Chapter Text
The music fills the ballroom. The dance floor cleared for entertainment provided by the renowned musicians and entertainers of the Palm. Sol is currently in the concluding throes of the final performance of the evening. There is just the last tumbling portion to complete.
A last burst of power from the legs and they flow through the air. Time slows as the world moves around them, and they ready themselves to release a breath for the landing. The force of returning to solid ground courses up their body as they bring their arms above their head to strike and hold the final pose. Their heartbeat continues to beat in the rhythm of the now finished music, and they bring their gaze towards the head of the ballroom, a special acknowledgement for the host and guest of honor.
The audience springs into applause as Sol releases the pose and the other performers of the evening line up alongside them for a final bow. The audience expects expertise and the Palm will always deliver. Private Palm performances are prohibitively expensive, and considered a unique experience even for those in the Upper City. To more established and old money types, entertainment of this caliber is considered a bit inappropriate and gaudy for a gala to celebrate a mere counselor, but a contract is a contract.
The curtain call ends, and the troupe begins to exit the ballroom. Sol feels the adoration fill and pulse through their steady, beating heart and bloom through their body. The applause continues until all of the performers have cleared the ballroom and the night’s festivities can continue. The rush from finishing the performance wanes into a steady contentment as they get closer to one of the spare drawing rooms turned dressing room for tonight’s event. It is a nice room, although a bit cramped than what is usually offered. Sol pads to their station and begins to take off and put away their costume. Around them, the room is in a bustle; entertainers and musicians quickly pack away their costumes, props, and instruments. This is a well practiced and efficient affair. It has to be, they aren’t done with their contracted work, and the faster things are put away, the more time they can relax out of view of the attendees of this soiree.
Sol begins removing the dramatic performance makeup and reapplying a look more suited to attending a party. They focus on the feeling of the brush and pigment crossing their lash line, the soft patting of the powderpuff on their cheeks, the last dabs of color on their lips. It is a grounding, meditative chance to release, reflect, and review the night’s performance. A soft hand places itself on their shoulder.
“That last stunt at the end? Gods, you killed it, Sol!” Ursa beams at Sol through the reflection in the mirror. “You were beautiful, powerful.”
“I have you to thank, my lady!” Sol continues to speak at Ursa’s reflection, “ Your singing tonight, I felt like I could jump twice as high! We really did kill it, didn’t we?” The memories of the feeling echo through their body.
“You’re sweet,” Ursa squeezes their shoulder and kisses their cheeks. “Are you almost ready to get dressed?”
Sol nods and Ursa grabs their hand to pull them to the clothing racks, carefully weaving through the business of the room. There are several clothing racks, now bearing what the entertainers will be wearing for the socializing portion of their shift. The garments along the first two racks are simple and uniform in style, yet appropriate for attending such a party. Ursa and Sol continue past to reach the final rack. Here are the pieces meant for the troupe captain, leads, and stars of the Palm, to better differentiate them for the guests. For the lead vocalist, Ursa wears a long gown in a formal style popular with the more fashion forward young ladies of the Upper City. Sol, a rising star and casted lead for several recent Palm productions, dons a more contemporary piece: a slip dress that clings to the athletic and agile muscles and curves of their body. The duo help each other into their designated garments and walk over to the box at the end of the rack to collect their assigned jewelry and accessories. They shuffle over to a quiet cove of the room and begin to get each other ready, a tradition since they first started performing together as young teens. A moment of connection and authenticity before returning to the performance to check in, gossip, and refresh themselves. As they finish up decorating each other, Sol and Ursa’s conversation flows back to work and this evening's affair.
“That new counselor’s look? Very intense,” Ursa comments as she closes a thin bracelet chain over Sol’s wrist. “I don’t think he even blinked when you were up there.”
Sol hums and purses their lips. They hope another power tripping noble, emboldened by a new station and fueled by old rumors, doesn’t think that they’ll get any ideas for a special private performance. They finish up adorning the jewelry on Ursa’s horns and move behind her to close the clasp of her necklace. Ursa notices the pause.
“Well, we do have to play nice here, but I heard Jonah brought some spice tablets if you want to take one later, if that puts you in a better mood?”
Sol replies in a playful cadence, “ Performance enhancing drugs? My word, Ursa, did you even have to ask?” They lean forward and smooch Ursa’s cheek.
The troupe captain announces to the room that it is now time for them to begin their return to the ballroom. Sol and Ursa walk hand in hand out of the threshold of the room and walk down the dimly lit hall, now seemingly much shorter than it was previously. The sounds of the party slowly rise and they release their hands as they reach the threshold of the entrance.
The party is in full swing by the time the troupe returns. A different band, one not with the Palm, is now playing the music for the event. The champagne is flowing, carried by staff making their rounds circling the perimeter, and the center of the room, before cleared for their performances, is covered in guests dancing and mingling with one another. A stark difference from the base hums of noise heard in the hallway. The host of the event greets them. The troupe captain speaks for the group, thanking the host for the opportunity to perform as the rest of the troupe bow their heads in respect. As the host and troupe captain leave, the performers are released to mingle amongst the guests.
Ursa does some last minute adjustments, more a grounding trick than to change anything, and scans the room. “I’m going to pay my respects to the new counselor, I want to get that over with. Meet me by the bathrooms in five songs?”
“Sounds good to me. I’m going to hit up the food, I’m starving,” Sol responds. They quickly swing by the tables on the sides of the room, adorned with a bounty of fine cheeses, fresh fruit, and other finger foods and sweets. Sol, with practiced eyes and nimble fingers, swipe and eat the tastiest and easiest to eat morsels. They have to be quick, the guests are inebriated enough not to notice them right away, because as soon as they do, there will be no time to eat anything, only drink. Each brief stop is another different bite that bursts in flavor and begins to satisfy their hunger.
Sol recognizes a couple of the attendees as long time fans and personal patrons. No matter their current feelings towards them, each is due a brief encounter, otherwise Sol will hear about it from the Palm’s Director later. They float from guest to guest, paying due respects and toeing the line between keeping professional distance and keeping affections entertained. Sol breezes over to the host of the party, also on their rounds, to pay the proper respects and expected best wishes. The fifth song comes to a close.
Ursa stands by the hall leading to the restrooms, and from the corner of Sol’s eye, beckons them. Sol weaves through the crowds to lean against the wall next to Ursa.
“So I assume this means what I think it means?” Sol lightly rests their head on the wall and flutters their eyelashes. Ursa nods and grabs Sol’s hand to lead them into one of the bathrooms. The bathroom is dimly lit, probably to hide the state of it as the night goes on. Ursa gives Sol one of the tablets and the two entwine their arms to place the tablets on each other’s tongues.
They hug and Ursa whispers in Sol’s ear, “Be quick with meeting the guest of honor, Sunny. You should feel it in about fifteen minutes.” She ends with a small peck on Sol’s cheek and Sol returns the affection.
“Any first thoughts about the new lordling?”
“He’s charming. Seems a bit conniving, but who of their station doesn’t? He complimented our performance, didn’t outright request it, but I’m sure he wants to talk to you.”
Sol groans, “Ugh, okay. I guess I should get going then.” Sol gives a playful, pouty whine and Ursa laughs at their antics. It would be best to give a congratulations and pay respects before the spice kicks in. Sol leaves the bathroom, Ursa stays to stagger their returns.
Lord Enver Gortash has situated himself near the head of the ballroom, now converted into a seated section for important guests. It is far enough into the evening now that there is no longer a huddle of people queuing to speak with him. His face is familiar, Sol recognizes him attending some of the events and productions they have worked previously. Sol begins to brace themselves as they walk over, and their eyes briefly glance to a figure in the counselor’s periphery. Their eyes meet with a tall, white dragonborn’s and a quick flood of memories from the evening burst into their mind where they haunt in the sidelines. This dragonborn has been eyeing them since their return to the ballroom. It wouldn’t be the first time Sol has been tailed by a guest, but usually they are so much faster at picking them out. There isn’t anything Sol can do about it now, best to just press forward and get this over with.
Lord Gortash doesn’t hide how his eyes trail up Sol’s body and he lifts his chin at them as they get closer. He is comfortably seated, legs spread and arms resting along the back of the settee. The white dragonborn stands behind him, they must be some protection of some kind.
“Congratulations, counselor,” Sol places their hand over their heart as they give a slight bow, both to pay respects and hold the slip dress against themselves as they bend forward. “It is an honor to have performed for you. I hope the evening has been treating you well.”
“It has, better now that the Palm’s little darling has made their way over,” the counselor pats to a small empty space to the left of him on the settee, “Come, sit, my dear. Let’s chat for a bit.”
Sol is quick enough to hold back a grimace and swallows any complaints. They move as directed and take a seat, but they don’t get comfortable. Hopefully they just need to feed his ego a bit and then they’ll be dismissed. The dragonborn moves behind Sol, and it dawns on them that they might be there for a bit. Maybe the spice kicking in will make this all easier. “Well, here you have me, counselor. What would you like to chat about?” Sol plays into the playful persona expected from a rising ingénue.
“I’d like to commend you personally. To start from nothing, it isn't easy,” Gortash’s gaze is intense. He turns his body towards them and continues, “Your performance in The Prince was exquisite. It is such a treat seeing you perform and what your body can do. You started off street performing, no?”
Sol swallows. It was about ten years ago when Ursa and Sol started performing in plazas in the afternoon and taverns through the night. Sol desperately needed the money; their mother, now passed, at the time was too ill to work but rent still needed to be paid and food provided. When the tips were dry, Sol did what needed to be done to supplement the funds. Moments from different nights resurface from the depths of their memory: the first arduous climb up the inn stairway with each step heavier than the last, the time they were worshiped and pampered from their head to their toes, the night where hands were too rough and they couldn’t even perform for a couple days afterwards. That was before the Palm recruited the two blooming performers into their company, but to afford some of the fees and costumes Sol did return to that type of under the table work. Since their rise to fame, the Palm has worked to obscure the more unpleasant aspects of Sol’s past, but it is impossible to squash all gossip. They flash back into the present moment, the Lord looks at them waiting for a response and they feel the warm, humid breaths from the dragonborn behind them.
“I did! Mostly in the Lower City plaza and parks. I’m grateful to be with the Palm now, though,” Sol seamless slips back into their persona. This conversation needs to dwindle off, the spice will kick in soon.
“Relax, dear. And be comfortable,” Gortash speaks as the dragonborn pulls Sol’s shoulder to have them be fully seated on the settee. “I know what it is like, to make yourself from nothing. That fire, it fills the whole room when you’re on that stage. I admire that about you.” He leans closer and his hand moves to play with the small pendant on Sol’s necklace. His eyes move up from the pendant, to their lips, then settles on their gaze.
“I’m flattered, counselor,” Sol’s heartbeat is bursting in their ears. He must just want a pretty thing to ogle at for the evening, Sol doesn’t want to think about any other alternatives. It is like threading a needle, entertaining his affections enough so as not to offend him and extinguishing sparks of escalation. “I’m afraid I’m at a disadvantage, I hope you don’t mind regaling any favorite stories,” Sol looks up at Gortash through their eyelashes.
He hums, “There will be time for that. Come closer dear, this isn’t for prying eyes and ears.” Sol starts to scooch closer, but not fast enough for Gortash, and he pulls them so the two are hip to hip. He brings his head close to the hairline by Sol’s ear and takes a deep breath. The air he exhales soaks into Sol’s hair. The dragonborn, with a yank, pulls Sol’s hair back to have them look at their face. Sol yelps and can’t control their breathing, the spice is starting to hit. “Enough of the dramatics, you're fine,” Gortash whispers against their hair; he speaks to the dragonborn, “ Gentler, my dear friend. You need to be careful with this one.”
Sol can’t help but be enraptured by the dragonborn’s red eyes, a bloody contrast from the cold white of their scales. The moment seems to stretch on forever, whether due to the spice or situation it is impossible to tell, and as a scaly hand positions itself on their neck, their heartbeat almost beats out of their throat. This isn’t a regular body guard or hired muscle, this is someone much more dangerous than anyone Sol has ever met before; they exude an aura that makes Sol feel small and hunted. The dragonborn’s hand starts to squeeze their neck before Gortash swats their hand. The dragonborn moves their hand to cusp Sol’s jaw and begins to caress their lips with their thumb; Sol plays into it and opens their mouth, the right decision it seems with how quick said thumb finds its way inside and the smirk they get in response. Gortash hums in approval and begins to kiss Sol’s neck as his hand moves towards their side, where he can caress the bottom of their breast with his thumb. Sol closes their eyes, and begins to squirm and their breathing turns heavy, the spice is making all of this feel so much more intense and all encompassing. The heat of the hands fondling their body, the wet caresses of Gortash’s mouth and breath against their neck, the rough thumb holding down their tongue, it is almost too much to bear. They quietly whimper and whine. It is so, so easy to just get lost in the feeling and play along.
“Aren’t you a sensitive, beautiful thing,” Gortash comments and licks up their neck. Sol opens their eyes and looks aside to Gortash, and remembers where they are. Their eyes shift trying to spot anyone looking in their direction. They try to remove the thumb from their mouth and push Gortash away and their eyes start to water. The thumb is yanked from her mouth as the dragonborn gives a frustrated exhale through their nose. Gortash’s hand moves from fondling Sol’s breast to their neck and maneuvers them to look at him. “They must be shy, old friend,” Gortash is talking to the dragonborn, but never lets go of the eye contact he shares with Sol, “Isn’t that right?”
Sol nods as much as they can and pleads, “Not in front of all of these people, please.” Gortash lets go of Sol and there is finally a chance for them to breathe. They’re still frozen, awaiting to be dismissed so as to not offend the man of the hour. The room feels cold, a shawl would be a lifeline at this moment.
“It seems it is time to join in on the festivities, dear friend,” the counselor speaks to the dragonborn again. “If fortune is with us, we’ll catch up with you later. Run along now,” Gortash waves Sol off. As Sol stands and walks by, he lighty smacks their rear. Sol can’t disappear into the crowd fast enough.
It isn’t the first time someone got too handsy at an event, and Sol doubts it will be the last, but what transpired is much more excessive than normal. But it isn’t like the Palm would do anything about it, nothing to punish a patron. Gods willing, those two will just forget about Sol, but fame is fame, and they likely won’t.
The spice is still heavy in their head, the music waves through their body. The lights of chandeliers sparkle overhead and the bodies and heat envelope them in a warm embrace. A staff member carrying champagne walks by and Sol grabs two flutes and chugs them back to back. They might as well try to turn this evening around and enjoy themselves.
The rest of the evening passes by in a blurr, likely from the spice and champagne in their system. In the corner of their vision, sometimes they see Enver Gortash or that dragonborn that follows him around, but Sol tries to ignore them all the same. Sol participates in the dances, mingles with the guests, all what is ultimately required from their contract. The music dwindles off to a calm tune announcing the end of the festivities. Sol makes their way through the corridor and down the hallway back to the drawing-turned-dressing room. Where is Ursa? When can they go home?
Palm performers and stage hands scurry around the room, packing away and transporting trunks to the carriages outside under the direction of the troupe captain. It is muscle memory, packing things away and placing them in the trunks for the stage hands to take. How much spice was pressed into that tablet? Their head still feels as if it is in the clouds. There is a moment where the captain stops shouting orders and Sol looks to see what is happening. The captain looks to be talking in harsh, hushed tones with some of the ensemble and moves to shout a name.
“Nina! Is there a Nina Coldthorne in the room?”
The name is somewhat familiar. She must be one of the new ensemble dancers, a shy, young thing that hasn’t been working long enough for most of the troupe to notice she was missing. Sol walks towards the troupe captain, “Nina, is it? I can go and do a sweep for her.” Sol hopes the troupe captain can’t clock their inebriation. Sol needs to walk this off, this is much more potent stuff than they were used too. Hopefully this is just a case of a new dancer getting swept up in the festivities and losing track of time.
“You have ten minutes and we’re leaving,” the troupe captain spats as he resumes back to wrangling up the rest of the group to leave. Sol thanks their luck and makes a heel turn to leave the room. More often than not if it is just an ensemble member missing they would leave anyways; there are more people vying to be a Palm performer, and unfortunately they are seen as replaceable in management’s eyes.
As Sol makes their leave, they pass by Ursa loading her things into one of the trunks and they tap her arm, “I’ll be back soon. Skewers later?” Ursa nods and resumes to her task at hand.
Sol makes another walk down the hallway to the ballroom. The staff of the house are cleaning and storing away anything that can be saved. Sol asks about Nina, but the personnel don’t recall seeing anyone matching her description. The feelings of dread start to resurface, but she might just be in the bathrooms. They saunter over, focusing on placing one foot in front of the other and acting as sober as they can. The soft sounds of their shoes hitting the marble floors echo and bounce off the walls. There is no one in the bathroom. It wouldn’t hurt to just walk down the hall and shout the girl’s name like one would look for a dog. Walking to the carriages would’ve been enough to walk this off than looking for Nina.
The halls here are dark, meant to discourage guests from venturing further into the manor and carpeted halls silences steps. The only sounds traveling down the halls are Sol’s shouts for Nina. These halls seem to stretch on forever. Nina is probably back with the troupe anyways and they are just wasting their time.
Until Sol hears a cry.
Their face falls and they run as fast as their dress shoes will allow towards the source of the scream. They continue to shout Nina’s name, and the cries grow more insistent and more worrying. Sol turns the corner, and then another, and the door where the screams seem to originate from is in view. They throw themselves at the door and the wind gets knocked out of them.
“Nina! Nina!” Sol beats their hands against the door. “Open this door, damn it! Please, Nina!”
The door opens into the room and Sol’s body follows with it and lands against the person on the other side. Arms catch them and move themselves to encircle Sol’s back to hold them. Sol scans the room and briefly sees the white dragonborn from before, but now with a splatter of red across their face. Sol tries to move to see the figure on the bed, to confirm with their own eyes that the body used to be Nina, but the figure holding them manhandles Sol out of the room. Sol’s sight is starting to blur with tears and it feels no matter how fast they breathe they can’t get enough air. They continue to bleat Nina’s name, until whoever is holding them slams them against the wall.
“Enough!”
Sol is still pinned against the wall, their loud cries shrinking into hiccups and whimpers. A hand holds their cheek. Fingers weave themselves in their hair and a thumb caresses their cheek and smears away a tear. “There you go.” Sol looks up to the voice and there stands Enver Gortash. The tears continue to spill and it becomes harder to breathe, trapped like an animal yet again.
“Nina,” Sol continues as Gortash shushes them, “ Please, she… she doesn't deserve this. Please, please, my lord. Let Nina go, she’s just a girl.” They beat their hands against his chest, but it feels like a dream and they have no strength. Gortash pushes them further into the wall as his hands wander from their sides to grab their hands. He moves to kiss their lips, an affection unreturned. He continues to kiss their cheeks, their nose and nudges Sol’s hands and legs out of the way so both bodies are pressed flushed against each other. Sol feels the heavy weight of his arousal against their core. Hands move to fondle and explore and the slip is functionally nonexistent in protecting them from the touch. A tongue licks a tear trailing down their face and then returns to kiss their lips again. His tongue breaches their mouth and begins to squirm and slide around to its master’s content. Sol tries to focus, what happened to Nina won’t happen to them. They begin to little nibble, then bite at his tongue.
Gortash pulls his face away, but thrusts his back against Sol. They yelp in response. “Quiet,” Gortash whispers at them. “Nothing will happen to you. It’d be more trouble than it's worth.” He continues to grind against them and nibbles the lobe of their ear.
“Please,” Sol is breathing heavily. Gortash’s hands are practiced and the spice still makes it all feel so intense and distracting. One of Gortash’s hands fondles one of their breasts and the other pulls Sol’s hips against him in time with his thrusts. Their core slickens in response to the stimulation and they whine in his ear, “My lord, please. The.. oh Gods.. please, the captain, my lord. He-”
Gortash shushes them again and Sol hears the grunting in their ear. They lean their head against the wall as their muscles tighten and pleasure begins to ebb and flow through their body. They feel so empty, but they have no choice but to take what they are given, not that they would want it anyway. The cloth layers between them grow damp soaking up the arousal of the two. Sol’s moans and breathing grows louder as the pair gets closer to their ends. Gortash moves his hand to cover Sol’s moans, there will be no more interruptions this evening.
At that moment on the precipice of the abyss, time seems frozen. The depressing context of the evening has melted away for a brief moment, and Sol just focuses on the final waves of pleasure coursing through them and the two cling to each other. Gortash holds them against the wall and begins to catch his breath. He turns his head and gives a small kiss to their cheek. Sol braces themselves and stares at the floor.
The door opens and the white dragonborn, shirtless and covered in blood and gore, steps out. For the first time in the evening, they speak.
“Are you done?”
Gortash pulls back and leans Sol against the wall. He caresses their face, “Don’t worry about your troupe, one of our drivers will take you back to the Palm.”
Sol ignores him and stares over the counselor's shoulder at the dragonborn, the one who killed Nina. With the glance they return, Sol knows that they think they’re equivalent to an annoying fly in the house. Poor Nina. Monsters entwined with power and a poor girl in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Sol sinks to sit and lean against the wall. There is nothing to feel anymore, not tonight. They can feel tomorrow, when the sun shines again and after they take a long hot bath. They can get skewers with Ursa.
The dragonborn retreats back into that bloody room. Enver Gortash moves to follow, but pauses and reaches into a pocket and pulls out a bag of gold pieces. He flings it at Sol’s feet.
“For old time’s sake, hmm?”
Gold is gold. Sol pockets it away.