Chapter 16: Cats in the Sack

High atop the Dawnwall, Lasne yawned widely, jaw cracking as it extended to its limit. She tried not to lean on her spear too obviously; if her captain saw it, she would be strapped for laziness and put on latrine duty for a week. It was difficult, though; the night watch was always like this, quiet and boring with only the seagulls and fellow watchmen for company. At least it wasn’t raining.

Still, she supposed she preferred the same old peace and quiet to the alternative. Blinking beneath the rim of her polished helmet, she peered out over the vast expanse of ocean before her, the waves crashing against the rocks two hundred feet below, sounding distant all the way up here. The moon hung fat and full in the sky, offering more than enough light for her to see any incoming danger. Not that there ever was any. Almost a thousand years this wall had stood, a monument to the stoicism and strength of the Heralds of Dawn, protecting all of Ekistair from the darkness in the north.

Beyond the wall behind Lasne was the sprawling city of Cathgard, one of the five cities that comprised the Dawnguard, and home to more than a hundred thousand souls, all of whom slept peacefully at night thanks to the Heralds’ protection. A sharp gust of wind tugged her red-trimmed yellow cloak out behind her, but she didn’t bother gathering it back around herself; the night was warm enough that she didn’t need it.

From the corner of her eye, she saw a patrolling guard coming, looping back from his last pass of this section of the wall. “All quiet, sister,” he said by rote as he passed behind Lasne.

“All quiet, brother,” she replied automatically. It was always the same. Occasionally there would be some excitement when a shark or whale beached themselves in front of the wall, or a ship or boat washed ashore, wrecked by a storm or bad seas, but that was all. Still, vigilance was required, and necessary. Darkness could only truly take hold when one closed their eyes to it.

The largest concern until recently had been the storms out of the north, wild tempests appearing suddenly and against all weather prediction, wracking the cities of the Northguard as they moved south. Fortunately, they had stopped, and except for the one that had come about a week ago, there had been no more. The best cloudreaders in the whole Northguard had yet to come up with a suitable explanation.

As if the storms weren’t enough, word of bad earthquakes had come up from the southlands, though thankfully nothing more than minor tremors had reached this far north. Lasne had heard from a few Heralds that Maralon had sustained some damage, and nothing had been heard from Vesovar in weeks now. She fingered the haft of her spear uncertainly, a sudden chill creeping up her spine. These were dark days. Perhaps The Culmination was near. She would consider herself both fortunate and unfortunate if it happened in her lifetime.

“I need to stop listening to the prophets,” Lasne muttered to herself, shoving aside her fears. Seven years a Herald, she was happy with her lot. Good pay, city life, a roof over her head. Some people had it much worse. Yes, the Heralds required extreme dedication and loyalty to the cause, but that was fine with Lasne; she had nothing else to attach herself to. No family, no husband, no children. Without the Heralds, she would have just drifted from place to place aimlessly until the day she died.

“All quiet, sister,” the guard said again in the exact same tone as he passed back. Without looking around, Lasne opened her mouth to reply, but the words caught in her throat as the wind suddenly died, cut off as if fingers had suddenly tightened around the throat of the land. Her cloak dropped to hang behind her, and the guard stopped his route and came up beside her, peering out into the night. “Never seen that before,” he murmured.

Neither had Lasne. This close to the ocean, the wind was always blowing to some degree. Her skin prickled, making her want to fidget, but her training kept her in control. She couldn’t stop the flinch that came when a thousand seagulls suddenly burst into the air down below, taking flight all at once. Their raucous calls echoed up and down the wall, all the louder for the lack of wind.

“Something is-” the guardsman started to say, but he never finished the sentence. The wall suddenly heaved, tossing him and Lasne off their feet. She fell hard into the stone parapet, winding herself, but her companion wasn’t so lucky. She raised an arm to try and grab him as he slipped through a crenel, scrabbling for a handhold, but he was too far away for her to help. The look of shock on his face as he passed over the wall made her feel ill.

From there, everything happened at once. Horse-sized chunks of stone began to rain down around her. She curled up into a ball, desperately trying to pull air back into her lungs. It was the worst position to be in when winded, but if one of those huge stones hit her, she was dead. Screams filled the air just before the bells began to ring, bells that had not been rung in almost a thousand years.

The stones stopped falling. Lasne hauled herself to her feet, using the parapet to prop herself up. The blood drained from her face as she stared west, along the battlement. A hundred feet away, the wall was gone, as if smashed by a giant hammer. A frantic look back the other way showed no damage but for the stones and dust littering the battlement. Heralds were coming, running toward her, shouting something, but her ears were blocked.

Her fellows reached her, two of them pulling her away from the hole, dragging her when she didn’t move. She couldn’t move. Her body felt like lead. Her spear was gone. She didn’t remember dropping it. Her eyes were locked on the gap in the wall as she let herself be carried off. So this was how it began. The Culmination had finally come. What else could it be?

She’d been wrong in her thinking earlier; she only felt unfortunate.

“Now this is more like it!” Smythe exclaimed with a broad grin as Aran, Elaina, Amina and himself made their way down one of Beringarde’s wide, paved avenues. Aran couldn’t stop his own smile as the life of the city swirled around him, an almost overwhelming assault of colours and sounds and smells. Musicians played on almost every street corner, often in bands of two or three, accompanied by storytellers or magicians or tumblers or a dozen other kinds of performing artist. Street-side carts were aplenty, many of them cooking foods from all over the land, from pies to noodles to spicy rice dishes to foods Aran had never seen before. Those that weren’t cooking were selling wares, same as any other city. Knives, cloth, leather, fruits and vegetables, pots, shoes, lamps, fireworks; there were too many to count.

Brightly coloured fabrics dangled from windows in the tall buildings lining the streets, in as many colours as there were buildings. Smythe said it was a custom in Beringarde to hang coloured cloth from your window sometimes, though he hadn’t been able to tell Aran what the colours meant.

The people of Beringarde were dressed in the same vibrant hues, though you could hardly call them dressed. Smythe had always said Beringarde was famous - or perhaps infamous - for its uninhibited people, and he had not been overstating the fact. Everywhere Aran looked, people strutted about proudly wearing the the most bizarre - yet often appealing - garb he had ever seen.

A tall, statuesque Human woman with glistening ebony skin swayed past, wearing what looked like tight leather breeches that had been cut off halfway down her bottom, leaving much of her ample cheeks and long legs bare. Her upper body was naked except for a thin strap of fabric that crossed her robust chest horizontally, covering only her nipples. Her face was decorated with some kind of gold paint on her lips and around her eyes, giving her an even more exotic cast. She winked at Aran when she saw him looking at her.

No sooner had the dark woman passed than another walked by, coppery-skinned and beautiful, her slender body draped in loose, filmy fabric that reminded Aran of the vaima. She wore a very short skirt that showed quite clearly that she wore nothing beneath, and a matching ... something ... like a long-sleeved shirt that left her midriff and the bottoms of her breasts exposed, made from the same material as her skirt. She was essentially naked out in broad daylight in the middle of a city, yet she walked straight-backed and proud, as if she wore a queen’s gown and jewels to match.

That was just two people. Almost everyone on the avenue was dressed similarly, men and women alike. Aran had never seen more skin on display in his life. A vala-memory popped up then, a vision of an opulent marble room, littered with bathing pools and luxurious furniture, where a hundred people cavorted and played and made love, nobody wearing a stitch. Alright, so he hadn’t seen more skin on display in his lifetime. Other Paladins’ lifetimes were another matter.

“This place is amazing!” Elaina said delightedly as she stared around, her green eyes bright in her pretty face. She beamed at Aran. He had to agree; his worries seemed less, here, as if the city walls were a buffer against the outside world. He knew it was a lie; the world was waiting out there, yet still it was a nice reprieve.

Even Amina seemed more buoyant, a small smile on her lips as she took in the lively surroundings.

“How do they get away with it?” Aran asked Smythe quietly as they walked. A few people were giving the arohim odd glances, most probably because of their clothes, or their weapons. Aside from themselves, the only weapons in sight were carried by the occasional guard patrol, the only people Aran had seen wearing what would be considered normal attire for most of the world. The thought of guards running around in some of the styles he’d seen so far made him smirk. “This close to...” He left the sentence unfinished. Smythe would know what he meant.

“They have a very clever governor,” Smythe replied as they worked their way down the busy avenue. “She keeps the uh ... Northern interests at bay with her brilliant political mind, or so I hear.” Something in his tone made Aran’s ears prick up.

“How long since you’ve seen her?” he asked casually.

Smythe made no outward sign, but Aran would have bet if the man didn’t have an arohim’s grace, he would have stumbled. “Is it that obvious?” he cast a resigned look at Aran.

“No, but I know you, friend.”

Their conversation attracted the attention of Elaina and Amina.

“Henley, how long since you have been here?” Amina asked.

“About twenty years, I suppose,” Smythe answered. He looked longingly at a cart nearby which displayed large, fresh pies on a long tray. Aran’s own belly rumbled, too. It would be good to eat, soon.

“And how long were you here for?” Amina said.

“Only a few months.”

“How does the city feel to you?” the Priestess continued. She was studying their surroundings intently. Aran wondered where she was going with her line of questioning.

Smythe looked thoughtful. “Much the same. Perhaps a little less flamboyant than I remember.”

Elaina scoffed. “This is less flamboyant?” she discreetly gestured with her hand at the people around them. A muscular man happened to walk by her right at that time wearing nothing but a series of leather straps and a tall pair of matching boots. With his privates on full display, he was the perfect punctuation to Elaina’s comment.

“Aye, believe it or not,” Smythe replied, sounding amused. “Perhaps it is my imagination, but time will tell.”

Elaina said something doubtful under her breath, her eyes still drinking in the visual feast around them. Aloud, she said, “I’ve half a mind to strip down and join them. I haven’t seen anything like this since Ildernass.”

Aran chuckled. “As much as I’d like to see that, perhaps we should keep a low profile for now.” Four scantily clad arohim would draw attention, even in Beringarde.

Elaina nodded reluctantly. “Can we at least eat? I’m famished and the food here smells bloody delicious.” They passed a noodle cart on their left, the slender woman inside smiling at them compellingly as she held out a fresh, steaming bowl to tempt them, as if the transparent gown she wore was not enough to get their attention.

“Yes,” Smythe answered, pulling his eyes away from the noodle woman. “But not here. Come, I know a place. At least, I did. With luck, it is still there. We can eat and perhaps make a useful introduction or two.”

Twenty minutes later, Smythe stopped at a tall stone building where the main avenue connected with a smaller side street. The arched entrance was on the corner of the building, facing the street, and the wide steps leading to it were cornered in the same fashion, wrapping around the entrance. A broad sign hung over the door, featuring a very buxom woman reclining on a lounge, reaching for a bunch of grapes held out for her by a man in a loincloth. The text above the picture read “The Lady’s Fancy.”

The four arohim studied the sign for a moment, then Aran, Elaina and Amina looked to Smythe expectantly. “Looks like it’s still here,” he said. Aran couldn’t tell if he was pleased or not.

“This is a lady’s parlour, I take it?” Amina asked Smythe. When he nodded, she started up the steps. “Excellent. Well done, Henley.” She pushed the polished wooden door open and disappeared inside without another word.

“What’s a ‘lady’s parlour?’” Elaina enquired, staring after the Priestess.

“It’s where women can go when they want to relax,” Smythe replied somewhat reluctantly. Why was he so uncomfortable? Aran was determined to find out. “Like a tavern, but different.”

“Different how?” Elaina demanded, bristling with curiosity. Any second, she was going to bolt in there to find out for herself.

Smythe sighed heavily. “Just go in there and have a look. You’ll quite like it, I’m sure.”

Elaina did just that, hopping up the stairs and entering the parlour, leaving Aran and Smythe alone. “Alright, man, spill it.” Aran said, drawing Smythe to one side to make room for a cluster of four women about to ascend the steps. All of them slightly above middle aged, they cast appraising glances over the Paladins as they passed. The way they held themselves, and their expensive-looking clothes - or lack thereof - made Aran think they were wealthy.

“Spill what?” Smythe asked, feigning a look of innocence.

Aran punched him in the shoulder. “Come on.”

Sighing again, the big man slumped his shoulders, giving in. “Alright, if you must know, I worked here for a time, while I was in the city.”

Aran looked at him quizzically. “Why is that making you so uncomfortable?” Suddenly it dawned on him. “Oh! I know what this place is!” Aran’s eyes darted to the sign again. “You would have been popular in there, man. But I still don’t understand what the problem is.”

Smythe rubbed the back of his neck and grinned ruefully. “Wait till you meet Jesserae. Then you’ll understand.” Without further explanation, he turned and ascended the steps, giving Aran no choice but to follow, wondering who this ‘Jesserae’ was, and why she had Smythe so out of countenance.

He entered the establishment on the bigger man’s heels, passing through the tall doors into a huge, lavish room lined with lounges and armchairs. Silk hangings and elegant tapestries decorated the walls, mostly in colours of pink and lavender and white.

There were about two dozen women scattered about the room, some reclining on lounges, some eating or drinking at the tables near the centre of the room. Many of them were nude, without even the scant cladding he’d seen outside. Men moved about the room, all of them fit and handsome, attending to the women.

Soft music drifted from the far left corner of the room, where a slender man with long golden hair plucked the string of a silver-gilded harp with deft fingers.

“Never been inside one of these places,” Aran murmured as he stared around with a smile. Off to the right, on a lounge against the wall, a middle-aged Human woman in an open silk robe lay back with her legs across a young man’s lap. He was massaging her feet in a way that appeared most satisfying to her. At a group of tables just ahead, a tall, slender fellow wearing only a narrow waist wrap was pouring drinks for three women, one of whom was casually stroking his bottom as she chatted to her companions.

Smythe didn’t get a chance to answer as a massive Orc woman appeared in front of them. She’d been leaning against the wall near the door when they’d entered, but she’d started moving as soon as they appeared. Brown-skinned and over eight feet tall, she looked the Paladins up and down almost critically, arms crossed over a titanic bosom barely contained in a leather vest. A short skirt in matching leather covered her waist but left most of her thick legs bare.

“I suppose you are in charge of security?” Aran said amicably, looking up at her. She looked tough, but was not unattractive, with a handsome face and a gleam in her big dark eyes. One side of her head was shaved, her black silky hair hanging down the other side of her face. It was an interesting look.

“You’d be right,” she replied flatly, though her lips were curved slightly around the two small tusks that jutted up from her lower jaw.

“Hello, Bruga,” Smythe said politely, though he still sounded like he wanted to be somewhere else. He was undoing the strap across his chest that held Lightbringer to his back with an air of practiced repetition. The Orc held out her hand and grinned at him.

“Hello, handsome,” she almost purred. “It’s been far too long.”

Smythe’s eyes said it hadn’t been long enough by a lifetime, but he kept that to himself. “I just couldn’t stay away,” he said with a smile as he handed her his sword. She took the heavy weapon easily, then looked to Aran.

Following suit, he undid his sword belt and handed it to the guard. She looked him up and down again. “You hardly look like you need this anyway,” she remarked, hefting Oroth. “Shame you aren’t a woman. You’d get paid well to keep an eye on this place. Gods know I need the help.”

Aran looked around again. It hardly seemed like the place that needed much security.

Bruga must have seen something in his face, for she added, “You’d be surprised what can happen here, handsome. Things can get rough.”

Aran tried to imagine exactly how, but aside from women getting drunk and fighting - which seemed unlikely to him - he was left guessing.

“Is she around?” Smythe asked almost hesitantly.

Bruga smirked. “Alright, alright, keep your pants on, big man. At least for now. She’s in back. She took one look at your two ladies and whisked them off personally. She’s probably already got them into a hot bath by now, I’d say.”

“Ah, grand,” Smythe said, his words belying his expression.

Aran could indeed sense Elaina somewhere nearby. Directly ahead, the opposite side of the room was sectioned off by hanging silks and curtains. She was back there somewhere, and still in good spirits.

Bruga chuckled. “Relax, man. It’s not so bad being back, is it? I remember you having a wonderful time, for the most part. The regulars still talk about you.” Indeed, Aran noticed no few women were glancing at Smythe, some outright staring hungrily. Particularly the older patrons. “I remember you leaving here with a few fat purses of gold, too. Some of the boys were jealous, you getting all the good jobs and all.”

Smythe grunted, hardly appearing mollified at her attempts to ease him. He opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by another woman approaching. This time an Elf - a Tar’elda of all things - her voluptuous form clad only in a loosely tied silk robe so sheer you could see right through it. Her pale skin almost glowed in the afternoon sun streaming in through the doorway. Stunning blue eyes just a little too large to pass for a Human’s twinkled as she regarded the men. Hair like spun gold hung to her waist, loose and silky, parted on the sides of her head by long, pointed ears.

A High Elf this far north? An Orc was one thing, but a Tar’elda... . This Jesserae must be very well connected indeed to harbour outlawed races here.

“Welcome, my young stallions,” she greeted them in a voice fit to raise the heartbeat of any man in earshot. She reached out with both hands and gently brushed Aran’s and Smythe’s arms with a light, but deliberate pressure. Her full lips were curved enticingly. This Elf was a very experienced courtesan. Judging by her form, she was at least five-hundred years old, maybe more. “I am Lenaila,” she said to Aran. Welcome to The Lady’s Fancy.” To Smythe, she said, “It is well to see you again, Henley. We have missed you.” She smelled faintly of roses and a spice Aran couldn’t put a name to. She was quite something to behold.

Bruga gave Aran and Smythe a wink and moved off to put their weapons in a stout but elaborately gilded chest in one corner. Aran unconsciously marked it in his mind.

“Thank you, Lenaila,” Aran replied, offering a small bow. “It is a pleasure to meet you. This is a very fine establishment.”

Smythe cut Aran a flat look but said nothing.

“Such manners,” Lenaila cooed in a perfectly honed tone of seduction. She looked at Aran as if he were the only man in the world. He doubted there were any men she came across that did not end up obeying her every whim. “Henley, you have brought us a real treasure.”

Aran thought Smythe was now suppressing a grin. “He is a fine man, my life on it,” the big Paladin said, stroking his moustaches.

“I require no convincing,” the Elf said, going so far as to bite her lip while letting her eyes travel over Aran’s form. The fingers of one hand played along the lapel of her robe, subtly drawing attention to her breasts, the inner slopes left bare. In fact, the robe was open all the way to the sash, showing her smooth midriff down to her navel. Lower, every movement she made gave a glimpse of the bare mound between her legs. Aran knew it was all deliberate on Lenaila’s part, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy the show.

“Come,” she purred. “Jesserae will not abide me letting two such fine men stand around idly. Follow me, please.” She turned and headed for the rear of the room, her ample hips swaying as if to the beat of a silent drum.

The Paladins followed, moving through the parlour after the Elf, no few pairs of eyes trailed after them as women wondered who they were. A couple called out after Smythe, recognising him, but he politely waved them off. Lenaila pushed through a section of lavender silk curtain to reveal a long hallway lined with intricately carved doors in fine blackwood. Aran was sorely tempted to open his vala enough to sense the happenings behind those doors, but he resisted. Besides, the erotic moaning floating out of a few of them was enough to hazard a good guess.

Lenaila stopped at a doorway at the far end of the corridor and shot them a knowing look over her shoulder before pushing it open to reveal another wide space almost the same size as the front room, though this one was quite obviously a bath house, and a rather elaborate one, at that.

Walls and floor all in fine pale marble, the room was a masterpiece of craftsmanship. A wide, shallow channel ran the perimeter of the space, serving as a drain for the water that sprayed from clusters of small holes in the ceiling. The steam in the air said the water was hot.

Smythe glanced at Aran. “Dwarvish pipework,” he said. “Can’t be matched.”

Aran nodded, remembering how good it had been back at the Chapel. Down the middle of the room, a double row of round pools were cut into the floor, each one ten feet across, most of them occupied by at least one woman, and with a male attendant either standing by or actively attending to the needs of the patrons. More women stood beneath the showers, many of those also being attended, whether it be washed or massaged or something a little more direct.

Two such women were Amina and Elaina, already stripped down and luxuriating beneath the hot spray along the left wall. Aran eyed them hungrily. A hot shower suddenly seemed a very fine idea. Many of the women in the room were pretty, even beautiful, but none came close to the two arohim. Indeed, they were the object of a mix of stares from the patrons that ranged from lust to jealousy and everything in between. No few of the male attendants had become rather distracted from their tasks, which was no surprise to Aran.

Lenaila turned to Aran and Smythe, a coy smile on her perfect lips. “Off with your clothes, now,” she almost chivied in that smoky purr. “Clothing is forbidden for men, in here.”

Indeed, every other man in the room was bare-skinned. Aran sensed amusement through the melda, and looked over to see Elaina watching him, waggling her eyebrows teasingly.

“Lenaila,” Smythe began in a somewhat diplomatic tone, “you should know that we are not staying, this time.”

The Tar’elda merely looked at him, her expression not changing a whit.

Smythe sighed and started pulling his shirt out of his breeches. “Alright, but you cannot keep us here against our will.”

“We did it before,” Lenaila replied, an almost predatory grin spreading across her face.

Smythe just grunted and kept undressing. Aran followed suit, and a few moments later they were both naked. The steam felt good on his dirty skin, increasing his desire to get clean.

“Very suitable,” Lenaila cooed as she stepped up to Aran, almost close enough for her full breasts to brush his middle. “I am not sure about the scars, though little can be done about those, I suppose.” Her eyes travelled up and down, making him feel equal parts excited, and like a fish being inspected at market. “On a normal day,” she went on, “I would take you for myself and determine your skills.” What that meant, Aran could guess without explanation. “But today, your women get first preference. This is, after all, The Lady’s Fancy.” She moved out of the way, but not before brushing a hand across the sensitive skin just above his cock.

“I can see why you stayed here a while,” Aran said as Lenaila disappeared through the door behind them.

“It has its benefits,” the big man admitted as they made their way to Amina and Elaina. Both women were facing them now, almost identical smiles on their faces. Aran didn’t need the vala to know what they wanted. “But you haven’t met Jesserae yet.”

Aran was going to ask more about this mysterious woman, but as he stepped under the spray, Elaina put her arms around his neck and pressed her soft, wet body against him, making him forget about anything else. He let his body come to life, his erection springing up between her lush thighs and resting along the smooth cleft at their apex. Her heat radiated onto his hardness as she kissed him.

“Mmm,” she murmured against his lips. “We haven’t done this for a while.”

Aran ran his hands down her slim back, then slid them over her wide hips before gripping two handfuls of her ample bottom. She made an appreciative noise. “Not since the Chapel, if I recall correctly.”

Beside them, Smythe and Amina were engaged in a similar embrace, though Smythe already had Amina pinned against the marble wall, her long legs entwined around his waist. They weren’t fucking yet, but they were kissing passionately. Aran could sense all the eyes watching them, and the room had grown very quiet in the few moments.

“I miss those days,” Elaina said into his ear as she pushed her hips forward. She started a slow rhythm, dragging his cock along her slit, teasing them both. “Just us, in the middle of nowhere, hidden from the world.”

“Me too,” he replied thickly. She was kissing his neck now, hitting all his favourite spots. “One day, we’ll go back. Our little sanctuary in the forest.”

“I will go anywhere with you,” she breathed before kissing him again. “But it will never be the same, never just the two of us again.”

What did she mean? Did she want things to be different? When had that changed? Aran rested his forehead against hers. “Elaina...”

She put a finger across his lips and smiled. “I wouldn’t change anything for the world, my love. That is not what I was saying. But I can miss those times if I choose, can I not?” Her emerald eyes were full of love.

Aran nodded, letting his concerns fade. “Of course you can. And so will I.” Their lips met again, and Aran picked her up and pressed her back to the wall in a mirror of Smythe and Amina beside them. With a quick adjustment of his hips, he was nestled at her entrance. He met her eyes, heavy with desire as he pushed forward, penetrating her. She clutched him tightly as he sank into her hot channel, her strong inner muscles gripping his length, urging him to go as deeply as he could. They found their rhythm at once, as familiar as breathing. A wet slapping filled the air as their bodies moved.

“Don’t wait,” she growled in his ear. “Erupt inside me. I need to feel it.” She clutched handfuls of his hair and leaned back as he picked up speed. He held her weight easily, holding her by her butt and delighting in the way her mammoth breasts shifted and swayed on her chest.