M A N T I C O R E

Sayu tempted a fine line between being polished like the stone of emerald that normally sat so high between his full bust. To be regal. Refined. But there was something so welcoming, inviting, and alluring about him in so many interpretations of the word arousing. Sayu swallowed every reaction, trying to keep himself from melting at the man’s presence. One that he’d normally reserve for his husband or even a trusted lover. Even one false move and Sayu might’ve crumbled. And that was the relatability. Sayu pulled back. Cautious in movement. His sway would’ve outlined the bow of Zahir’s pelvis and roll of his swell. He smiled. Letting every thought compact and compound so that he could shift them aside. He breathed. The fluidity was staggered for a moment as he steadied himself for level heading. He tried his best to forget the moment he peeked up from his book and adjusted to the stature and keen appeal of the man’s presence. Strong—seemingly so. He hefts his chest again, feeling a warmth stoke. 

“Intriguing.” Sayu spoke up, finally admitting that the man’s words weren’t the only thing to sing to the King. If one even had the slightest indication that he might’ve dwelt on thought or even fantasy, the crush of their bodies, the mighty blows of their hips, it would’ve been those nipples. How erect they’d gotten. Or the supple pout of his lips. A softness swarmed his soft gaze, almost unnatural in how they’d lure the man into the warm honey pulls. His wet his lips had gotten as he licked them. Tender suckles. A nip. Sayuja shifts, drifting a soft caress of his vehement skin. His hands traced over the man’s shoulder blades and rests in the ridge as if two lovers were intertwined in their ecstasy. A breathy exhale. One that indicated something much deeper. 

“I appreciate the hospitality and even your offer. I am not so sure it would be wise to ask for one particular thing or another. Upon this hour, fewer things happen but I can not say that I am unknowing or even inexperienced in how moonlight and need often creates a powerful and provocative situation.” Sayu was open. There weren’t any other way to describe him. He weren’t bashful. He was just careful. Perhaps to be so vulnerable with the man would open many different bonds. Friendship was one. Loyalty was another. He finally pulled free, coasting hips along in a singular plane of motion. Certainly there were more than just an insight at the King’s arousal as his throb stroked against a thigh that might’ve been caught by the fabric of his blanket. Shamelessly, he had a desire to let the man know exactly what was pulsing through his veins. He backed away, slowly turning to collect his book and as he bends, the robe rises just enough to expose more of his thighs. And the spread of his ass was outlined beneath the fabric. The thickness apparent as the ratio between his waist and hips was obviously different with the round arches. The part drew the robe between. He didn’t turn completely, however. He kept an able turn of his head. “I will say that I am pleased by your willingness. Though, I am curious as to why you’d be awake at this hour?” 

                        AS THEIR FLUSH FORMS WOULD DARE PERMIT, what throb followed was unmistakable; it wasn’t really Zahir’s first time finding himself in such a situation—nor was he one to come apart in a sudden flush from a mere glimpse of carnal play. He felt it. No. He was made to feel it. And while the mere vision of the King—and what he had come to tease into baring—was more than enough of a goad for Zahir to indulge, greater thrills prodded on only to keep him in a certain teeter of caution as his eyes remained to the vision that the other that was so willing to give—the other being the King himself. The King. Zahir almost hear what implications would come once the dance comes into some fruition --------- well, even right at the moment was enough for such thoughts; both of them far from clad in anything that was close to decent enough for some courteous and formal meeting. There he is; the Miscreant Sea Rat… securing his liasions with the Crown itself. Not that any of that was consequence—not that Zahir had remained to watch with that kind of malice in mind after all. There’s only play—that where the robe had so smoothly draped along and in between just juicy globes, it served as the spark that goaded him to play.

“The night has always been the friend of the thief—” Zahir hummed, his smile wider then as it was laced with a more open surrender to teasing the king. And with a stride towards a small ornate table, he let the blanket trail behind him in a billow that exposed right up to that high glimpse of his inner thigh. It was in there where he set the goblet and tippled the flagon of whine to let the silence between them be filled with that gentle trickle of wine. “ --------- or then again, it might as well be everyone’s friend… as long as you find comfort in shadows and actual silence… I’d admit, it takes some kind of man to deal with that much woo and pomp from lords and subjects… how you still find strength to be all the way down here is actually quite admirable…” he nodded then, holding up the goblet as he set his sights once again to the buxom figure that the moon still held in the embrace of its gentle light. 

      “--------- thirsty?”

It had been ages since the King traveled to the port. Probably due to it’s past and often being the center of his own mum’s folktale. As he let eyes rise from the contents of his book, the silence of the hall only amplified his gentle sweep of the pages and the soft inhale that cause his chest to swell, breasts to spread. He was thankful for the respect and the honour upon arrival but he had wished his small wishes were received. Possibly lost days before he’d arrive. He was just thankful enough to have the will and power to send his handmaid and guards off to blend into the daily operation. Tired eyes trained on the man’s for a moment longer, clasping his robe closed as he hid the royal treasure and the beloved regions of his body from sight. A small peep of nipple still remained in the window as he arranged himself for comfort. He finally smiled. Perhaps softer than normal as he pulled what little energy he had to show his gratitude. 

“If I must confess. It is but not in the manner you probably seek to ask.” Sayuja slowly rose. His right arm tucked around his waist as he’d offer the left hand but quickly shifts, realizing the right was more dominant in many areas. A simple mistake. Fingers outstretched to shake as his robe opened yet again, giving the man a clean sight at the fortune that the Crowned King had been blessed by the weaving and scaping hands of Terran, himself. Sayu opted for a hug instead. Nobles were like friends. Some far less familiar but friends, nevertheless. His warm embrace ensnared the man even before he could contest. His silken body hair caressed any other surface as soft skin below melts to the touch. Even in his own pride, his luxurious scent filled the room.  Sayuja was the King that Casther wanted and the mother that it needed.

“Forgive my informal approach to things. I was just in search of a moment to get away. How long has it been? I surely hope that efforts of rebuilding this place from my father’s reign has helped it tremendously?” His smile broadened, intoxicated by the notes of otherworldly charm and his admiration for all things. “I must commend you and your family.” Sayuja reels back, closing his robe - this time from the inside. “I do hope you forgive me as small tasks I wish to tend to myself. I’ve never been one to be constantly surrounded by dutiful maids and guards.” He truly was the man for his people. “Even if you wish not to admit it, I truly hope I am not a burden too great for these next few days. Might I add–” Sayuja paused before continuing. “I am pleased by all that you’ve offered and the presentation. Just…feel free to breathe around me.” He was vague but very direct at the same time.

                        PERHAPS IT WAS MERELY BECAUSE ZAHIR USUALLY COMES to the capital for the sake of duty alone that he hadn’t paid much attention to the King’s beauty however lauded—that if anything, he was, indeed, the true Pearl of the South; soft, fine… gentle… though very far from fragile. But it was only in that moment where Zahir was offered a kind of sight that was more than the usual finery fit for a king—to actually see more of the King that the moon seemed to have sung in unison with his mind as its serene light kissed onto broad form that shifted. Heaved. It was easy to note the swell of the King’s thick breasts with how they peaked really—how the thin silken embrace of that robe failed to hide such ripe form. A kind of brawn that exuded strength and yet whose curves where enough to arrest one into a thrall. That, he had seen; tunics and trousers barely held onto his form. 

But right there, with practically nothing but probably his dressing gown—one that failed to hide the very peak that crowned a slab into such delectable sight, just as moon-kissed as the rest with its proud pertness—it was different. Muscles twisted from mere adjustment. Muscles bulged from mere steps. How his hand and arms shifted and run along his own curves was more than enough to have them flex and bunch -------- enough to keep the pirate on his toes to not jump into a panic… nor jump away from the embrace that he seemed to only realize too late. Heated. Heavy. Heady. Their bodies cam pressed. Their bodies came flush. Their bodies came so close into turning into a languid rut that was only kept apart by a vert thin swathe of a cloth that remained draped onto the other --------- though Zahir stole a peak at how their act coaxed the silk to slide off more that the nipple was now showed in full... and what coarse hairs that led him to the base before he averted. Ripe. Not really a word for a King, but Zahir kept to himself just as the discreet tension of suddenly finding himself within the King’s company… and the words that seemed to melt in his ears. Gentle. But that’s what made the pirate a little more cautious despite the private moment that they shared at the moment.

"They are all in great spirits knowing that they have served their King well,” Zahir finally hummed as their proximity would permit. Their hard bodies seemingly exuding at each others’ heat. The King, almost bared before him. Proudly, too. Zahir would lie to himself if he wasn’t as intrigued. “---------but with them at rest, I’d take this one on my own hands,” he nodded at the king and the spot that he was on just before. “Could I provide more to give better ease at your escape? I’d provide solace if needed be...”

                        AS MUCH AS AVARRE IS BORN OF THE LAMASCAN NAME, Zahir knew his place—that while the King’s visit to the city had the young lord welcome the honor of it, he’d admit that it wasn’t exactly something that kept the spirits alive --------- so much so that it was only at the sun’s own sleeping that Zahir had finally learned how to breathe as the entirety of the day was spent keeping everything on check. The navy’s best behavior was paramount just as the guards that were now given an extra wage to extend the hours of their guard. Then there’s the stables, the larder, the food the wine, the entertainers for the banquet and everything else that might keep the King in the warmth of their welcome. Zahir was counting on that, really. He’d even play the harp for him if that’s what it takes to smooth things over in the greatest of moods—then he’ll lock himself up until the next morning arrives to do the same thing. At least Avarre was rich enough to provide.

Apparently, it was far from a night that he would expect. That the moment he turned into one of the marbled halls of Qazr’mara, flagon and goblet in hand as he wished to loiter around his own home to take that breather he deserved, the King was there. Alone. Probably as restless as he is. Zahir’s jaw clenched in caution. As much as he regarded himself as contemptuously lax—as proven wit how he only had his blanket wrapped around him to walk the halls—he wasn’t as foolish to rid himself of proper countenance before the King. Save for the moment. “Majesty,” the pirate began, nodding into a bow before his face winced into flinch as the pause granted him this trickle of horror. 

      “ --------- was the comforts provided less than satisfactory?”

It was true and though he desired to dispute his claim, there was no evidence to help back his own claim. Still, a smile formed on his lips to the familiar voice that rose behind him. With a turn of his head, he saw the familiar face moving closer, yet subtly ignoring him. With a light shrug on his shoulder, Lale turned his attention to the markings on the pad he held in his hand with yet another shake of his head. “When leisure is finally possible, you will be the first one I tell.” Smirk now rising to a larger smile, he lifted his head again to catch the Lord’s eye. “Passing through, I’m afraid. I could use a meal, however if you have any recommendations and perhaps time?” He asked, offering a chance for further conversation. After all, he hadn’t been to the port town in quite some time. Mostly considering it was a port town.

                        BY GODS, IT WAS SIMPLY THE EXPLANATON; in one hand Zahir isn’t exactly the trustworthy kind; a judgment that was also made clear with some members of the court who were not at all keen to see that Avarre had come into the hands of a sea-faring bastard that made them think that perhaps the elder Lamasca had just simply gone mad in the last moments of his life. And there were revelries... all different sorts... luxuries...among other things. If it wasn’t for the fact that Zahir actually knows what he was doing to make things run in his realm, he would might as well find himself with half his self out of Casther’s border. And yet he’s not as far different from the Deveroux scion despite the fact that he seemed resolute in his duties to his noble house --------- well, with how he carried his ledger with him, the case might be too resolute. Probably the kind of man that they don’t mind keeping in Casther because he’s neck deep in work. Different sides, same coin. The good, the bad... and the current state of... some kind of stall.

Without a warning, Zahir took it upon himself to move closer, to lean on over the other’s shoulder that he could almost scent off of the leather that he wore and further attest to the luxury of it—all to take a playful peek at the pad before he made a face and a scoff. “Or maybe you can tell me where the Deverouxs hold their Master of Accounts so I can invite him instead --------- he looks like he has a lot of free time with the rate you’re going... does he like pot pie?”

                        AS MUCH AS IT WAS RIGHTFUL GRACIOUSNESS to welcome royalty in the embrace of Qazr’mara, it was also rightful for the Crown to send guards and make sure that everything is within their security. Though at the very least, it is worth noting that this wasn’t exactly the first time that Zahir had to keep himself discreet under the guards—just as it wasn’t the first time that he had to smuggle out a prince either. That as the sun had come to set and what burdens of the previous day need sating had already sparked into its revel, Zahir was just as poised to strike within the shadowy corner of the guest’s apartment --------- within the ticking hour and within the encumbering treachery of silence, he waited. And at the first sign of the familiar figure that ca me close, his strong hand reached and tugged until he felt the others’ body crash against his broad form. A distinct Sollia scent. Sweet prince. Accomplice of the night.

“I thought you decided you’re too old games and passed out,” Zahir greeted in a low voice that seemed to rumble as he kept the prince flush against him as if to fit them both in the darkness of his own palace.

[ QAZR’MARA, THE LORD’S PALACE ]

      Never forget that       our crowning glory        was a stronghold       meant for war.                   --------- Talwaz, Lord Lamasca

Qazr'mara ( kaz.RHA.ma.ra.) is the seat of House Lamasca and is located within the heart of Avarre, one of Casther’s most illustrious port cities. It is the current household of the heir and the bastard scion of the house, the Lord Zahir Lamasca. It was originally built as a small fort when Zelihm had come to set his roots down within the shores of Avarre since he needed a stronghold to protect him and the interests of the region as the then people of Casther began to take interest in becoming a separate nation, but within it, through decades and eras that came with each Lamascan heir that took seat—and more so with Avarre’s growth—its previous uses had turned into their own establishments until the stronghold was left with no other function but to finally hold the command itself; to be a palace and a symbol of the glory and grandeur that Avarre achieved with its enduring history as a city of Casther. That while not as grand as the palaces of the Castherian Kings, Qazr’mara still prides itself in its own beauty and its own innate history.

The’s notable façade is probably the most ostentatious with its frescos coated gleaming gold leaf and vibrant paints all framed in sculptural décor. From other sides, the white marble served to be its most recognizable feature—the testament to the more straightforward stronghold that it once was. Inside would be a throne room as a symbol of their seat—but also a place for the King to hold his court should the need arise. Other than that, Qazr’mara have apartments to provide for their guests, study halls, larders, a banquet hall, a bathhouse, gardens, stables, and Zelihm Lamasca’s war room where the mosaic of Metia is still intact on its floor.

Theo could have kissed the man and his horse. Now, he might be able to complete his mission without the need to run to the next town on foot in full armor. Maybe he was being a bit lazy, but there was also efficiency to think about. If he collapsed on arrival, he would be no good to anyone. Taking the offered hand, he swung up onto the horse behind the man. “Thanks,” he replied, “so…” He should probably talk to the person helping him. “What’s your name?” 

                        NOT THAT HE EXPECTED THE KNIGHT TO KNOW HIM, but there was relief on how the question came on—it means that his makeshift fabric mask and cloak had done quite the job. But with how his current task demanded a delicate kind of subtlety, Zarandhal couldn’t fly on with him and reveal the position of the runaway caravan --------- that with a firm grunt, he pushed on into a surging gallop through the woods, keeping down as he remained just as careful to keep the other on the saddle. Because he needs the Deveroux knight to see this thing with him.

“Not now—just tell me where they ran off… there might—b’more of these -------- bandits,” he grunted on through a hard bounce from how the steed leaped over a high root, growling on through his forward lean as the worry that the worst of it might come to the merchandise loomed.

[ MARTICHORA ] or the Manticore, is the heirloom piece from House Lamasca. It came from Daram Lamasca, Zelihm’s son and the first heir of Avarre. Legend has it that the first bolts from the Martichora where made from actual spines of the fabled creature of its namesake. Though while that remains to be proven, the bolts remain to strike true as every Lamascan must know how to wield it for they should know how to claim the winds for their own rage. Some people claim that the Martichora seemed to whistle in some times that it was used as if it was Daram’s sigh before releasing a bolt.

[ HIRAZJ AND HALCONDRE ] are the twin swords of Zahir. Most notable with their dark blades that which fed rumors and whispers about how they were made from ancient steel and his foolish penchants for thievery had him bound to some cursed pair. In reality, Zahir would consider it as heirlooms to himself—that while the process of its making was indeed ancient, the steel itself were forged from the swords that were left on the very beaches that he was marooned in—including the one that found its home on what they considered was the death strike on him. It wasn’t fully complete until he took the seat of Avarre—the ivory and ruby crusted hilt was the symbol of his new life as a noble. Respectively, the names meant Wise Sky and Calm Wind. Whatever was left were turned into daggers.

[ AVARRE, PORT CITY OF CASTHER  ]

    I bear the name Lamasca—like my father,    and his fathers, and their fathers before him.    I am your lord. I am Avarre.                  --------- Zahir,  the Revenant Son

The Most Illustrious Port City of Avarre is probably one of the oldest cities in the history of the independent Casther and is the greatest pride of the dynastic lordship of House Lamasca. Located in the southern region of the kingdom, its history began with Zelihm the Stone Tortoise, first of the Lamasca and one of the rebellion’s most stalwart supporters, when yearned to establish a foothold that would give them greater freedom to move as Valtolia pressed onto them from the north. With his own skills on the high waves, what they could sell from the farm lands were brought onto Sollia and even as far as the enclosed bays of the cold Bergian waters and even down to what little settlements eked at the very edges of the shore of the Uncharted Lands. A slow and careful endeavor, but it was steady. Relentless. Enduring. They knew that if Lord Toyne was to break their bonds from the kingdom that oppressed them, their roots mustn’t only come from the earth they till. That soon enough with the war that dawned, Avarre turned to become one of Casther’s southern strongholds and one of the first cities that grew after their fruitful rebellion.

Now, it is known as the Pearl of Lamasca, a great port city that had grown greater under the tutelage of House Lamasca. Not only does it hold a heft of the Castherian Navy, but being a center of trade for the past four centuries had turned it into the magnificent vision that it was; a promise of the glory that their proud rebellion has achieved and its vast future ahead with the world that spread beyond them. And through generations, it remained stalwart, a bounty that flourished and kept staunch under the next heir of the Lamascan bloodline and the next that the name Avarre was synonymous to their name itself --------- seemingly so, even to the current scion and the bastard heir, Lord Zahir Lamasca.