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every night,

— i dream you're still here —

✧ so perfectly clear

[attr="class","scrolls"]Really, with how unashamedly Starling was vocalizing his delight Hessat wouldn’t be all too surprised if people didn’t start to think he was lying when he told them the smithy was as virginal as a nun. He could only imagine what people in the halls must think when they passed by his door right now. The thought made him huff a laugh. They wouldn’t even believe him if he explained all it had been was an enthusiastic response to a massage.

His hands paused frequently to readjust the leg in his lap before delving back into manipulating the muscle and skin. It was cathartic work, both for the courtesan and his patient. The calves in particular resisted him and that in itself took a few minutes to break down into something he could work with. As time went on his hands began to stiffen, aching from a task they didn’t perform frequently enough to withstand.

Hessat’s brow had become a knot by the time he’d finished with one.

The question of where to lay blame was rhetoric, he chose not to answer, but the second inquiry made the gypsy stop completely. “Karissa.” He muttered neutrally, neither happy nor sad at the topic. If one had to hazard a guess Hessat sounded bored by it but anything could be possible. “She was the matron of the brothel some years ago, knew her for most of my teen years. She taught me.” This ending with an uncaring shrug as he shunted the limp off his lap and took up its brother.

He spared a moment to flex his fingers before getting to work on it.

“Who taught you how to work metal?” He didn’t care, not really, but it was a better topic than the one Starling had attempted to broach. He didn’t feel any real sorrow for the dead woman who’d been the one to put a knife in his hands and instruct him on the best way to slit a throat without getting his clothes dirty. Hessat had asked the question as casually as one might ask about the weather, like he hadn't even thought about what he said. It was a ingenious way to taunt Starling’s lack of memories, especially when one considered his 'savoir' knew everything there was to know about the boy’s origins and had simply covered it all up like a bad politics.

— template made by roar —

places, places

— get in your places —

✧ and put on your doll faces

[attr="class","scrolls"]Ha. Fine establishment indeed, Hessat laughed lazily from his perch. Starling, eh? It was funny how a short time ago his afternoons were occupied with preparing for the coming evening, fixing whatever concoctions came to mind or yelling at some hapless idiot who presented themselves as a convenient outlet for his boredom. Now however he not only had something to fixate on when the mediocrity of humanity edged into being pathetic but he drew all sorts of interesting folk to their doorstep for him to subsequently play with. This would be the first time he’d had a priest in their midst’s – or at least one who wore the cloth proudly despite his present location. It made him grin all the more to think of the many horrors that he could be exposed to within these halls.

His eyes slid over the man, looking at Lucifer as though he was some foreign object and, for all intents and purposes, he was. Hessat looked at him in a way not so dissimilar from how he had viewed Starling, a project that would hold his interest for a time but one that could be exchanged for the next shiny bauble to cross his path. The unfortunate reality however was that the stranger was neither a patron to be wooed nor a toy that he could yank around and embarrass at every turn. He wasn’t entirely sure the last one was true actually – especially if he got a little creative.

No, the priest confessed that he was on a mission and Hessat had to bite back a snarky comment that would have insinuated the pastor being on a special kind of pilgrimage. Best not reveal his hostility toward the man trying to take his fox away.

A tense few moments passed in silence before the strain decided to act. He dropped down from his perch and landed with enough grace to imply this wasn’t the first time he’d taken to high places. “I am here, sir.” The sir came out a little surly but otherwise he’d cleaned his face of devious undertones and stared with wary curiosity. He tugged his coat higher but left the garment to hang below his shoulders, feeling the reassuring brush of the leather sheath hiding behind his elbow. He wasn’t curious. Not in the least but he didn’t think being an entirely blank slate would get the man to leave any faster.

Starling was at the forge probably and would soon be making his way back to the brothel, that didn’t give him any great amount of time to get rid of the stranger. Those two couldn’t meet. The noise of his thoughts was a possessive roar and Hessat could feel the first tendrils of anger poisoning his good mood. “I’m afraid we don’t have anybody here who has the air of a holy man.” He said with a shrug of a shoulder, looking for all the world contrite that the stranger had made the trip seemingly for nothing. “I’d think one of the girls would have noticed if we had a friar around. Or you’d at least hear it. Are you certain it was this brothel?”

— template made by roar —

every night,

— i dream you're still here —

✧ so perfectly clear

[attr="class","scrolls"]The trouble with going into business on your own was that to go along with the fluctuating workflow, the shitty hours and the nonsensical clients who decided they were satisfied with the price for product, there was also the less than desirable grunt work that demanded just as much attention as everything else. And in spite of the fact that he was well off financially (as well off as a whore can be I guess) and could afford to hire some illiterate underling to carry out these tedious but essential tasks, Hessat wasn’t quite comfortable with people.

Alright, that was an outrageous lie. He spread his legs for a living, no two ways about it, being comfortable wasn’t even a factor anymore. No, what he didn’t do, didn’t know how to do, was trust anyone with anything he could rightly call his own. That or those who were proficient in his particular line of work were characters shadier than he – yes, it was possible – or was comfortably employed by the competition.

No, it sufficed to say he was all together too paranoid to trust anyone else with the handling of his money or the valuable merchandise that was in such short supply. Plus, why pay someone to do a job he could do himself?

Hessat rolled his shoulders and grimaced at the weight of his thick cotton cloak. Hessat wasn’t wearing his usual today; a fact that his body seemed confused about despite how much better his current ensemble battled the cold in comparison. He was so used to not wearing much of anything that when he did need to, he felt restricted. Gone was his cropped top and voluminous pants, his arms naked without the golden bands he tended to wear and all over just not looking much like the courtesan who stalked the lavish halls of the Saint’s Pleasure. His skin itched from the feeling of confinement but he bore through the awkward arrangement so that man and merchandise could reach their destination.

Bitching aside, today’s schedule wasn’t really anything to complain about. His workload has lessened considerably as of late – namely because he didn’t much want to leave the comforts of home to lurk in alleys for these trashy addicts he’d created. As the days grew ever colder with winter rushing from the north, Hessat found his desire to travel beyond the front door plummeting harshly. He wouldn’t be undertaking any non-critical expeditions with the season threatening to break, which left him somewhat stranded. He didn’t mind really but he could tell some of the other whores were getting aggravated with his more consistent presence and growing demands.

But this was his last stop today, all other matters had been seen to by order of priority and he was pleased with himself for managing his affairs with his standard precision and efficiency. And once he was done? Well, there had to be somewhere he could go for a good drink and if memory served him right there were still a few guys sore enough about their last poker game willing to entertain his whims after a fresh round of alcohol.

Hessat was greeted by the scent of the open ocean as he sauntered about the docks in search of his usual suspects. The pier was bustling with its usual business, forcing him to entertain some of the socially required pleasantries of ‘hellos & goodbyes’ between himself and straggling workers. He quickly selected an abandoned set of pallets to sit on, drawing the ends of his cloak around him and setting his tote in his lap to wait. Even through the aged leather he could smell the tobacco inside but that was perfectly alright, the scent hid the more sinister of his recreational drugs.

As far as Hessat was aware, he was the only one to manufacture Seraj and Heraji, his two preferred narcotics when it came to his other job and both fetched him quite a lot. His contact today had wanted them, for what he didn't much care, but there had been mentions of a higher buyout, which had him naturally intrigued. Hopefully it would all be worth his while.

— template made by roar —

every night,

— i dream you're still here —

✧ so perfectly clear

[attr="class","scrolls"]The task set before him was a laughably simple one. This was hardly the first time he’d given a massage, a fact made obvious by the bizarrely clinical manner in which Hessat attended to Starling. His hands were exactly where they were meant to be, pressing into muscles that recoiled at his touch yet persistently attacking them with soothing touches until they released the tension they had been carrying, slackening under his careful attention. He could sense ever moment of pain being felt by his patient because his breathes would hitch tellingly but he could also likewise tell when his actions were appreciated.

A slight frown had developed as he worked on loosening a knot in the blacksmith’s right shoulder – there was a name for this muscle but it completely escaped him – when Starling moaned out. Hessat stopped all movement and stared down at the blonde, incredulous. He was used to a number of sounds coming from that mouth but that was damn fucking new. Even more perplexing was the questions that followed. Like, seriously? First moans of ecstasy and now pleas for more?

He wasn’t about to complain but he couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut. “Oh, so now you want me to touch you?” Grumbling with false affront. “If I go any lower I’ll be massaging your asshole and I’m 90% sure you’re not up for that.” Of course he knew what Starling had meant but it was more fun to poke at the kid’s ever so sensitive morality than simply give him what he wanted. Needless to say however, Hessat wasted no time in finishing off his work on the fox’s torso before shimmying down his legs and beginning again.

Starling’s pants presented an interesting, but not hindering, barrier between his fingertips and the strain’s skin. He wasn’t certain it mattered all that much; I mean he was still getting the benefits of the massage wasn’t he? The gypsy cocked his head thoughtfully. He could just rip the pants off him but doubted such recourse would receive positive review.

“You don’t let me because you’re so skittish about everything I do.” The answer came out like an airy rebuke. “You always side-eye the hell out of me when I start touching you so I’ve never offered.” Which was true but likely for good reason. His hands had a tendency to slip into places they shouldn’t, people’s pockets, purses a time or two, pants but only if you were hot.

— template made by roar —