Flecks of snow still tinselled roofs and sloshed on curbsides, but the cocks already glutted the city. Bakeries and taverns had piled them high on their tables and displays. Sugary and sweet, or savoury and wrapped in sage. Adults noshed on them with their drinks. And children stuffed their mouths with sweet ones baked in fat, even though the Days of Lard would not begin for quite some time. Some stood man-high, doughy pillars, too large to be eaten, and too large to fit into any of the smaller houses.
And there was the hard-shelled kind. Refugees of the last Great War had brought them from the verdant hell of the Empire. Once a rare treat for sorcerous nobles, Aspyra's rich stores of flour had made them widely available. And the swirl of scandalous rumours had made them popular.
Rorvalen, sometimes called Houndslayer, bought hers up in the Fifth, far away from her hideout. Used as she was to hiding her body, face and ears behind the dark, hooded cloak, she had nonetheless waited until twilight filled the small bakery. She had waited until she could melt into the shadows.
Of all the things she had learned at Glitterscale Orphanage –
letters and numbers, scraping and thievery – she had never expected to even remember Father Trawlings' long sermons about divine flames and womanly purity. She certainly never had cared before. Yet something about the infernal, the forbidden cocks, made her skin crawl.
Probably won't even use it
, she thought. But it was heavy, and the smell delightful.
"Ever used one?" she asked the woman behind the counter.
The other woman paled, then reddened. Green eyes peered from behind cute, blonde bangs. She looked around, then glanced at Rorvalen. Cast down her eyes and, finally, almost imperceptibly, nodded.
Rorvalen's heart was racing. It was racing when she paid the baker with shaking hands. And it was racing still when she entered the draketram. The carriage was almost empty, only the driver outside and a lonely drunk in front. The cock weighty in her arms. And her heart was racing still.
For two long bells, the emptying tram had struggled homewards. And the fresh bread smell from the paper-wrapped packet under her cloak had made her mouth water. Touching the outline, she trembled. Lifelike. No – better. Harder and blessed, maybe, by foreign gods. Demons of pleasure, sterner and wilder than mortal dick. A shudder gripped her. With wetness growing between her legs, she yearned to touch. But at any moment another passenger could enter.
Again, she traced her fingers along the hard-shelled cock. Flashing quick, she parted her cloak, and revealed the smooth, brown length. The driver took a sharp left turn, and she almost dropped it. Pointing it out inside the dimly lit store, she had not expected this much detail. Coiling veins, and the engorged head. It seemed oversized. Licking her lips, she stole one last glance. Then she hid it back away.
Outside the houses of the Seventh had passed. Large, dark obsidian; four storeys high and adorned with bronze and ivory. Now the carved sandstone of the Old Harbour lined the road.
Inside, the drunkard shifted but could not see her. With a shudder, she touched the baked dildo. Her fingers trembled when she wedged them under her belt and found her hungry wetness.
Suddenly, the driver rang his bell and the tram stopped. The man inside staggered upright. Their eyes met. Stumbling, he shuffled towards the door. And towards her. His fish-like eyes were always on her. She sat there, frozen. Despite the heavy cloak, she felt exposed. He took another floundering step and sniffed. Her cheeks were burning, and she did not dare to breathe. Then the door closed behind him.
Rorvalen exhaled. Her whole body was covered; he could not have seen. The stench of wine, stale and sour, filled the air. Her fingers smelled like gash, but even the subtle aroma of her perfume had lost against the vinegar.
Outside, the driver cracked his whip, and the two scaly beasts in front lurched forward. Gentle vibrations rocked the train as they drove past the bakeries and taverns along the Old Harbour. The smell of freshly baked cocks – lard, sugar and sage – was almost enough to drown out the reek of the tanneries. Almost.
Inside, she sat alone. And she could feel the tremors. The cock weighed heavy in her arms, and her fingers still ventured beneath her belt. She moaned, softly, through half-opened lips. Jolts ran along her spine. Lights rushed past her lidded eyes. She could feel the wetness on her fingertips. Warmth and need, and her longing unanswered.
The bell rang out again. The tram jerked and came to a sudden halt. Rorvalen's eyes flashed open. Her station. Made keenly aware of her situation, she hurried outside. The familiar rush, though heightened by shame. The relief of success, of survival. And the need – to celebrate, to fuck. Or at least to pleasure herself.
Overconfidence.
Melting into darkness, Rorvalen listened.
The crack of the whip, and a roar. The drakes lurched forward, and the vehicle vanished amid smoky mist and drunken crowds. Voices, down the street. The sound of distant clamour where carved stone turned to brickwork, turned to straw-thatched mud-and-wood huts. There, among the churn – among the tanneries, scale-a-cup wine-sinks, and brothels – had she made her lair.
Most of the dragonlights on Piss Alley were dead. Tar-less, and without crystals. Long shadows loomed over the narrow road. She liked it that way. Soft-stepped if a bit bow-legged, she slid down the street, to her blind alley. Pausing, she listened. Nothing.
She danced the three-step-and-jump downwards, until she reached the door to her bolthole.
Sea-wind blew the smell of salt and fish-guts up from the bay. She turned the keys on the lock to her cellar-den and loosened the inner tripwires. The door clicked shut behind her, and she locked the bolts tight. A perfumed candle, lit in a hurry, would cleanse away the stench of harbour and tanneries.
Even the weak light was almost bright enough to illuminate her whole room. There was a small wooden table with a lonesome chair. There was the straw mattress on the floor, her bed, piled high with blankets and pillows. There was the sack where she kept her foodstuffs, and what few utensils she possessed. And there was the metal-bound chest with the expensive lock where she stored her clothes and necessities. Finally, there was the cold fireplace.
Candle in hand, she approached the kitchen part. In the sack she found tinder, kindling and her box with Tatters' nash. She took one of the three remaining balls. Chewing on the spicy gum, she knelt by the pit. Moving aside the grating and her soot-black pot, she stacked up twigs and logs.
The hungry candle-flame consumed first straw, then wood. Soon warmth flowed from the small fire and chased away the creeping cold. With a sigh, she cast off the heavy cloak. She wore a tight buttoned blue-black blouse underneath. And black-blue pants, with dark-brown soft-soled boots. On her waist rode a thin, night-grey belt where she stored her coin-purse, her tools and keys, and the small feysilver dagger. A strand of black-dyed hair fell in front of her eyes, and she tamed the wild locks enough to hide her ears.
She put down the bread dildo on the table, and exhaled. A comfy glow filled the room, and the grimy filth of the outside world seemed far away.
Soon.
Her window – wooden slats and shearpad paper, placed in the single light shaft up to Piss Alley – was unmolested. Clean white, save the songbird she had doodled on the lower right corner. She moved them aside. Behind, the iron bars held firm. Chewing, she controlled the wire release. The hidden mechanism wailed, and she decided that she would need to oil the lock bolt soon.
Next, she checked the thin flour-lines and found them undisturbed. And the hair she had wedged into the gap of the loose floorboard where she kept her actual valuables was still there. Rorvalen allowed herself to relax.
Yesterday, she had bought some wine and the earthen jug was only half-emptied. She retrieved it and a tin cup from her satchel. The baked cock loomed large. Her gum joined the sticky mass of others under the tabletop. She took a drink. Sour berries and a hint of burnt nuts. The sharp aftertaste of her nash.
She picked up her dildo, and smirked. In the soft and safe light of her own home it seemed silly. No longer strange, nor forbidden, just an oversized tool for bored housewives. With a grunt, she refilled her cup. Up to the brim.
"So stupid," she heard herself whisper. She sipped more wine, then even more. On her red-stained tongue, she tasted salt. Herbs; thyme, or maybe elflove. Yeasty, crunchy, moreish bread. She scraped her teeth along the length but resisted the urge to bite deep into the savoury crust.
