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
