Oct. 29th, 2015 06:16 pm
languir: (Default)
[personal profile] languir posting in [community profile] felicium



٧ Alcuin no Delaunay survives the assassination of Anafiel Delaunay and formally retires from the service of Naamah. He, not unlike many other former adepts, eventually decides to open his own salon in an effort to sustain himself and maintain his adoptive father's former estate. Alcuin mentors hopeful adepts in the way of the Night Court, specifically in the art of erotic modesty and humility.

Date: Oct. 31st, 2015 12:19 am (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (Default)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
Carrick had been pursuing Alcuin for months. He attended every open evening hosted at the young man's salon, his visiting card with a short but (hopefully) enticing message penned on the back, dropped without fail into the crystal bowl outside Alcuin's private study where potential patrons asked for his attentions. He sent gifts before and after every fet - bouquets of hothouse flowers, rare books, flasks of perfume in exquisite cut glass bottles - but though they were warmly received with gracious if somewhat cool notes of thanks, no private invitations were forthcoming.

It might be simply that his success as one of the most prominent courtesans of the city allowed Alcuin to be choosy about his patrons, Carrick thought, but he suspected there was more to it. Ever since the night he had engaged Alcuin's favourite young adept and introduced her to pleasures that might have been refused by even the most experienced and pain-hungry adepts of Valerian House, the master of the salon had been icily distant.

Carrick wanted the boy. He burned at the thought of tasting that exquisite mouth, of burying his hands in the thick, pale hair and holding his head immobile in brutally hard kisses before tumbling him into the dark sheets of his bed. If he was ever going to persuade the beautiful young courtesan into his embrace, he'd have to think creatively.

Alcuin evidently enjoyed the patronage of the richest aristocrats of Terre D'Ange, decadent men and women who could toss away priceless baubles and laugh about the cost. Further expensive gifts would do nothing for his cause. Instead, Carrick thought of the traditions of his homeland and the lovelorn behaviour expected of a man wooing a new eromenos. In the world of the Hellenes, a well brought up boy was expected to be modest and reticent, to hold back his favours until his older lover had proven his devotion. Carrick smiled to himself a little. When caught up in the hunt, he was nothing if not devoted.

The following morning, a wooden crate was delivered to the front door of Alcuin's salon. As the sun peeped over the eastern horizon, the peace of the morning - and that of many of the buildings' inhabitants - was broken by a loud crow. Carrick's latest gift was already making its presence known.

Date: Nov. 10th, 2015 02:09 am (UTC)
the_shadow_master: (Default)
From: [personal profile] the_shadow_master
Carrick had decided to pay a call to the salon that evening. He was eager to see Alcuin's response to his gift. Although Carrick was a patient man, and never more so than when devising a new stratagem to win the favour of a boy who had caught his ever-desirous eye, he felt this was an occasion where there was nothing to be gained from holding back.

He dressed for the evening with particular care, with a sharply tailored dark riding coat and boots polished to a mirror shine. A garnet glimmered like a drop of blood in the stock pin at his neck. He rode at a leisurely pace to Alcuin's salon, enjoying the lingering warmth of the evening as the sky turned violet. Trotting into the stableyard of the salon, he swiftly dismounted and handed the reins to a stablehand. There, at least, was a boy who was always glad to see him. The stableboy doffed his hat as Carrick approached, a faint flush rising on his suntanned cheeks as Carrick's leather-gloved fingers lingered on his while handing over the reins. The boy was sweet and keen to please, and on the nights Carrick left the salon after yet another cool rebuff from Alcuin, he could always be sure that the stableboy, at least, would eagerly submit to his hungry kisses.

"Will you be long in the Salon tonight, my lord?" The boy questioned almost wistfully. Carrick glanced at him as he stripped off his riding gloves and tidied his hair. "I do hope so." He gave a brief flash of a shark-like smile. "But you'll still be awake when I return." The stableboy's answering smile had the doomed sweetness of a prey animal fascinated by the lissome sway of a snake. "Aye, my lord. I'll wait for you."

Carrick had forgotten the stableboy by the time he crossed the courtyard. As he stepped into the pool of light from the lanterns hanging in the trees nearest the salon’s door, there was an unearthly screech. A flurry of black wings beat the air as the rooster, recognising the man who had shut him in a crate the previous evening, flew at Carrick’s face like one of the Furies. Swearing in Greek, Carrick's arm flew up in front of his face to block the whirlwind of pecks and claws. Mercifully, the rooster retreated after a few moments, strutting across the path in front of him with puffed up feathers and a challenging glint in its tiny black eye.