housewives who gossip over mulled wine--and I smile, knowing that tonight's song will pull them from their conversations and transport them back to their foolish, youthful days. The lyrics are soft at first, like the mountain spring that feeds the river:
In morning mists and flowered vale
two lovers kiss, with hands entwined
to thrust with passion, bodies meld
and fill the womb with honeyed wine.
My voice rises, smooth and sure, every note a thread in the tapestry that draws the crowd in, making them forget themselves for a little while. It's magic, pure and simple--woven from the notes of my song, spun by the hearts that listen--or the loins that throb.
Spent, they say their fare-the-wells
and vow return another time
each under the other's spell
they leave the flowered vale behind.
The ebb and flow, the joy and sorrow--I alternate my picking and sway my hips suggestively. My skin burns with their intent. I part my lips slightly and wet them with my tongue before continuing.
While the hours dark and moon is pale
both breathe a sigh and sleep beside
another whom sweet lies they tell
'til once again true bliss they find.
I begin my aria. I am now plucking the melody softly, muting the strings with my palm, caressing the neck of my lute like a lover as my fingers restlessly dance across the frets. I'm wet, my own honey dripping down my thighs. I stop playing, my voice crystal clear over the silence of the tavern.
In morning mists and flowered vale,
on lovers lips, while fingers find
the passion of the flesh that swells
and gives its gift in precious time.
There is a moment of silence, then the crowd applauds vigorously. I bow, smiling as I see lust, admiration, and jealousy flash on the faces of my audience--some wear all three.
* * *
I sit in a corner booth, eyeing my prospects. I finished up the night with a recitation of
Mottie's Tight Basket
and a couple lighter tunes to get the beer flowing. Now, I am fishing for something to warm my bed. I'm tired of romance and poetry; I need to be fucked like a serving wench.
Isolde might do in a pinch--hey that rhymes! Gotta remember that for a limerick--if it comes to it. Elves are giving lovers and I bet she could do wondrous things with those slender fingers. Her figure is certainly striking, lithe and taut with narrow shoulders and hips. Mmm, but I'm looking for something different tonight.
Merchant Harwin is eyeing me but he is not to my taste--no offense to those who go in for the fatherly type. Maybe a daddy but not a father, I say. Alaric would fit the bill there. He is rugged but gentle. I have seen him naked once after a keg burst in the cellar, soaking us both.
We had stripped beside the hearth to dry, him looking away because he is that sort of person. He was well-toned and I got a nice glance at his cock from the side; he was blessed. I am sure he caught sight of me in my small clothes--wet fabric clinging to my skin and leaving little to the imagination. Gods I hoped he did. I certainly took my time.
I stir from my thoughts to find I am staring at Alaric. He gives me a wink and return it. No, I want to save that for a special occasion, like the pop of a champagne cork.
Likewise, Cedric won't do; he has a pretty-little-thing in the Iron Quarter he aims to marry. It wouldn't do to come between lovebirds--unless, of course, it's a lover's triangle.
My wine is empty. I trace my finger around the rim of my cup, pouting. Maybe, it's another night of closed eyes and soft moans, letting my hands run wild alongside fantasies. Maybe, I put another mile on that great length of polished oak under my mattress.
"Is this seat taken?" a voice like thunder rolling in the distance asks. There is a hint of an accent but I can't place it.
He is three heads taller than me, and lean looking. His short dark hair falls to his ears in ringlet curls. His clean-shaven jaw is strong but rounder than the Lamarie or Thalassian locals. The rolled sleeves and broad collar of his canvas shirt tells me he is likely a sailor, though his fresh face and warm smell--saffron and cloves--told me he had been in port at least long enough for a shave and a bath.
"Not at all." I gesture to the bench across from me. He sits down beside me instead. It's forward but I like his directness. For now, he will do.
"I'm Cyr, sailor of southern seas and appreciator of fine wine and finer women."
"Oh, have you come here for the wine then?" I arch an eyebrow.
"I haven't had the pleasure yet. I saw you from across the room and thought I needed a drinking partner first. Are you game?"
"If you mean to hunt me, I must warn you that I am not so easily caught," I say into his dark eyes. "If it is a contest you want, I will warn you that I am not easily beaten. But if you are asking if I will drink with you, I again warn you that I am told I am a feisty drunk."
"Excellent!" Cyr says, flashing a bright smile. "You order the best bottle of red here, I will pay for it, and will drink!" He gets up now and seats himself across from me now.
"Running off already?" I ask.
"Easier to talk facing each other--and more room for our elbows." He makes a show of sweeping his hands wide, feigning an expressive motion. "We Castirrans need our hands to talk properly, you know?"
