The last bathhouse Han attended had been a humble roadside affair, one of the last gasps of ‘civilized folk’ before entering the Highlands proper. The activities of the Vermillion Beast had taken a little money from hands less deserving, and she decided to treat herself. It was simple, as simple as she remembered it, with fine floral scents dancing through the air, steaming pools, a kindly family who ran the place, and a fine, hearty meal afterwards. She’d spent a night in welcome company, washing away the concerns of her journeys, and went to bed completely happy.

Here, there were more soaps than she knew existed, and that was before she even stepped foot in the tiny tub. Not even the order of washing, scrubbing, and rinsing was the same. Despite the best efforts of the attendants, no explanation rang anywhere close to familiar for her comfort. And so here she sits, asking nothing of the numerous servants buzzing about her. Asking nothing of the pretty girl hanging off her arm. It is impossible to see her hands through the water’s surface, but judging by her posture, they are folded chastely, stiffly in her lap. She holds her heart tightly against the ministrations of luxury, heedless as it burns, it pierces, it hangs heavy in her grasp.

Emli asks the question. And that’s when her eyes meet the scribe’s.

So full of anger and worry. Does she even have a thought to spare, to why her eyes rest so easily on yours? The barest push, and she stumbles out of herself to [i]see[/i] your arms, walking slowly, leisurely down their length. So lithe, so smooth, the arms of a scribe faithful to her work, positively glowing with delicate care. And then. And then!

When you draw her eyes upward once again, she looks at you as if you’d just asked her to steal your wallet. You [i]wanted[/i] her to steal your wallet. Now she has the little pouch clutched in her hand, and what are these shiny round things it's filled with? Co-oyens, you say? Just what is she supposed to do with these? Just what are you asking of her, you, you, whoever you are?!

A yawning, empty chasm stretches between them. To leap across it risks falling into its unfathomable depths. To make the leap rewards her, it will give her, there’s, the scribe will, what? What?! What does she want with her? What will happen if she accepts? What is she agreeing to? Why is this even being offered, whatever this is? Why is she looking at her like that? Why?! So many questions. No hope of answers. She knows so little. She aches so terribly.

Amidst it all, what little she knows - really knows, deep in her soul - stands in shining relief, as lights in a fog. Danger lurks before her, yes. But not malice. Only a (beautiful) scribe, with a steady voice, promising something simple, on a day when everything has been so, so complicated. If she would just take one, little leap. For her.

She intends to drift over, casually, but such is impossible even for heaven’s favored ones. A push, and she floats slowly across the pool in the sight of all, coming to rest beside you, honored scribe. (Sitting, with your arm looming perilously behind her. She watches it, out of the corner of her eye, as if it were a snake.) “Sure are banking a lot on your ‘Lords of the Dominion’ not being complete wilting jerks.” She fires back, in this completely casual and normal discussion of philosophies, between two people just sharing a bathhouse. “Fresh out of luck if they don’t really care about you.” And maybe she would’ve said more, had she not been suddenly and profoundly aware of Emli pressing warm against her, following into the open space beside her.

One, little leap. And she is surrounded.

[Han will [i]give into desire,[/i] despite having no clue what she's given in to.]