Welcome to Gaia! ::

Damissan listened, processing as the woman spoke and taking the information in stride. Hers was an odd profession, in his opinion, for someone in her position on a number of levels, from the ‘obvious’ — her sex and stature — to the more subtle, such as her race, which he had at least come to understand as a relatively private and peaceful sort of people on the whole.

When she finished, though, he smiled. “Well, you’ve certainly learned your way with a blade,” he said, “and they seemed more than happy to be at your back. I’ll toast to your continued leadership, and the hopes that your men continue to value your contribution to all your various pursuits.” Tapping his mug to hers, he drank, and then took a moment, considering where to begin with her follow up question.

“So far,” he said at length, “I have gone about it rather blindly and animatedly, speaking to whoever would listen—and to a number who wouldn’t, for that matter—hoping for some results as I go along, and all of that began after I woke in a ditch a city away from home after I’m fairly certain, in retrospect, someone intended for me to die there…” He paused. “But I suppose the better place to start is some time before that. I was born in Sulburi to nobility, raised within the palace walls, given everything I could possibly want for and then some…and I grew into a terrible child. I did nothing my parents wanted of me, lived wholly for myself, drank their coin or abused it in various other ways, bedded whomever I pleased in the moment…and eventually it caught up with me. When I woke in Orrod, I was fortunate to be alive, and I felt that it was a sign, that I was being given a second chance and that it was time I did something of merit with my life. Of course…”

Damissan cleared his throat, taking a sip before continuing.

“After I’d spent a week or so to myself in deep re-evaluation of my life’s choices and emerged to tell my parents of my newfound faith in a unified divine, they were less than thrilled with that, too, and in some respects I wonder if they wouldn’t have preferred I stay on the path I was on, near to them at least. But.” He shrugged. “I needed space. I wanted to speak to people of my insight, and when I tried in Sulburi, they threw stones, so…” He gave a minor sweep of his hand, “…here I am and here I continue. A reformed man, mad or not as the case may be, and here to spread the word of God all while being very, very well-behaved…”

When he caught her eye, he ventured a wink. “Or, for the most part in any case. Some habits die hard.”

Damis blinked.

Whatever he’d been expecting in the wake of his story, this—was not it. A scoff, perhaps, and a shake of the head. Some sort of comment about how hard it must have been on him, yes, potentially, but laced with sarcasm. Not sincerity. And while he hadn’t expected an outrightly poor reaction and had wanted her to know at least something of who he was, the level of genuineness in her words caught him off guard.

Perhaps he’d become too used to Xilarn. Or perhaps Korres simply saw things differently than others. Perhaps he just had not figured her out yet.
The last seemed a given, at least.

At her last comment, however, his brows arched, surprise evident at her bashfulness for all of a half moment before a softened smile spread back into place and he shook his head, chuckling lightly. “Come, I’m not toying with you,” he said, and took a sip before his smile stretched again, warmth dancing into his eyes, “I’m flirting with you. Do you happen to enjoy dancing?”

As if on some divine cue, the small cluster of what might have passed as a ‘band’ — or just a handful rather weathered-looking minstrels — who had been fiddling about on the upraised stretch of wooden platform at the far end of the tavern which apparently counted as a ‘stage’ began, for the first time since their entrance into the establishment, to pluck at their instruments and begin a lilting, surprisingly lively tune. Much to the enthusiasm of at least one patron further down the counter who had evidently already consumed a significant amount more drink than either of them.

“Because, I will let you in on a secret…” Damissan leaned in conspiratorial fashion nearer to Korres—in part ‘because’ there was now more noise about them. But mostly because it brought his lips nearer to her delicately pointed ear. “If there is anything formerly-trussed-up noble brats such as myself are well-versed in by right of passage…it’s dancing. And if you haven’t, I’ll teach you.” In the briefest of motions, he grazed his lips over her eartip before pulling back to slip from his stool and offer a hand. “Dance with me?”

Damissan studied her progressive reactions, taking in the various forms of—no, no, no, no—in succession but, due to a combination of factors (her tone, her posture, her blush, and general easy flow of the night thus far), he continued to wait for it, holding out because—

Yes.

—it only took one ‘yes’ to override a string of ‘no’s, and as her fingers slipped into his, his expression stretched back into a beaming grin, knowing that’s what he’d gotten.

“I may be,” he admitted, leading her forward before she changed her mind. “There is certainly very little about my current situation that would debunk such a hypothesis. But I prefer to think, personally…” He slipped a hand about her waist, notching her in closer to his chest and tipping his head to smile down at her, “…that I am just very adventurous, and never shy to ask for what I want. Besides…I survived your blade. Surely I can manage the wrath of your feet. Now…”

And so it went.

Korres had not been lying when she referenced her lack of experience, but the music and tone of the night were jaunty and free-spirited enough that in the end, it mattered little. The dance was not about expertise, after all. It was about excuses. An excuse to have his hands at her waist, at her hips, at the small of her back. An excuse to press lightly, press close, and guide their bodies about the dance floor. An excuse to lean in near to her ear again in order to ‘explain’ over the noise of the music and the other patrons, and an excuse in equal measure to worry less about talking and more about body language.

By the time the time for dancing was over, enough sips of ale had been slipped in between that his skin was warm beneath the surface, but he felt good, and when they made it out of the tavern, the air was crisp with night, the sky open and black above but for its scattering of piercing white stars. His hand had found its way back around her waist, and he left it hooked there when they paused just outside of the entryway, half-lit by the spilling light of the tavern and half in shadow.

The moon was rising, and in that moment, Damissan was not certain he would ever witness anything more entrancing than the silvery shift to ethereal white skin for which shifters got their namesake.

“I’ll walk you to your building,” he began, and then, after a pause and a gentle skirt of his fingers through her hair to tuck some away from her face, “…or to your room…” He tipped his head, gaze flitting down to linger on her lips long enough to be sure it wasn’t missed before rising again to her eyes, “…or to your bed…”

Damissan could not have been more pleased—with himself, with his company, with the night and everything it had given him and kept yet in store for him.

Admittedly, he could not have begun to predict such a full turn of events were he asked what he wanted of the situation in the moment when he had originally opted to step up to the herbalist’s market stall and begin crafting a nonsense tale for the man’s ears while Korres had looked on, skeptical and anticipating.

But he was not about to complain.

The transition from one encounter to the next had felt so easy. Natural, even, in a way he couldn’t have expected until they were underway. Talking with her was easy. Smiling for her was easy. Sparring with her was easy. And dancing. And touching.

When she rose to kiss him, he dipped, fingers skirting down to cradle the nape of her neck as their lips caught, and her body was warm beneath his, her mouth pliant and welcoming, and her breath like a teasing ghost of an aftertouch when she withdrew. The muted noises of the rabble behind them — catcalls or otherwise — could not have mattered less, and Damissan might as well not have heard them for what little impact they had on his mindset. When she pulled, he followed, trailing her under the open night. The inn was even blessedly quiet of her many ‘bodyguards’ and they made it to her room without incident.

He toed the door shut behind them, and pressed her to it. And pulled her to him.

And all of her was easy to explore.

Come the night’s end, she was not a bedazzled noble girl rebelling against her parents’ wishes, nor an experienced brothel ‘entertainer’, or even a bold interloper who had found her way into a noble party and knew what she wanted—but something else, new even to him in her own way, raw, and real. When all was said and done she did not bid him out of her bed, so he did not leave it, and if his arm fell over her body in the night and his breath tucked against her silver hair then that, perhaps, was alright as well.

For the night.

For now.

What harm could it possibly do?