[b]Silsila Om![/b]

Rosethal is a woman who chases whatever she wants. When something no longer interests her, she drops it without a qualm. She is dangerous, capricious, cruel. And she cares very little about the opinions of others when she wants something.

Any other woman would hesitate, would think about the watching crowd, would think about the bets being made. Any other woman would lower her head, blushing furiously, and stammer out a heated demand for you to remember your place.

Rosethal grabs the back of your head by your hair, drags you down, and forces you into a kiss. She’s the aggressor: her lips are plump, wet, soft, painted. Her tongue is a lashing whip, her breath a scouring wind.

The crowd explodes into yelling, cheering, vulgar suggestions, ones that Rosethal could give less of a fuck about, but you’re not quite that composed, are you? Merov Ekh wants Rosethal defeated, everyone who bet on you wants you to deliver a decisive victory, and Rosethal is likely to make even makeouts a challenge, a clash of towering egos.

How do you use that String on her, o terror of the desert? Do you pursue victory, or are you melting into a tangle of limbs and possessive kisses?

[hr]

[b]Soot![/b]

Ruz fell silent during the last parts of your work, as you mastered the interplay of color in the piece. Now that you have finished, now that the templar slumps in his ropes, the Grand Vizier finally leans over your shoulder to inspect the painting closer.

This close, her perfume is almost a solid thing, sweet and rich, the scent of far-flung flowers mixed with the rarest notes that the Faithful natively have to hand. Rich in more than one sense: you could gather up everything you own, sell it all, and sell yourself in the bargain, and you still wouldn’t be able to afford the scent that she is free to dab on her fine wrists, her strong neck, her heavy breasts.

“Yes,” she breathes in reverent delight. This is the strongest reaction you have ever gotten out of her: usually it is a content nod, some words of praise, a promissory note scribbled off to be taken to a treasury clerk. But today, you have her [i]attention.[/i]

“As the poet says, [i]a rare talent is more precious than diamonds; let your garden wither before the skillful woman starves.[/i]” One hand, heavy with jeweled rings, rests on your shoulder, possessively.  “How are we to cultivate your talent, little Soot?”

This is very literally the opportunity of a lifetime. Say the right thing, right here and now, and you can have whatever you want: a dizzying thing, isn’t it? Say the wrong thing, and it might all come crashing down around your ears.

And while we’re at it, why don’t you tell us all why the Soot that Ruz finds so praiseworthy isn’t the [i]real[/i] Soot, who she would never accept. It wouldn’t have anything to do with your extracurriculars, would it? After all, she spent years serving among the Stewards, and she’s [i]very[/i] conservative…

[hr]

[b]Nahla![/b]

“No, that wouldn’t work,” Grace-of-Heaven says, frowning. One hand lifts from the water to caress your cheek, guiding you just that little bit closer. (She’s nervous. Not about tonight, but about what she’s about to say.) “Who would believe that? That I would get angry at you over a dress? It has to be— it has to be worse than that.”

She takes a deep breath, her toes curling in the water in that way she does when she’s trying to wrap herself in courage. “I think we need to invite the Grand Vizier to dine with us tonight, Nahla. Then you need to tear my top open by mistake, and— and then make some clumsy joke about it. So that when I yell at you, when I stamp my foot, everyone believes it.”

The blood is already rushing to her ears. She’s been humiliated many times before by the Fire Wheels at the Vizier’s instructions, but being humiliated while she’s ostensibly trying to impress the Vizier would be a devastating blow, another indignity heaped on a head that has withstood so many.

It’s a miracle of her Faith that she’s still fighting, still rebelling, despite what the Fire Wheels have done to her. The heart of a lion beats in her chest, for all that she desperately clings to you as someone she can trust.

Then she looks at you, and her smile is as bright as the sun in this hot land. “But it [i]will[/i] be worth it when we see my grandmother’s city.” She still thinks of it as belonging to her grandmother; she hasn’t been allowed out, and the Vizier makes decrees in her name until “such time as she is prepared and able to assume her duties.” A time that the Vizier makes excuse after excuse to push off, until she can make Grace-of-Heaven marry Rosethal.

What are your thoughts on Rosethal, anyway, while we’re at it?

[hr]

[b]Birsi![/b]

The singer is the one who stands up. She’s taller than you, but not by too much. Her wrap only covers half of her chest, and an impressive scar snakes its way down her ribs. She stands there for a moment, and then she throws one arm over your shoulders.

“[i]Palace[/i] girl,” she says. “You’re upset at us? We didn’t know a better place for it.” Her breath stinks of wine, and at a guess, you’d say even that was plundered from the palace cellars. “Tell you [i]what.[/i] Angry little puppy. Come and show us where we can have some private time to ourselves, and we’ll share. Your stuck-up bitch doesn’t need to know, hey?”

It’s an expansive offer, clearly. The barbarians get handsy when they’re drunk (and even now, the singer is rubbing your shoulder in an overly familiar way), and it’s probably very good wine. Do you drink, Birsi? Do you drink expensive wine set aside for the sultan and her court? And do you want to be touched by barbarians?