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Where do we go from here?
The fruit glowed peridot in the light of the perfumed braziers, hanging with a vicious delectability above the open lips of a similarly delectable youth. Temptation personified, golden juice burst through the swollen skin at the light pressure of a deft tongue against flawless teeth, once released by its former captors, the lithe fingers of another exquisite youth. He fondled one more grape from the stem and lifted it delicately to the waiting mouth. The recumbent beneficiary whimpered with impatience, and this time the heat of a generous lip brushed the unstinting fingers, in search of the anticipated sweetness.
The grapes were unreasonably perfect, as were their consumers; but reason had little to do with the perfection of the inhabitants of Delilah's court.
"Eat slowly, lord. It won't do for you to ruin your stomach," said the dark one with a shy smile that still managed to be knowing.
The seraphic recipient's bejeweled chest rose in a voluble sigh, and he opened his eyes. "Grapes, epitome of their species though they be, are hardly enough to disturb a divine digestion."
Their queen and mistress shook her head, causing all manner of dangling adornments to swing. "Only semidivine, Anthos. Are we forgetting our mortal parentage? Your mother would be disappointed." She reached down with a languid hand to select a grape from the bunch, and with the other, picked up a worked-gold chalice to dip it in. Both sets of dark eyes followed the drip of warm honey from that natural, succulent jewel back into the first, emerald-encrusted jewel of a cup.
Anthos made a gracefully rude gesture and rose, picking his way over aqueous cushions to Delilah. "I'm sure that's not the only reason my mother has to be disappointed in me," he murmured as he smoothed her throat with his hand, tracing the path of the honeyed grape.
"Your mother will forever lament the fact that it was I, Great Harlot who sits on many waters, who had the money to buy you from your captors. I'm both selfish and blasphemous for keeping you."
Anthos removed his hand from the woman's engaging clavicle and turned back to the dark hair among the purple and scarlet mountains of fabric. "The only blasphemy is in ignoring me as you both have been. It's only so long a deity can go without worship, you know. Asmodeus, come here and let's have an invocation."
"I don't have to be near you invoke you. As a son of Dionysus, all you need is a bacchanale. Your presence is intoxicant enough."
Anthos schooled his mobile face into the epitome of petulance, and the drunken but exuberant firelight caught the glimmer of aquamarines from his anklet as he stamped a captious foot. Well-used to his impatient fits, the grape-bearer merely plucked another and tossed it with an artful carelessness into his own mouth. His patience, however, was cut short by still-pouting divine intervention. When Anthos began to whine, even his equals hurried to his devotions.
Delilah had reclined further into her brocade and velvet drapery of a throne; the porphyry of her surroundings darkened with the approach of her followers-and-leaders. She whispered throaty hushes to the still-fractious demigod, and stroked his obscenely glossy hair as he knelt at her feet. The darkness of her curtained seat was deepened with Asmodeus' arrival, and he smirked as he overturned the last few grapes from their burnished plate into her goblet. She matched his expression with a snort and dipped the sticky baubles out with her hand, tilting her wayward deity's head to inflict their excess on his waiting tongue.
Anthos and his paladin were the fulcrum of her court's leverage, both religious and political. Once they concentrated, there was no cause they could not adapt, no enemy they could not convert to the mutual advantage of all three in their little ruling circle. The combined force of their charisma was staggering; with 'Deus as the godly avatar, and Anthos working the minor, bibulous miracles of which he was capable, Delilah needed no further army (quite apart from her personal assassin and her court's soothsayer, whose advancement in battle magic she preferred not to employ). The tedious chores of running an estate large enough to be considered a fiefdom were divided equally according to each aspect's proficiency in the triumvirate.
Anthos, the social one, arranged with his amiable father the benedictions required for such frequent diversions as these, making their small following the most loyal of any holdings they knew of. The regard in which Delilah's entertainment was held, not only for the superficial association with her power, but for the pleasure of attendance and the creative and artistic patronage, surpassed all but that of the actual troupes of minstrels and players, and even some of them. Anthos rarely arranged a gala that did not involve some kind of performance; Delilah's palace was a place of leisure to engage one's talents.
She did just that, as he settled into the immense vermilion corduroy under her beringed toes. Anthos preferred an informal invocation, at the beginnings of a fete such as this, to prepare him for a long and fatiguing night. She obliged with the low chant she had last composed for him, and Asmodeus passed the jasmine incense through the brazier struggling valiantly to illuminate the penumbral expanse of fluid throne. That was one thing Anthos managed quite well: the inflammable fabric cases of all the water-cushions had always avoided the combustion open flames tend to threaten.
Asmodeus, the one with the mind for details, managed inventory, kept track of the myriad interactions and relationships between their court and others, and generally amused himself with the running of the palace; he'd do everything himself if they let him, Delilah thought as she watched him trace Dionysus's symbols on the marble with smoke from the incense.
Her small aria concluded, she winced. Anthos's exuberance returned in full force. He bounced again to his feet, ornaments jingling, and spread his arms expectantly. She embraced him cheekily before finishing his pre-revel preparations. The richly sapphire gauze wrap she wound about him merely obscured the finer details of his lower body. The lapis and amazonite in his torque and armbands leapt into prominence once the kilt was in place. She looked him up and down, ignoring Asmodeus's deepening smirk, and pronounced him fit for public exhibition.
"Sure, he's fit, the exhibitionist. What about me?" Asmodeus had made his own adjustments, and Delilah blinked when she turned to face him. If Anthos looked extravagant, then Asmodeus looked as though extravagance were an informality; the ease with which he carried off his silken draperies made the most ethereal lady look clumsy with her train. He transformed a paladin's dress regalia into an understatement.
The fruit glowed peridot in the light of the perfumed braziers, hanging with a vicious delectability above the open lips of a similarly delectable youth. Temptation personified, golden juice burst through the swollen skin at the light pressure of a deft tongue against flawless teeth, once released by its former captors, the lithe fingers of another exquisite youth. He fondled one more grape from the stem and lifted it delicately to the waiting mouth. The recumbent beneficiary whimpered with impatience, and this time the heat of a generous lip brushed the unstinting fingers, in search of the anticipated sweetness.
The grapes were unreasonably perfect, as were their consumers; but reason had little to do with the perfection of the inhabitants of Delilah's court.
"Eat slowly, lord. It won't do for you to ruin your stomach," said the dark one with a shy smile that still managed to be knowing.
The seraphic recipient's bejeweled chest rose in a voluble sigh, and he opened his eyes. "Grapes, epitome of their species though they be, are hardly enough to disturb a divine digestion."
Their queen and mistress shook her head, causing all manner of dangling adornments to swing. "Only semidivine, Anthos. Are we forgetting our mortal parentage? Your mother would be disappointed." She reached down with a languid hand to select a grape from the bunch, and with the other, picked up a worked-gold chalice to dip it in. Both sets of dark eyes followed the drip of warm honey from that natural, succulent jewel back into the first, emerald-encrusted jewel of a cup.
Anthos made a gracefully rude gesture and rose, picking his way over aqueous cushions to Delilah. "I'm sure that's not the only reason my mother has to be disappointed in me," he murmured as he smoothed her throat with his hand, tracing the path of the honeyed grape.
"Your mother will forever lament the fact that it was I, Great Harlot who sits on many waters, who had the money to buy you from your captors. I'm both selfish and blasphemous for keeping you."
Anthos removed his hand from the woman's engaging clavicle and turned back to the dark hair among the purple and scarlet mountains of fabric. "The only blasphemy is in ignoring me as you both have been. It's only so long a deity can go without worship, you know. Asmodeus, come here and let's have an invocation."
"I don't have to be near you invoke you. As a son of Dionysus, all you need is a bacchanale. Your presence is intoxicant enough."
Anthos schooled his mobile face into the epitome of petulance, and the drunken but exuberant firelight caught the glimmer of aquamarines from his anklet as he stamped a captious foot. Well-used to his impatient fits, the grape-bearer merely plucked another and tossed it with an artful carelessness into his own mouth. His patience, however, was cut short by still-pouting divine intervention. When Anthos began to whine, even his equals hurried to his devotions.
Delilah had reclined further into her brocade and velvet drapery of a throne; the porphyry of her surroundings darkened with the approach of her followers-and-leaders. She whispered throaty hushes to the still-fractious demigod, and stroked his obscenely glossy hair as he knelt at her feet. The darkness of her curtained seat was deepened with Asmodeus' arrival, and he smirked as he overturned the last few grapes from their burnished plate into her goblet. She matched his expression with a snort and dipped the sticky baubles out with her hand, tilting her wayward deity's head to inflict their excess on his waiting tongue.
Anthos and his paladin were the fulcrum of her court's leverage, both religious and political. Once they concentrated, there was no cause they could not adapt, no enemy they could not convert to the mutual advantage of all three in their little ruling circle. The combined force of their charisma was staggering; with 'Deus as the godly avatar, and Anthos working the minor, bibulous miracles of which he was capable, Delilah needed no further army (quite apart from her personal assassin and her court's soothsayer, whose advancement in battle magic she preferred not to employ). The tedious chores of running an estate large enough to be considered a fiefdom were divided equally according to each aspect's proficiency in the triumvirate.
Anthos, the social one, arranged with his amiable father the benedictions required for such frequent diversions as these, making their small following the most loyal of any holdings they knew of. The regard in which Delilah's entertainment was held, not only for the superficial association with her power, but for the pleasure of attendance and the creative and artistic patronage, surpassed all but that of the actual troupes of minstrels and players, and even some of them. Anthos rarely arranged a gala that did not involve some kind of performance; Delilah's palace was a place of leisure to engage one's talents.
She did just that, as he settled into the immense vermilion corduroy under her beringed toes. Anthos preferred an informal invocation, at the beginnings of a fete such as this, to prepare him for a long and fatiguing night. She obliged with the low chant she had last composed for him, and Asmodeus passed the jasmine incense through the brazier struggling valiantly to illuminate the penumbral expanse of fluid throne. That was one thing Anthos managed quite well: the inflammable fabric cases of all the water-cushions had always avoided the combustion open flames tend to threaten.
Asmodeus, the one with the mind for details, managed inventory, kept track of the myriad interactions and relationships between their court and others, and generally amused himself with the running of the palace; he'd do everything himself if they let him, Delilah thought as she watched him trace Dionysus's symbols on the marble with smoke from the incense.
Her small aria concluded, she winced. Anthos's exuberance returned in full force. He bounced again to his feet, ornaments jingling, and spread his arms expectantly. She embraced him cheekily before finishing his pre-revel preparations. The richly sapphire gauze wrap she wound about him merely obscured the finer details of his lower body. The lapis and amazonite in his torque and armbands leapt into prominence once the kilt was in place. She looked him up and down, ignoring Asmodeus's deepening smirk, and pronounced him fit for public exhibition.
"Sure, he's fit, the exhibitionist. What about me?" Asmodeus had made his own adjustments, and Delilah blinked when she turned to face him. If Anthos looked extravagant, then Asmodeus looked as though extravagance were an informality; the ease with which he carried off his silken draperies made the most ethereal lady look clumsy with her train. He transformed a paladin's dress regalia into an understatement.
From: (Anonymous)
no subject
From: (Anonymous)
Nice
Just give me the raven and a rapier.
-Nabil
From: (Anonymous)
no subject
From: (Anonymous)
Cool
-Nabil