Winter, 511 AV
OOCPlease choose a date to your liking.
The bowels of the Nest were unusually quiet, for the amount that gathered between swaths of white silk and reclined with swollen bellies on cushioned lounges. Dreamsmoke filled the air; a young woman with a torrent of brown curls and a somber face plucked the strings of a lyre; another pair of girls, no older than fifteen, were wrapped in each others arms, one whispered a folktale of home: a Talderan wonderland where their Mother walked the earth and patrolling white beasts of incredible size protected them.
Swyph was squatted in the midst of it all, surprisingly enough, in his own skin. A robe of flowing white wrapped his svelte form, liable to be made of the same fabric that fell from the ceiling in a thousand directions. His hands wrung the leather of an empty harness, its metal rings clinking against the floor as he toyed with its straps. They had taken another today; it was early, she had come in willingly, after rutting with a Symenestra on a merchant caravan headed towards Kalinor for the silk trade. How convenient. The harness was a formality, though she had been less than impressed by it.
She was quiet now. They were all quiet, and Swyph had spent himself on their silence. His head ached, his mouth tasted of abhorrent metal. When the muffled thump of feet hitting the floor rang from the Nest’s only entrance, a discreet hole in the ceiling, he snapped to attention to glare at the offender.
The bowels of the Nest were unusually quiet, for the amount that gathered between swaths of white silk and reclined with swollen bellies on cushioned lounges. Dreamsmoke filled the air; a young woman with a torrent of brown curls and a somber face plucked the strings of a lyre; another pair of girls, no older than fifteen, were wrapped in each others arms, one whispered a folktale of home: a Talderan wonderland where their Mother walked the earth and patrolling white beasts of incredible size protected them.
Swyph was squatted in the midst of it all, surprisingly enough, in his own skin. A robe of flowing white wrapped his svelte form, liable to be made of the same fabric that fell from the ceiling in a thousand directions. His hands wrung the leather of an empty harness, its metal rings clinking against the floor as he toyed with its straps. They had taken another today; it was early, she had come in willingly, after rutting with a Symenestra on a merchant caravan headed towards Kalinor for the silk trade. How convenient. The harness was a formality, though she had been less than impressed by it.
She was quiet now. They were all quiet, and Swyph had spent himself on their silence. His head ached, his mouth tasted of abhorrent metal. When the muffled thump of feet hitting the floor rang from the Nest’s only entrance, a discreet hole in the ceiling, he snapped to attention to glare at the offender.