Repercussions of Devotion - Chapter 3
Upon arriving at The Selkie's Call, Locke delivers the information he has gathered over the course of a month to the Princep.
Chapter 3
The fragrance of floral incense wafts out into the open air. The smell overtakes Locke’s senses. I don’t understand why he insists on burning so much. He reaches for the curtain, his fingers barely grazing the thin drape before a large staff rests upon his hand. His eyes roll as he looks up at the guard. “State your business, dwarf-kin.” The guard’s voice is gruff and monotone.
Locke can’t help himself as he stares at the elven guard’s bare chest and exposed leg on the sides of his teal silk pants. At least this one’s easy on the eyes. Locke thought, trying to ignore how the light of the candles bounced off the man’s deep skin. Then his mind wanders, thinking about the man who waited inside for him. Locke had never seen light react this way on anyone else, the words he spoke laced with a mix of honey and venom. I wonder if he’s wearing something similar today.
The guard clears his throat, snapping Locke back into reality. “Why are you here, dwarf?”
Not again. Why does he change guards so often! Locke thought. Huffing, he decides to reveal the obsidian blade, but the elf seems unfazed. “That means nothing here.”
Locke sticks his tongue out slightly in a mocking fashion as he puts the dagger away. “I’ll keep it brief - I am meeting with Lord Scorpiris and am very late. So, if you could kindly let me through, we can move past this and-”
“You have business with the Princep? I highly doubt that,” the guard interrupted, maneuvering the staff to block more of the path. “Lord Scorpiris didn’t mention any meetings today. Unless you’re coming as a patron, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave. No one sees the Princep uninvited.”
Guess I’m doing this the old-fashioned way. He pulls his hood back far enough so that only his mouth is showing, giving the guard a small smirk and purrs, “I’m more of a come when it suits me sort of person. Much like most of your patrons, if you catch my meaning.”
His prey’s rigid facade begins to fade, slowly becoming a shade of pink. He tries to hide it, but finds that unless he drops the staff, he can’t. Locke slightly cocks his head to the side, purposefully showing his dark gray eyes, his fingers dancing on the man’s chest. “Perhaps when I am done with my business, I’ll relieve you from duty for a while.”
Swallowing hard, the guard stumbles over his words as he reiterates, “O-o-only those who are expected are a-a-allowed entry, dwarf.”
“That’s enough, Daniil. It’s painful watching you,” a woman’s voice calls out from behind the curtain. Locke peeks around the elven guard, identified as Daniil. He finds the owner of the voice, her clothes similar to Daniil’s, save for a top covering her small breasts. The fabric wraps around her neck, connecting at the back. Although her toned midriff still shows. The dark elf woman stands with most of her weight to one side, giving the impression that she couldn’t care less about the situation before her. This confirmed Locke’s suspicions; Avgust wasn’t in a good mood. Great.
He gives her a smile, along with a quick bow. He begins to speak but is interrupted. “You’re late, Nerium.”
“Nice to see you too, Anja,” he mutters, straightening himself back up.
“Nerium?” Daniil’s tone is confused as Anja shoves the staff out of Locke’s way. The green-eyed man examines Locke as he removes his hood with a cocky smirk. “As in Avgust’s pet?”
Locke gives a faux bow of respect, not once letting his gaze leave the guard. “The one and only.”
Anja rolls her amber eyes. “Yes, unfortunately.” She then moves her attention to Locke. “Follow me.” Locke does as he is told. However, he strokes the guard’s arm one last time to make him shudder. “Stop torturing Daniil,” she reprimands him. “Last thing we need is the Princep losing his composure. If he learns you were caught messing around with a guard again…”
Upon entering Selkie’s Call, all the elves wear the same outfit in various colors. Locke does what he can to keep his blood from boiling, the sight of both men and women alike grabbing onto the helpless dark elven harlots. Unfortunately, the whores do all they can to survive and not anger the patrons.
Locke sees a bit of his younger self when looking at a young man sitting on the lap of one much older than him. That version of himself hadn’t been consumed by the world’s darkness yet. The memory of his twenty-year-old self still haunts him, seducing anyone for the sole purpose of gathering information. Strange that he still dealt with information, only with less manipulation now. As the older man forces the younger man to feed him his drink, Locke feels anger building in his veins. The young elven man’s face begs for someone to help him. The half-dwarf scans the room, the walls covered in golden drapes and the scent of smoky rose petals infesting every surface. All with the intention of hiding more notorious scents. No one came to save me, either.
“I hope you have good news to present,” Anja says, breaking him from his trance.
Locke tosses his head. Right. Remember what you’re here for. “Seems like the ‘pet’ rumors have gotten out of hand,” he says, casting his gaze to the large balcony.
“One of the many reasons he’s in a piss-poor mood as of late,” she comments, her thick black curls swaying as she shrugs and tosses her head side to side, “And do not refer to the Princep in that manner. It’s disrespectful.”
Hard to keep respect when everyone knows you have a weakness. Locke thinks, ignoring the glares as he passes by. Locke knew full well what they all believed about him - Avgust allowed him to leave because it was his ‘Precious Nerium’ asking. Anja’s strong strides part the waters of the onlookers, some of them patrons licking their lips at the sight of her. One threatening gaze from Locke, however, keeps them from acting on impulse. Many underestimated how easily Locke is able to keep these swine at bay. Along with how he can seduce them with a single breath.
The pair begin to climb the stairs leading to the balcony. Locke feels his cloak slowly drape off his shoulders, falling behind him like a dark shadow. He grabs the left side to drag it as he approaches the Princep. Once close enough, Anja motions her hand towards the aubergine silk pillow Avgust usually sits on when he allows patrons in. Locke never understood why a runaway slave from Ekkeheart would wish to run a brothel. Even if Avgust allowed his people to treat the patrons as they pleased, it was the same premise. Except now he benefited from gathering information in the process. The dark elf’s skin radiates in the light, various colorful beads of shape and sizes were scattered throughout the long braids of his thick white mane His fuchsia robes glisten in that same light as he swirls the wine goblet in his hand and dismisses the young woman beside him. Upon seeing Locke, the girl freezes in place, then looks over to Anja. The older woman nods, stating in Elven, “Ranitian Wine for our guest.” The young woman complies in an instant.
Locke doesn’t approach the Princep. If he spoke too soon, Anja would give him one of her lethal stares and tell him to know his place. This same scenario happened too often for his liking. Instead, he waits to be spoken to. She bends down close to his ear and whispers, “No one has given him anything other than idle gossip about the Montreuxs.”
He snickers at her attempt to be discreet. She doesn’t know I’ve been teaching Avst Elven. Good. It’ll help him hear what the others think of him. Locke decides to humor her, and replies in the same language, “And he’s upset why? If anything, he should be amused!”
She shakes her head, causing her large earrings to jingle. “It’s not good when there’s something brewing in the heart of Lysia. Problem is, we can’t figure out what.”
He looks over towards Avgust, seeing the dark elven man’s knuckles slowly turn white from gripping the railing. “Good thing I’m prepared then.” Locke replies in common.
“You always are,” she says, her tone hushed. Anja never approved of Locke being brought into the fold, and she made no effort to show otherwise. Locke’s eyes narrow as he crosses his arms. She takes notice as she sneers at him. “The only reason you’re here is because he allows it. If it were up to me–”
“I’m aware.” Locke interrupts with venom. As Anja starts to speak once more, the girl returns with a golden goblet filled to the brim with bitter peach wine. He takes it gently and inhales a large sip of it. “Did you make sure to sneak some for yourself?” he asks her. “Avst isn’t stingy with it, you know?”
Before the girl can answer, Anja takes her arm and spits, “Save it for the Princep. You’re going to need it.” After Anja is out of sight, Locke takes a large swig of liquid courage. He places the goblet beside the floor pillow and approaches Avgust. He leans on the rail beside the Princep, then looks out across the brothel floor. The lust-hungry patrons were more voracious than usual. Locke knew what happened next to many of them. The memories of his time here make his stomach curl into knots.
“You’re late.” Avgust said in a sultry voice, laced with an undercurrent of rage. The dwelf shifts his attention to the elven lord and sees him biting his lower lip hard. Locke sees blood welling up in the bite marks. Has it really been that bad lately? Blowing his bangs out of his face, he takes the Princep’s arm and pulls him away from the balcony. Avgust snatches his arm away, sparks bouncing off his fingertips. Anja’s right. He is in the mood.
Locke’s gray eyes meet Avgust’s silver ones, resisting the urge to get lost in them. He places his hand on his hip and shifts his body enough that his hair drapes slowly to the side, putting on a playful mask. “You know how it goes - neighbor brings a man home, everything goes wrong in the morning and -”
“You were writing one of your unnecessary letters, weren’t you?” Avgust interrupts him, his demeanor cold as stone.
Locke feigns ignorance and offense. “Why Avst! I have been having such a hard time getting here, braving drunken humans on my doorstep, and you accuse me of wasting my morning writing? And here I believed you thought more highly of me!”
“The palm of your right hand is covered in ink,” Avgust comments, crossing his arms over his chest. The beads in his hair clink against each the with the slightest movement. “You realized you were running behind and dealt with your neighbor, but that didn’t stop you from getting a croissant. A burnt one based on the crumbs on your shirt, meaning you tried to get it from that dwarven baker, which I will never understand because she never gives you a good one.” Avgust’s eyes narrow, scanning over the half-elf’s body. “Since Anja was with you, I’ll assume you were flirting with the new guard. Again.” Locke is speechless as the five foot seven man bends down so that he is eye level with the four foot ten dwelf. “Then you have the audacity to be extremely late. And now, you’re acting as if you’re not guilty. How close am I?”
Locke is dumbfounded at how easily the elf recounted everything. He smiles sheepishly. “That’s why you’re the Princep! So observant and intelligent, Av -” He cuts himself short as Avgust’s expression changes ever so slightly into annoyance at the casual use of his name, and quickly adjusts, “My lord. Your most benevolent…um…” Seeing the lord is still not satisfied, Locke’s nerves begin to eat away at him. Enough that he starts falling back into his old habit of theatrics, waving his arms and exaggerating the tone of his voice. “Princep Scorpiris of the Stern District. Gracious and patient and understanding of your servants, both those within and outside of Selkie’s Call.”
The lord’s harsh demeanor cracks as he begins snickering. He covers his mouth and whispers as he giggles, “You look ridiculous, Locke.” The half-elf lets out a sigh of relief, his shoulders dropping. “However,” Avgust begins, causing Locke’s body to tighten, “that doesn’t mean you’re out of trouble. Please tell me you have real information. I don’t think I can take more of the Montreuxs’ recent antics.”
“What are they doing this time?”
“They’re hunting down every silver spoon with lilies on them.”
“Why on earth are they - never mind. I don’t want to know.” Locke mutters.
“Something about melting them to make a proposal ring for their oldest son to give to the princess.” Avgust grunts, “That and how they’re licking Genevieve’s boots in hopes to make the prospective couple meet. Nothing substantial, per usual.” He plops down onto his silken pillow and rubs his temples, groaning. “I swear, more people care about gossiping about that family’s ridiculous scandals than about anything important! It’s all noble bullshit!”
Leaning against the balcony, Locke comments, “Would it make you feel better if I told you Genevieve is planning another mage draft?”
Avgust’s left ear perks up in intrigue. His expression is cold as iron; his tone of voice, however, betrays him. “That hasn’t happened in six years!”
Locke walks towards Avgust, making sure his hips are swaying in just the right motion to keep the elf lord watching. He turns with a smile on his face and casually leans against the Princep’s shoulder. Drinking the wine, he adds, “Interesting, no? News in Starboard is that Genevieve is preparing a mage draft for her army. Bold move when relations with the dwarven merchant lords are being held by weakened chains. Suppose it makes sense, considering the DeRosiers pulled out of being emissaries to negotiate with Ekkeheart. I’d bet my coin that she’s panicking.”
The color drains from Avgust’s umber skin. He bites his lip enough to make it bleed again. “What!? Where did you hear that!?”
“Oh, come now, Avst!” Locke purrs, letting his finger dance beneath the guard’s chin. “You know better than to ask that.”
Avgust seems uncomfortable, his walls beginning to build as quickly as they came down. Avgust quickly swipes Locke’s hand away before asking, “Any thoughts as to why she is doing this, Nerium?”
“Probably thinks war is about to start. That’s why I would get soldiers.” Locke shrugs, tossing his hair, causing some of his waist-length curls to drape onto his shoulder.
“But only mages?” Avgust shifts his position on the pillow. “Is it all mages?”
Again, Locke sips his wine. “My guess is that it’s only humans. Wouldn’t be as big of a deal otherwise in my opinion. Why? You hear something I haven’t?”
Avgust grabs his chin, processing it all. Not once does he try to wipe the blood off. “But why? It hasn’t been needed for six years. What’s changed?” He mutters under his breath, his brows furrowing, “Something doesn’t add up…unless…” As the blood continues running down to the elf’s neck, Locke’s annoyance becomes plain. Is Avgust going to keep thinking aloud? After all that shit about being late?! He feels his lips pressing together, petty anger building as Avgust stands and paces back and forth. The Princep snaps his attention towards Locke, confusion on his face. “Why aren’t you concerned about any of this?” he asks.
“Don’t see a reason to. I’ve only heard this information around Starboard. And we both know that it’s primarily human merchants and noble families there. For all we know, there’s nothing to it,” Locke comments as he positions himself in the middle of the silk pillow.
Avgust’s eyes roll deep into his skull, his body slouching as he asks, “Don’t you have a flame who’s a mage?”
Locke chokes on hearing this. Damn it, why did I ever tell him about Olivier!? He keeps coughing, unable to catch his breath. Avgusts’s footsteps are swift to come to Locke’s rescue. He is unable to object before his colleague squats down and takes his wine away. “Old flame.” The venom coating Locke’s correction is palpable.
“Regardless, do you think he’ll escape the draft?”
“Olivier can take care of himself.” Locke snaps as he snatches the goblet back. “He hid the fact that he was a mage until he left. If there’s anything he’s good at, it’s lying through his teeth.” The glass slowly starts to frost over in his grasp. Why did he need to bring Olivier up? Everything was fine before then! “Besides,” he begins, finishing off his drink, “Even if he is somehow drafted, he’s smart enough to get away. He’s never been good at staying in one place for long.”
Avgust’s expression softens into one he is all too familiar with — something Locke despised — pity. The elf scans him over once, allowing his gaze to rest on the nearly frozen goblet. He checks his surroundings before leaning in closer and asks in dwarven, “Do you want to talk about it in private? I can have Anja watch the floor if you need me too.”
This isn’t the first time the Princep has asked this. In fact, it is always a question when Olivier comes up in conversation. Locke’s hands continue to feel cold; his hands are covered in a cloud of ice. Avgust creates small sparks in his own hands and places them against Locke’s, reassuring, “It…might make you worry less…maybe?”
Locke rarely felt the need to open up about this. Or about anything really. The truth is that he is worried. Far more than he wished to be. The warmth radiating from Avgust’s hands brings him comfort. A feeling that no one else has been able to provide over the last three years. He glances over Avst’s face, a smile hiding the concern in the elf’s silver orbs. If I do this, it could turn into unnecessary feelings. Feelings neither of us can afford right now. He ponders this, weighs his options. Then, as he opens his mouth to speak, Olivier’s pained face taking over his thoughts. Locke shoves Avgust’s hands away and clutches his arms. “This does nothing about those damned rumors.” He curses.
Avgust nods slowly, looking out towards the floor. “Yes…you’re right.” The dark elf makes his way to the balcony, his movements stiff and sparks slowly dissipating. Locke recalls what he had heard in the street. Odd that this draft is happening when Olivier has been gaining traction.
The pair remain silent for a long while. Locke attempts to ignore Avgust’s cold demeanor. Is he mad I rejected him again? The silence only grows heavier, causing him to clear his throat simply to break it. “I could tell you about Jezebel’s latest beau if you’d like. He was pathetic, really. You should have seen his - ”
“This does nothing for the rumors, Nerium.” Avgust interrupts, not once turning around. This is all Locke needs to hear. A low growl echoes in his throat as he picks up his cloak and tosses it around his small frame. Placing the empty goblet on the ground, Locke glares at the Princep, giving him a small bow.
If the harlots were watching, they would have seen a dwelf giving his regards to his betters. In reality, however, it was Locke whispering in dwarven, “Might help if you stopped worrying over me in public, Lord Scorpiris.”
Locke’s footsteps echo down the stairs as he leaves Avgust to observe the scene below alone. Locke avoided looking behind him. Warmth still lingers on his hands, but he ignores it. All eyes are on him. Only this time, they are murmurs and glares accompanying them. As he pushes past them, he can’t help but notice their words. He isn’t able to take hold of all of them, but he gathered the same sentiment from them all - Avgust’s Precious Nerium once again was given a pass for his behavior. His hands fidget with the hood of his cloak as he pulls it over his flushing face. The thought of Avgust when he rejected the proposal flooded his mind, guilt rising within him. Why did I say that? He wonders, He was only trying to break the tension…so why?