[center][url=https://marmaladica.deviantart.com/art/Violet-Black-708333990][img]https://i.imgur.com/CB5xky2.png[/img][/url][/center]

The old man's death had been expected--at least on Iris's part. The courtesan lounged on his trainer's bed, cat-like between the sleeping man's legs as he read over the letter once more, regretting not asking the professor where he lived. He would have liked to see the man's last moments and watch the final spark of life disappear. Morbid, but for longer-lived races the certainty of natural death was a long time coming and mortality always evoked a grieving respect.

He had traveled to the homestead of a Bradar Stotsk on the professor's recommendation the last time they had exchanged correspondence almost four months ago. The man's letter had been cryptic, as always, but strongly insisted the courtesan learn the basic arts of surviving without modern conveniences, even going so far as to provide a willing wilderness survival trainer. The matter seemed urgent and in obvious preparation for some long excursion, and Iris had almost passed up the chance, wondering what could possibly be better than obscenely rich clients spoiling him silly with gifts.

But he was selling himself short, he knew, because his talents were for more than magicking colorful lights to entertain his customers during nightly activities. So he had sighed into the crook of his latest guest's neck and decided to chase after a moonlit dream with only the evening breeze as company. Packing was a quiet and easy affair, most of his valuables already stored in a small, portable jewelry box and what money the brothel had allowed him to keep hidden in a coin pouch tucked under a loose slab of floorboard. There was no reason to announce leaving like he was departing a family. The brothel would live with or without him and he had paid off his purchase debt long ago.

Bradar Stotsk was a veritable bear of a man, with scars detailing his storied past and a grizzled beard that invaded the space of his neck. He had eyed Iris with the contempt of a man who knew all too well what sort of lifestyle the courtesan had indulged in until then and had quickly put the Aasimar to work on chores and basic survival lessons, signing Iris up for a job at a nearby restaurant as the chef's assistant to learn food preparation and cooking skills as well.

But resisting the persistent Aasimar's advances was difficult, especially for a man as virile as Bradar and off-days were eventually filled with the scent of light flowers from Iris's specially prepared lubricant and the courtesan's exotic perfumes. Just as Iris had begun to wonder how long he was meant to study the art of surviving in the wild, the letter from Kendra Lorrimor arrived, announcing the professor's death and subsequent invitation to attend the funeral. 

He hadn't known the professor in depth, but Iris certainly mourned the man in his own way. There had been a keen understanding from their every conversation that the courtesan missed, perhaps lonelier than he would like to admit.

"Yer going." The statement from a bleary Bradar was neither accusation nor exclamation. The trapper simply knew in the way the slender body turned away almost instinctively towards the door, shoulders taut as blue eyes skimmed the letter over once more.

[color 7588ff]"I am,"[/color] Iris agreed, a gentle lilt of his voice on the second word confirming almost playfully the fact.

"And yer not coming back."

[color 7588ff]"Who knows?"[/color] He kissed the toned, bare thigh in front of his face.

"Least have the decency t'give a parting kiss on the lips."

[color 7588ff]"But then it would mean too much."[/color]

Bradar didn't stop Iris from packing and leaving, the Aasimar strolling out the front door as casually as he had walked in, though encumbered with proper supplies this time courtesy of both his new job and Bradar's recommendations. Still, the contents of the backpack retained many of the entertainer's [i]particular[/i] accouterments despite the trainer's query of their use in any survival situation. Iris had laughed off the concern with a wave and a wink and it was only as the dwindling figure rounded the street corner did Bradar realize his home would be much quieter without the sounds of Iris's singing and piano accompaniment filling in the dull silence.

But there were certain partings that struck people with the sheer force of their permanence, and this was one of them. As the scent of lilacs faded from the sheets and furniture, Bradar closed the door, having learned to accept long ago that there were fates beyond his ken. A pair of diamond-inlaid, gold earrings forged in ornate hoops sat on his table with a small "thank you" note from Iris, meant to be pawned for the outrageous sum of money they were worth as the courtesan's farewell gift.

Bradar put the earrings away in a small cabinet instead.