Celebration

Garbed in the full ominous Dayless armour, Argon now cuts a formidable figure. The black armour clings to his well-built physique, its menacing aura amplified by the gleaming Dayless longsword by his side. Brolan trails behind him, excitement evident on his face as they venture into the dusky evening.

Argon stops a trembling peasant who's unfortunate enough to cross their path. His voice rings out, gruff and no-nonsense. "Oi, fuckwit, where's the brothel around here?" The sheer intimidation of his figure and tone turns the poor man pale. The peasant, visibly shaken, stammers out directions, pointing a trembling finger down the cobblestone street.

They embark on their walk; the town bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun. The streets of Horntide are narrow, lined with haphazardly placed buildings, their stone walls reflecting the warm, reddish hues of twilight. Locals hurry to finish up their work, throwing wary glances towards the imposing figure of Argon and his companion. Children playing in the streets pause their games to gawk at them, their eyes wide with a mix of fear and fascination.

As they traverse the town, the houses start to give way to more commercial establishments - smithies, bakeries, taverns, and, finally, brothels. The noise level increases, the sounds of clinking glasses and raucous laughter filling the air as the night descends on Horntide. They finally stand before their destination, a gaudily decorated establishment with warm light spilling out of its windows and the sound of feminine giggles echoing from within.

Stepping through the carved wooden door, Argon and Brolan enter "The Velvet Vixen". The place is a riot of colours and sounds, filled with plush, crimson-hued furnishings, the air heavy with the scent of sweet perfumes and spices.

In the heart of this lively scene is the Madam, a woman whose age is difficult to guess. A plump, flamboyant woman adorned in a dress of vibrant colours and excessive jewellery. A kaleidoscope of scarves and necklaces drapes over her robust figure, the fabric straining against the glittering baubles and brooches. Her hair, streaked with strands of silver, is swept up in an elaborate bun secured by jewelled pins. Her eyes, expertly lined with kohl, widen in surprise at the sight of the two armoured men.

"By the gods, a knight!" she exclaims, her heavily painted lips curling into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. It's clear she's not used to such distinguished guests. Euphemia quickly collects herself, though, her experienced gaze sweeping over the men.

"My good lady," Brolan begins, a roguish grin on his face. He leans casually on the counter, his eyes gleaming beneath the helmet. "Tonight, we need your finest wine, and some delightful company. You do have those in abundance, don't you?" He gives her a cocky wink, every inch the confident knight, sure of his command and his power.

"Certainly, sirs," she responds to Brolan, her voice smoky with practised seduction. "Wine and company, we have aplenty. Come, follow me." With a wave of her bejewelled hand, she leads them deeper into the hedonistic wonderland that is The Velvet Vixen.

As the Madam claps her hands, a parade of women embodying every imaginable definition of beauty float into the room. Each has a distinct allure that radiates in the dim candlelight of the establishment. They are draped in translucent silks and satins that hint at the curves and angles of their bodies, turning them into living, breathing pieces of art. Their eyes are rich with promises of sweet secrets and captivating stories.

Each woman is announced by the Madam, her voice coated with a sultry tone that reflects the decadence of the establishment. She lists their names like a precious catalogue: Ruby, with her fiery hair and vivacious energy; Jade, with her serene demeanour and eyes as green as her namesake; and Sapphire, whose striking blue eyes could rival the depths of the ocean.

Their prices are low, around 15 silvers, but the patrons know well that the Horntide doesn't compare to the prices in a big city such as Duskhaven. But these women were no less beautiful.

The women that parade into the room have been bestowed with figures that exemplify various forms of classical beauty. Their figures are draped in sheer silks that accentuate their unique physiques. Ruby, for instance, possesses a statuesque figure, her bosom full and her hips pronounced. Her silhouette is reminiscent of the voluptuous figures often immortalized in classical sculptures.

Jade, on the other hand, is slender, her elegance highlighted by the soft swell of her breasts and the gentle curve of her buttocks, presenting an image of grace and delicate allure. Sapphire's figure carries a sense of balance, her breasts and hips equally proportionate, sculpted with the precision of an artisan, a testament to natural symmetry.

Each woman carries herself with a distinct charm, their bodies speaking the language of allure and seduction that has turned this establishment into an oasis for those seeking companionship.

In his gruff tone, Argon asserts, "I'll take Ruby. A man needs somethin' to hold on to, and she seems... accommodating, and we'll stay the night; I can't be bothered to go back drunk" with a suggestive glance toward Ruby's voluptuous figure. Brolan chimes in, "Sapphire for me then, she looks nimble, and that's always... interesting."

The Madam, not missing a beat, retorts, "That'll be 33 silver, gentlemen."

Argon waves off her pricing casually, "Add in two jars of your best rice wine; we're celebrating tonight." His voice carries a blend of command and nonchalance, setting the tone for the night to come.

"Very well, one gold then," the Madam responds, her tone a well-practised blend of firm and deferential. She knew better than to openly challenge a knight, even one as coarse as Argon.

Argon, with a devious grin on his face, retorts, "That's a fuckin' odd total, isn't it? Thirty-three for Ruby and Sapphire, and you're telling me the wine is 67 silver? Seems a bit much for my liking."

Besides, are you saying each jar's worth thirty-three and a half?"

Caught in her own web of deceit, the Madam's face pales, her confident demeanour crumbling in the face of Argon's brashness. "My... my mistake, sir. It should be thirty-nine silvers for all," she stammers, her voice shaky.

Argon's hand moves faster than a striking snake, delivering a resounding slap to the Madam's face. "Don't think you can fucking scam me, you pathetic wretch. Try that shit again and I'll run you through without a second thought," Argon growls, the threat in his voice as real as the sting of his hand on her cheek.

Both Ruby and Sapphire look visibly terrified, their sensual allure tainted by fear. The Madam, nursing her reddening cheek, looks on with wide, frightened eyes. Yet, Argon and Brolan are nonchalant, showing no remorse for the discomfort they've caused.

With a swift gesture, Brolan pulls out the money pouch from his belt, the silver jingling merrily. He counts the necessary coins with an air of casual indifference, letting them clatter onto the table. To Argon, it's not just about the money but the power play. Having Brolan handle the payment elevates his status, solidifying his place as a man of authority and influence, someone who doesn't have to bother with trivialities like payment. It's a small show of dominance but an effective one nonetheless.

With an arrogant swagger, Argon and Brolan settle themselves on plush chaise lounges, their armours clinking softly against the ornate furniture. The atmosphere around them is tense, but they remain blithely unconcerned, eager to partake in the evening's indulgences.

The women return hastily, each holding a jar of rice wine. As they place the jars down, Brolan wastes no time in grabbing his, uncorking it with a satisfying 'pop'. He raises it to his lips and takes a generous swig, his eyes closing in pure satisfaction.

"Fuck me, this is the shit!" he exclaims, his words slightly slurred. "I don't know if it's the lack of booze lately, but damn this is good."

Argon chuckles at his servant's enthusiasm. "Better than that mountain dew we had?"

Brolan nods fervently, "Hell yeah, it's got a floral note to it. It's different, not as strong, but fucking good." He takes another swig, clearly relishing the taste.

Argon shrugs nonchalantly, "Well, if it runs out, we can always grab more."

Sapphire and Ruby, their chosen companions for the evening, try their best to engage Argon and Brolan in small talk. Ruby, the vivacious redhead, leans in close to Argon, her lips curling into a flirtatious smile.

"So, Ser Knight," she purrs, "how does it feel to be a man of such status?"

At the same time, Sapphire is attempting to entice Brolan with her sultry voice, "I've never seen a servant as well-kept as you, sir. You must be very important to your master."

Before Brolan can answer, Argon's voice cuts through the air, cold and annoyed. "Enough with the prattle. Shut the fuck up, both of you," he growls. "Just massage, and stay quiet."

Ruby, with a coy smile, gently tugs at the heavy Dayless armour Argon is donning. "Shall I help you with this, my lord?" she asks, her tone alluring and respectful. Argon simply grins, giving her an affirmative nod as he allows her to start unclasping the straps and buckles that hold his armour together.

She moves expertly, her fingers nimbly working to remove the armour piece by piece, her touch as gentle as a feather's. Soon enough, Argon is divested of his armour, now standing in his tunic. Ruby's eyes sparkle with admiration as she takes in the sight of his muscular form, unabashed and unhidden. Sapphire does the same with Brolan.

Gathering up the pieces of armour, she gives Argon a suggestive smile before turning to leave the room. "I'll take these upstairs, my lord," she promises, her voice echoing sweetly as she ascends the staircase, his armour cradled carefully in her arms.

Brolan glances at his master. Argon turns to him, his tone more subdued. "Don't spill anything important around these whores, Brolan," he warns.

Brolan nods, and they spend the next hour or so in a relaxed conversation. They talk about inconsequential things, from the quality of the local rice wine to the recent peasant revolts, careful to steer clear of any sensitive subjects.

"So," Argon begins, kicking back comfortably as Ruby's hands move over his muscular frame, "What's your take on this fucking peasant revolt, Brolan?"

Brolan shrugs, wincing slightly as Sapphire hits a knot in his shoulder. "Doesn't bode well, if you ask me. Makes the whole place unstable. Then again, who gives a rat's ass? They're just bloody peasants."

Argon chuckles at Brolan's bluntness, sipping his wine. "Yeah, not like we're gonna be doing any farming anytime soon. Let the lords deal with their shit. We've got our own troubles."

"Like getting fucking loaded on this wine?" Brolan jests, holding up his half-empty jar.

Argon grins, clinking his own jar against Brolan's. "Exactly, my man. No need to get our hands dirty when we can just sit back, drink and enjoy the company of these fine ladies."

Both men laugh, toasting to their carefree evening. The tension in the room dissipates, replaced by an atmosphere of camaraderie and revelry. Argon and Brolan spend the rest of the evening in high spirits, enjoying the wine and the women, far away from the worries of the world outside.

"Anyway," Brolan starts, taking a moment to appreciate Sapphire's deft touch, "What's next for you, now that you're a knight and all?"

Argon reclines, lazily swirling his wine before taking a slow sip. "Next? I don't know. Enjoy the fruits of my labour, I suppose. Maybe keep an eye out for more of those artifacts."

Brolan laughs, "Yeah, those things are like gold dust. But, careful not to get too greedy, master. You know what they say about pride and falls."

Argon chuckles. "I'm not worried about that, Brolan. After all, I've got you watching my back, don't I?"

Brolan grins, raising his jar. "True that, master. To us, then!"

Argon raises his own jar, clinking it against Brolan's. "To us, and to a future filled with more success and even more women."

The evening wears on, the two of them bantering back and forth, sharing crude jokes and tales of their past, all while enjoying the soothing touch of the women beside them. As the night grows late, their conversation grows quieter, the wine jars slowly emptying.

Argon, visibly intoxicated by the potent rice wine, grins lasciviously at Ruby. "Let's move this upstairs, darling," he rasps, a touch of harsh lust in his voice. Ruby complies, leading him upstairs, her movements fluid and practised.

Inside the private chamber, Ruby takes the lead. The room is dim, lit by a single flickering candle on a wooden bedside table. Ruby's silhouette is captivating against the soft light, highlighting her curves.

As she moves, Argon finds himself entranced by the rhythmic undulations of her body. Her movements are smooth and calculated, perfected through years of experience. The room is filled with an intensity that is only amplified by the intoxicating smell of the burning incense and the pulsating rhythm of their bodies.

Ruby takes full control, her nimble hands and agile body expertly traversing the rugged terrain of Argon's muscular form. Argon, for his part, lets her have her way, appreciating the practised movements of her body, the enticing sight of her silhouette dancing in the flickering candlelight.

Ruby, the courtesan Argon has chosen, is a woman of intoxicating beauty. Her figure is voluptuous, her curves generous yet well-proportioned. Her breasts are full and round, straining against the fabric of her flimsy dress. She moves with an innate sensuality that is impossible to ignore.

As she moves, her body sways rhythmically, her form exhibiting a feline grace that is seductive in its own right.

As she takes her position on Argon's lap, her body moving in a rhythm of its own accord, there is a sense of enchantment that fills the air. Ruby's movements are fluid and sinuous, an enthralling dance that holds Argon captive. The sight of her, the feeling of her body moving against his, is a potent intoxicant that leaves Argon yearning for more.

As the night deepens, so does their intimacy. Words are forgotten, replaced with a primal dance as old as time itself. Driven by desire and the heady influence of rice wine, the pair succumb to their primal instincts, lost in the throes of passion.

The rest of the night becomes a blurred memory, a passionate dance between two bodies merging in the sultry rhythm of the night. It's only when dawn starts to break that they finally succumb to exhaustion, the intensity of the night catching up to them in a languid embrace of contented sleep.