A DRINK BEFORE BATTLE (MxM)

Tharlburg was the sort of place that still thought of itself as a ‘town’ despite having long since grown up into a proper city. Its citizens were mostly regular folk – as rich as some of them may have become, they were still just rich commoners.

Even a proper city this far away from the capital of Brinland wouldn’t attract much in the way of aristocracy, aside from those few nobles who’d been given the dubious “reward” of lands as far from the king as possible.

Heavy taxation from that faraway capital might slow growth, but growth was nonetheless inevitable given the ideal location for productivity and trade. Nestled among picturesquely rolling foothills, the city was surrounded by rich farmland and dense forests of hardwood trees.

To the North, one of the few passable openings in the Khasavin mountains facilitated trade with their neighboring country of Valesk on the other side of the range.

To the West, the Avreline River formed the border between Brinland and Loranar, and carried goods from Tharlburg southward down to Caedra.

Of course, that was all well and good as long as these countries were all at peace. Now that the drums of war were beating, thank goodness the regional governor had wrestled some of their own taxes back from the capital to ring the city in strong walls.

Over the past several days, the gates of those walls had opened to admit a steady stream of allied Valeskan soldiers, passing through on their way to camp along the Avreline River in case Loranarian forces attempted to march across this corner of Brinland to breach that mountain pass into Valesk.

Brinland should have nothing to do with this war. It was between Loranar and Dericia, fighting over a disputed strip of land on their borders. But Valesk had gone to Dericia’s aid, and now Loranar had its sights set on revenge. Brinland was only in the way.

The threat of invasion on one hand and now the presence of so many foreign soldiers in town of course rattled many citizens of Tharlburg. The manufacturers and market districts couldn’t be happier, though. Say what you will, but war is certainly good for business.

And in the red-light street at the outskirts of the market district, business was particularly booming.

The area had become so lively that one might think there was a festival on, resulting in a veritable block party as the popular pleasure houses so overflowed that they entered into amicable cooperation with all of their usual competition, and the less popular houses had more patronage than they’d ever seen as there was plenty to go around.

They strung lanterns across the street from house to house and flung their doors wide, showing all passersby what entertainments could be seen inside, raucous music spilling out from every establishment as gaudily-dressed women danced in the doorways. They set booths outside where more vivacious women sold wine and spirits, and would kiss you for a coin.

The noise, confusion, and drunkenness of the crowd in the street made it particularly easy for one to slip through unnoticed to the still-dark and quiet end of this street and into the least patronized of all of these houses, the only all-male brothel, hosting an all-male clientele.

Brinland wasn’t quite as stuffy about these matters as other places, certainly not as stuffy as Valesk and Loranar were, but less stuffy didn’t equate to full acceptance, and so this establishment maintained its seclusion even in the face of all that revelry.

Unassuming on the outside, with barely even the appearance of a business open to the public, only those daring to take a look inside would ever know that this was in fact the most opulent, and expensive, house in the district – The Aviary.

Stepping into the Aviary was like stepping into a sensual dream.

The air was hazy with the smoke of incense, the heavy fragrance of rare flowers and woody spices instantly intoxicating with the promise of exotic pleasures.

The main lounge was dimly lit, all candles shaded in colored glass lanterns or held within stone urns bearing perforated designs that cast flickering constellations of starlight patterns about the room.

The only well-lit area was a stage at one end of the room, where a troupe of seductively-dressed musicians spun languid and sultry melodies, tantalizing both the eyes and the ears.

Furnishings and tableware were of the highest quality and most beautiful Brinnish craftsmanship, although such could hardly be seen clearly. All around the room, tables were sheltered within booths and veiled with diaphanous curtains spangled with beads that would glint as they were caught by the candlelight. Heavier draperies of sumptuous velvet could also be pulled around for more privacy.

The Aviary was not a place where most patrons wished to be seen clearly. It was a realm of shadows, designed to transform an anxious desire for concealment into an alluring and decadent fantasy.

In the midst of all this dim obscurity could be seen flashes of brilliant color, the fluttering, silken robes of the establishment’s courtesans; the Birds, as they were known.

They were stunningly beautiful, lithe and soft young men – boys, many may want to call them, but the proprietor of the Aviary made certain that every one of them had reached adult age.

Men of such delicate constitutions were unlikely to find high-paying employment elsewhere, though, unless they came from rich families who could pay for an education, but most of these boys had been turned out of their family homes when their preferences had become apparent.

And so, they painted their tender faces in sparkling cosmetics, threaded feathers into their lustrous hair, and offered their pliant young bodies for their livelihoods.

As General Zarayan Sevei of the Valeskan Third Cavalry slipped into the lounge from a side door, he was immediately set upon by a flock of these “birds” in an excited flurry, all cooing soft greetings of “Uncle Vei! It has been so long!” and “Uncle Vei, will you stay the night?” as they pulled him further into the room.

He gave them all a round of fond smiles, forehead kisses careful not to muss their faces, head pats careful not to muss their hair.

As they began to argue amongst themselves as to which of them he would choose, he laughed affectionately. They knew well that he would not choose any of them, as these little birds were not the type to interest their General Sevei. He hadn’t come here for their services.

On this, the night before he must lead his soldiers to the front lines, he was only here to visit family.