Who

Aiiqa, R'xim

What

R'xim visits Rosie's post-threadfall while Aiiqa is working.

Sexual themes

When

It is late evening of the twenty-eighth day of the eleventh month of the twenty-second turn of the 12th pass.

Where

Rosie's Daughters, Igen Weyr

OOC Date 22 Apr 2021 04:00

 

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"But, marks always win. And winners tend to have the marks."


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Rosie's Daughters

Not the largest building in the Bazaar, nor the finest, Rosie's still has that little something extra to pull in customers- namely, escorts. And for them to ply their trade, there must need be room to mingle, to catch the eye of potential clients. To this purpose, the main room of Rosie's has been furnished with multiple functions in mind. Much of the room is given over to a parlor setting where floors and walls are covered with intricately patterned rugs and chaise lounges provide comfortable seating. To the right is an area where low to the floor tables have been placed, on which girls have been known to dance. To the left, beyond a slight outcropping wall to designate it as a separate room is the bar. A short counter, behind which a bartender does a brisk trade in spirits and water. Also to the left are a number of tables intended not for dancing, but for cards and dice, both of which draw as many regular customers as the girls themselves do. A doorway to the rear of the parlor leads to a hallway from which many rooms can be reached, but one may only pass through the arch in the company of one of Rosie's many daughters.


Evenings after Threadfall almost always bring a boon to Rosie's Daughters; riders relieved to live are among the most generous patrons that one can possibly ask for. A brush with death is more than enough to whet the appetite for a bigger bite of life and all it has to offer. There are no deaths among the ranks, only a couple of serious injuries, and the result is a mood that's jubilant rather than somber. Booze is flowing freely and cards are being dealt, rapidfire; the feel is closer to Bitra Hold than Igen Weyr, but the gambling at a Weyr tends to carry higher stakes. The dancers have been at it for a while now and, with a few finally being whisked off to the back for deeds best left unspoken, others step up to take their place to continue the flow of entertainment, unbroken. Aiiqa, in pearl grey and black and a fresh dusting of glitter, takes her spot with pride. Of all the things she does, dancing is the one that she truly enjoys and it shows, with a smile that actually touches her eyes. A midriff-baring top is paired with layers of sheer skirts, slit high to the hip to allow flashes and glimpses of the skin beneath like a fever dream. For now, it's dance for the sake of dance; anyone else in the room is just white noise and static pulsing below the music.

It's a good night to celebrate post-threadfall and the candlemark is late by the time R'xim is able to get to Rosie's. Seeing to Parhelion takes a stretch of time, checking in with fellow wingleadership does as well, and then there's clean up. The baths are usually busy with riders washing off the stench of firestone and evidence of blackened ash upon their skin, and Rix takes a little extra time scrubbing himself clean tonight. When all is said and done, he sports a pair of dark colored leather trousers and a crisp white shirt beneath his leather jacket. His hair, shorter on the sides and a bit longer at the top, is combed and no longer looking pressed from his helmet now it's been thoroughly washed and there's just a hint of some desert spice cologne upon his skin. He enters Rosie's and is immediately met with the thrum of card playing, laughter, conversation and dancing, and he lingers near the entrance until he spots a girl he knows. Then another. A ghost of a half smile curves his expression and he gives the two girls an upnod in greeting before making his way toward them, glancing toward the dancers as he does.

Harper Hall missed an opportunity, perhaps; she might have been a fine fit among their ranks. But, people slip through the cracks and talents bend and the result is presented on a low dancing table. Barefoot, Aiiqa shimmies and sways, arms flowing in serpentine movements; maybe it's a dance designed to emulate the very real threat of Thread, a peril for dragonriders. It's not enough to deter a few that settle in fairly close, but the cat-eyed woman doesn't even acknowledge them. Gray-green and fickle, her gaze cuts just over their heads, dismissive and in search of something worth dancing for. Lucky R'xim, he just happens to fall within that line of sight. Approval is a momentary widening of that regard, easily missed. One corner of her mouth pulls, a prelude to a wink, and one hand lifts, fingers wiggling as an enticement - extended first, then pulling back, before she sets into a liquid undulation and spiral.

R'xim's attention settles upon Aiiqa's dance as he makes his way around some tables and then his focus drifts toward the girls that caught his attention upon arrival. They're standing near a table with a few other riders that Rix seems to know and he engages them in conversation after giving each girl a kiss on the cheek. A drink finds its way into his hand and then an arm drapes over the slender shoulders of a blonde that giggles at whatever he's saying to the riders at the table. He grins and takes a sip of his drink as the conversation carries on, although his eyes flick toward Aiiqa and those fingers that beckon him to her. He doesn't bite her baited hook right away, but he does murmur something to the blonde before slipping from her embrace to cross the room in the dancer's direction. When he reaches the low dancing table, he stands close by with a hand holding his drink as he allows his gaze to settle upon those cat-eyes. "What will it take to get you down from that table?" he asks her, unconcerned with those currently enjoying her right where she is.

By the time R'xim's gotten himself a drink and a blonde, Aiiqa's baited hook has turned into a particularly compelling net that's pulled in a few others that might be a little too eager to jump for a chance. But each of those lads - some drinking like the fish they so resemble - are shifting and watching, mouths opening and closing with words that mean nothing, ultimately. Uninteresting, save for the marks they have to offer. And, gauging from the knots? They don't have that much. The blonde gets a blown kiss and wiggle of fingers from Aiiqa; a brownrider whistles a little too loudly and earns the ire of her gaze. It's enough to silence him and he nurses his drink before slinking off to chase after the one that slipped the bronzerider's embrace. Partners thus exchanged, in a sense, Aiiqa tips her gaze up, just so, to study R'xim. "Depends," is half-hummed, but still cuts across the music, a line cast with a canny hook. "What are you offering?"

The glass is lifted and R'xim takes a sip of his drink while looking at the dancing brunette who hasn't skipped a beat since he arrived. "My company." he rumbles, glass lowering. "And enough marks that you don't have to dance for the rest of the evening." With the offer made, he allows his gaze to drift lower and he notes the pearl grey and black ensemble that clings to the contours of her waist and hips with tempered appreciation. The sheen of what appears as diamond dust upon the curve of her cheekbone, though, is what draws his attention to her face where she nearly glitters in the lighting of the room. His drink is lifted again. "My offer only remains for as long as I stand here." There's a glance over his shoulder at the blondes near the table of riders before he looks at Aiiqa with a smug smile that's hidden behind the sip of his drink.

A closer look reveals the inclusion of small shell coins to her attire, pearlescent pale and affixed to curves to both draw the eye and produce a pleasantly soft rattle; every movement is purposeful, designed to draw the eye and keep it fixed. Aiiqa sketches out a languid spiral while the bronzerider speaks, her chin lifted with an air that's not quite haughty - imperious, perhaps. At least until he says the words that she loves to hear; that brings her around to the front, a foot sweeping across the table to land, toes pointed to him while her hand extends oh-so-graciously in his direction. "Mm, those words are like music to my ears." She won't specify which. A tap of toes on the table precedes her departure, stepping down with a 'move or be moved' air; the riders in front of her move. They know better. At least one has suffered her wrath before. Another step, two, and then she's just there before him, one hand fanned out to almost - but not quite - press to his chest. "Pick your pleasure, bronzerider - or I will."

With the offer accepted, R'xim produces a few marks to press into her delicate hand that's near but not on his chest. His fingers curl around hers to not only press partial payment into her palm, but to also pull her that much closer to bestow a kiss to her lovely knuckles. "I will get you a drink and you will take us to your favorite table." Perhaps he wants to drink and relax for a while, or perhaps he just wants others to see that he's acquired the company of those most desired dancer at Rosie's. Either way, Rix has a mind to keep her to himself for the rest of the evening even if it means others are constantly glancing their way for the time being. With one hand holding hers and the other holding his drink, he's ready to be lead. "There you'll tell me why I see you around the Pit every so often. Are you favored by the Steens?" There could be a reason why he's asking.

The marks are appreciated; the kiss to her knuckles? Icing on the cake. There's nothing coquettish about the look that's tipped up to R'xim; she's a canny one, an old soul honed sharp. Aii's hand retreats, but only to stash the marks in her top - beloved as they are, it's only fitting that they're kept near her heart. Her fingers are quick to rise again and catch his hand, shifting the flow of control accordingly. She'll lead the way, picking a table that's out of the way; not precisely quiet, with the acoustics as they are, but sufficient. That it faces the bar, just so, to allow for an easy summoning of drinks is a boon. "I'll have what you're having," she decides once they're at the table, but she'll wait until he sits before she claims her presumptuous and - in her mind, rightful - place on his lap. Unless he moves her, she'll be there to stay. "A bottle would be better," but she's not going to press too hard on that score. He wants answers and her reply is shrug of shoulders. "I like gambling and I like watching men fight." Her grin tilts wickedly. "Sometimes I like making them fight. But I always make it worth their while." Of the Steens, though, her nose wrinkles. "How would I know?"

When she takes her place upon his lap, R'xim shifts her to where he's most comfortable and where he can keep an eye on the bar and those gathered in the main room. Never quite off-duty, he's a guardsman to his core and right now? He's guarding his prized dancer from those that are already starting to toss glances their way. "Whiskey." he says to both Aiiqa and the girl that approaches their table to collect their order. "A bottle and a glass." Since he already has his that's now placed on the table. From this new vantage point, Rix has a glorious view of her dress and where she tucked his marks away, which keeps him content as he waits for their whiskey. "The Steens are a good family. You're in good hands if they favor you, which I'm sure you could be." What she says about making men fight, though, merits a wry curve of his lips. "Is that a frequent occurrence? Men fighting over you."

And what a view it is! What she lacks in height, she makes up for in curves; the most dangerous kind, perhaps, to be packed on an otherwise pint-sized physique. It doesn't hurt that she angles herself, so, to put her best assets forward. Everything on her shimmers in the low light; he'll be lucky to escape without some ghost of her presence clinging to his clothes and skin. Comfortable now, she leans into him with all the ease of familiarity and none of the baggage; her head tucks in just at his shoulder where it meets his neck. The whiskey can take its time; her answer certainly does. "Maybe I could be. But that sounds like it involves connections, rider. And I don't like being tied down." His next draws a laugh, more grit than effervescence. "Sometimes." Cattiness curves into her tone again. "But, marks always win. And winners tend to have the marks." It works out.

R'xim leans forward slightly to reach for his glass of whiskey upon the table, moving the crook of his neck and shoulder closer to her as he does. The scent of desert spice is apparent on the collar of his shirt where his leather jacket remains open, and she's likely to notice if her thoughts are not elsewhere. His thoughts, however, are strictly focused on this delectable dancer's dress and how she fills it out in all of the right places. Petite and curvy, it's his type. "I'm connected so you don't have to be." he rumbles before taking a sip of his whiskey. It's just in time, too, as their bottle and a fresh glass are set on the table in front of them. The girl doesn't ask for payment, which means it's likely put on his tab at the bar. A frequent patron of Rosie's gets such a perk. "I'll look for you the next time I'm at the Pit." Now he lifts a hand to gently sweep aside a lock of dark colored hair from her shoulder, his blue eyes drifting down to the exposed skin of her defined clavicle before he speaks again. "You remember my name, don't you?"

She notices. This close, he'll pick up the particulars of her perfume; faintly floral and sweet, but with an edge to it. Intoxicating on its own, it blends well with desert spice and the burn of whiskey. Aiiqa moves just enough to snake her fingers along his throat, a barely there touch that eventually slinks to settle at the hollow of it. The whiskey is noted in a peripheral sense; no surprise that R'xim has a tab, of course. If anything it's another detail that could very well endear him to her - if she were capable. "Tomorrow, maybe," she muses, words drawn along in a husky tease. "If tonight's as profitable as you suggest." Her grin is suddenly savage and she leans back to look at him; he'll get a fine, fine view of her shimmer-dusted skin, clavicle and cleavage alike. The dark coil of her hair yields easily, even when she does not. "Are you asking me to say your name? So soon?" Catty. She continues, "Is that the price to pay to use your connections?"

"Tomorrow." R'xim muses in return, already thinking about where he'll be around this time. When she leans back, he could just about lose himself in the view of her shimmering neckline and expansive cleavage if he doesn't give himself something else to focus on. It takes effort not to run his fingertips along the edge of her dress where skin meets fabric, and so he leans forward again, taking her with him, to collect the bottle and open it. His arm that's snaked around her back aids the effort of opening the bottle and he presses her to him just so during the process, perhaps directing her cleavage just a little closer to him. "It's the price if you're willing to pay it." he says of her saying his name. "No other strings attached, since you don't like to be tied down." That ghost of a wry smile returns as he pours her whiskey into the glass, offering it to her while leaning back to where he previously was before bottle opening.

Her presence is undeniable, but she's hardly a burden; when he moves, she moves, coordinated with some sense of anticipation. Fluid and easy, the kind of body that's meant to flow with another. And, this close, he'll feel her all too acutely; her chest takes well to his direction. Aiiqa cants a look to the whiskey, then back up at him, with speculation glittering in her eyes. She'll take the glass without looking, turns of experience ensuring her hold on it will be secure enough to not spill a drop. She doesn't move when he leans back, not until her prize is secured and she's had a sip of it, though her eyes remain on him all the while. Only then does she relax against him, with a bit of a stretch to press her mouth a breath away from his ear. "I'll pay this time, R'xim."

A breath is drawn in when she moves close to his ear and he exhales as she speaks his name upon those painted lips. Those pouty, full lips so very close to touching his sensitive ear that it takes all he has to refrain from shivering. A very pleasant shiver, at that. R'xim's hand lowers and then lifts to tuck another mark into that lovely neckline of hers; he can see the dust of glitter upon her soft skin before his eyes lift to hers. "Good." he rumbles, turning his head to take in the floral scent of her soft skin. "And I'll pay more if you find us a room now rather than later." Fingertips trace up the small of her back and around to her side, poised to maneuver her from his lap if she gives the word.

The tip of her tongue flirts, oh-so-briefly, at the curve of his ear. Her breath is warm and whiskey scented and while her voice is no siren's song, it's similar enough. Igen lends a grit and huskiness to her words, all smoke and sin and sand; and, when that extra mark is pressed to join its fellows, he'll hear the snap of teeth perilously close to his ear. The deal is done; signed, sealed, and delivered. Aiiqa doesn't suppress her own shiver, inspired by the play of fingers along the smooth skin of her exposed side and lower back. It's not quite so pleasant; it's thrilling and it energizes the indulgent dancer. She withdraws abruptly, his words and a renewed sense of urgency setting the languid lady into motion. A dervish, she, with her skirts and unbound hair; her drink is drained with a gulp and hiss, her glass exchanged for the bottle, and his treacherous hand caught in hers. "Come." It's an imperative.

R'xim is rising from his seat at the table and also downing what's left in his glass without so much as a hiss. The empty is set down next to hers and he's motioning to one of the girls that he's going to need a second bottle; but, it'll have to be sent to wherever Aiiqa is taking him. Because wherever she goes, he'll follow like a puppy on a string right now. He's pleased when she collects the bottle and even more so when she collects his hand with a verbal command. "That's the idea." he rumbles, smug. A brand new bottle of whiskey is, indeed, collected as they make their way into a private room, the door shutting behind them and not opening for quite a while. Perhaps 'til morning if she keeps accepting his marks.

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