Join me, brothers and sisters. Join me in the shadows where we stand vigilant for the trash. Join me as we carry the trash that can not be forsworn. And should you perish under the heap of trash, know that your sacrifice will not be forgotten. And that one day I shall join you.
Got hair done by Liz Jung at Salon de Beauty in Bellevue. Absolutely gorgeous colors, she helped me choose it. (at Bellevue, Washington) https://www.instagram.com/p/CBr0vcoAw-K/?igshid=5dvgjt1jzegc
Seneschal Varel said it was at least a week from Vigil's Keep to the city, I'm paraphrasing here, but he said "A week after you left for Amaranthine, a large darkspawn army was spotted in your general direction which I farted in." The city is at the top of the arling, and the Vigil is in the middle. So, that one arling must be HUGE. Which begs the question... How long did it take Duncan and the dwarf Warden to reach Ostagar?HomelyDrugAddict (talk) 02:43, July 15, 2011 (UTC) Yay for Monty Python
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When that crumbling ceiling staggers into sight, I lie there, fighting for my breath. My throat is raw from screams I must have howled through a cloth knot. My jaw is clenched so tight, my teeth locked into the knot as if I’ve bitten till my teeth grounded down to stumps. My hands are tangled in sheets, fingers poking through the holes I’ve shredded in it. They’re locked in a curving claw, trembling. It takes me a while, until the stars in the dark sky makes me realize: there is no ceiling.
As you are no doubt aware, I’ve long been writing the adventures of Sherlock Holmes on this blog. But there are things I must fabricate as to protect the privacy of those involved. There have also been occasions where Sherlock and I were dealt state secrets or other such information directly involving nations and their welfare. Such cases never see the light of day, hidden safely in my notes. Perhaps one day it may be deemed safe enough to be shared, but for now they sleep.
But there is only one case among many Sherlock Holmes has been involved in, which I have not shared due to its delicate nature. The client for that case, I’ve never seen the like before or thereafter. She was… sensational, in a way. A stranger, finer lady you could not find. She turned our genre of thrillers and mysteries of day-to-day life into a tastefully sensual erotica. And with Sherlock Holmes, you can imagine what a feat that was.
Hers was a story delightfully scandalous, unerringly captivating, and… well, she was simply extraordinary.
I have thought long and hard about sharing her story with the public. It is not an easy tale to swallow. It is definitely not general public appropriate, you can trust me on that. But it is a tale that should be heard, I think. I’ll leave it here, before I can do more harm of spoiling the story.
-Dr. John H. Watson
The Toxic Flower
It was an early evening like any other except for the storm, in London. It was raining dreadful like, cold radiating off the tall windows and dark like the dead of night. I sat in my armchair with a newspaper in hand. Mrs. Hudson had just brought a cup of tea and biscuits with a tart not your housekeeper while Sherlock was in one of his moods, ghost playing on his violin in his pajamas and a robe and staring out a window. He hadn’t spoken a word in days, God knows what was going on in that head of his.
It was remarkable how ordinary it was. Everything, really, everything was perfectly ordinary. Until Sherlock whipped away his violin and gave a shout, “we’ve got ourselves a client!”
I’d been reading the economics on the papers. Dreadful stuff, but better than watching telly with him around. I looked up with a “what?” as Sherlock jumped clear of the coffee table and stormed into his bedroom.
“A client!” He shouted through the hallway and I got up, shucking the papers to look out a window. The street was practically deserted in the foul weather, and I almost didn’t spot the shadow shuffling far in the distance. I could tell it was a woman as her stature was small, especially so with her head and shoulders bowed in against the wind.
“In this weather?”
“It’s urgent. Much more promising than the morbidly obese idiot suspecting himself. That was a disaster.” Sherlock was already back, fixing the collar of his changed suit. Sure enough, the shadow on the street below veered for our door.
“Well, whatever she brings will beat watching you sulk for a week or two.” I dragged the chair over from the table to the usual spot between our armchairs.
“I don’t sulk.” Sherlock said, as he paced.
“Oh, is that so?”
“Quiet, she’s on the stairs.”
And so she was, by the sound of it. Mrs. Hudson led her into the room. Happy hellos and warm welcomes were said while Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned. Without bothering to peel off her soaking coat she took a seat on the center chair and it was all quite perfectly ordinary. Then I took my seat with my notes and saw her, you know, actually saw her.
Or what was covering her, rather. She wore one of those big padding overall jackets, the ones that cover you from the tip of your head to your ankles. It was a big fluffy thing, huge on her, making her look like she was swaddled in a blanket two sizes too big. The only thing we could see of her was her head. Her head was poking out of it, ridiculously small in that mound of coat with her long swirling black hair all drenched and sticking to her cheeks. Her eyes were large. Almost too large for her face but wasn’t. Brown eyes, that stared so wide that it made her look intense. But her mouth was plump and small, and it wore an easy little smile which made her look absolutely lovely.
Her look suggested of eastern Asian blood. Her skin was of darker shade than white, but light enough that with the right kind of light you couldn’t be sure. Her cheekbones were higher than you’d expect to see in an Asian’s face, but her face fell flatter than a Caucasian’s. She wore no makeup, and her features were strong and sharp, angular in every way.
Now I don’t usually take to studying our clients to this minute detail, though Sherlock always does. I reckoned her to be in mid-twenties, from the youthful energy in the way she moved. With her covered up so I could hardly examine her features for a more medical assumption. But there was something about her, as she was drying her hair on an offered towel that made you pay attention. Clearly, she was a pretty one. Not the ostentatious, glaring-in-your-face kind of beauty you got used to on telly nowadays, but the kind of beauty that was more natural, gentler sort that softened one’s heart. Her disarming smiles would make anyone smile in response.
“Would you like a cuppa tea? Warm up those bones of yours a bit.” Mrs. Hudson offered as she took the small towel back.
“While that would be lovely, I’m sure Mr. Holmes would like me to get right down to it.”
“And you would be right. Mrs. Hudson, if you please,” Sherlock gave that little wave of his hand and Mrs. Hudson shut the door behind her as she left.
“So how does this all work? Do I just tell you and Dr. Watson my story?”
“Yes, though I do believe you have us at a disadvantage. Miss…?” Sherlock finally stopped his pacing to take a seat on his leather chair, hands coming together below his chin and eyes blazing.
I nearly snorted at that. He was using that suave voice he reserved only for clients who promised to be truly interesting.
“Acolea, Mr. Homes, Dr. Watson. A pleasure.”
And she smiled so radiant, it was amazing. It was actually amazing, that a person could look like that. I had never known a woman could be so alluring. And all she’d done was give an introduction.
“And what brings you out here in this weather, Acolea?” Sherlock crooned like nothing was out of ordinary, eyes devouring every inch of her for information. Then again, he was incredibly dense when it got to those sorts of things.
“I’ve a case for you, Mr. Holmes. One you might find interesting.” She unzipped her coat.
Underneath it, she wore a black silk lace lingerie.
I could feel my face flushing when she peeled the soaked coat off her and tossed it on the floor. It was those expensive little scrap of cloth that hinted just enough to show her striking physique and yet cover just enough for your imagination to run wild.
“Well, this is highly unusual.” Sherlock said, eyes raking across her lithe form with the same hunger for interest as always. But even he sounded bone dry.
She was a very toned woman. Like models, really, though she was more on the slender side than curvy. The lines on her body were tight, inviting like how a flower might beckon to a bee. She leaned back as if it was the most natural thing to do, poised like a stretching cat.
“I do hope it’s a pleasant sight,” she grinned.
“You’re… doing that thing. That thing where you make a point somehow with what you’re wearing. I… can’t for the love of God figure out what the point is, though.” I stammered. Not the smartest thing to say, but better than staring like a slack-jawed idiot.
“Do you think Mr. Holmes has figured it out yet?” She smiled.
“Hmm! He must have, by now. I’m sure he got your point. Since your point has been made, would you like something to wear? Anything? We must have something, really. Blanket?” I tripped over my words back then, eyes fixed pointedly on the blanket that was thrown over my armchair.
“My, Dr. Watson. Such a proper gentleman! Well this is quite amusing, isn’t it?”
“I take it you’re on a recreational side of business?” Sherlock leaned even further forward with a glint in his eyes. He looked as if he’d fall off his chair. I took to studying the lines in Sherlock’s face, a relief from having to look at her. The glee I saw there bordered on manic.
“You could say that, yes.”
Then Acolea shifted on the sofa, drawing my attention back. Her intense eyes serious and playful smile all business-like. It made you lean in, to catch every word she breathed.
“My name is Acolea Varie. It’s not my real name, of course. It’s from the flower Aconitum. Do you know of the flower?”
“Toxic flower, in large doses death can be instantaneous. It’s considered to be aesthetically pleasing but fatal, and completely undetectable with no real cure.” Sherlock rapped out.
“Quite right. And that’s what I am, what I was cultivated to be. A deadly flower, to lure the bees for a taste of nectar, to provide a last feast.”
“Let’s cut to the chase, shall we? There’s an aphrodisiac, Mr. Holmes. It works wonders, and it’s fatally poisonous even in minimal doses. Piedra. If you ingest it, you’ll be incited to copulate immediately till your heart bursts. Rub it in your skin, you’ll go mad with your needs. It’s very, very dangerous. And used rarely, for its cost for creation is near astronomical.”
“Now this may sound insane, but I’ve been ingesting Piedra for as long as I can remember. Half a drop in a cup of water. Half a drop in my cereal bowl. Ever since I could eat solid food, just barely under fatal dosage. For years, Mr. Holmes, have I been fed Piedra without my knowledge.”
“Interesting,” Sherlock breathed.
“I don’t know how I survived. It was an experiment, a secret project and I a specimen in a lab. Others died over the years, and eventually I was the only one left. I didn’t know any better then, as I was isolated for as long as I can remember. My only contact with the outside world were people in hazard suits that taught me things that they thought I should know and fed me poisoned food.”
“Fascinating. Tell me more,”
“Sherlock,” I reined him in automatically. It’d become instinctive by this point to stop him when he breezed past socially accepted behavior with disregards to others, but Acolea only smirked.
“And as time passed, I aged. My body matured from a young girl’s into a woman’s. And I had been carefully cultivated since the moment I could crawl to be as they wished. I am bait, a lure which affects all five of your senses. Do I look pleasing for you, Mr. Holmes?”
Acolea leaned forward then, dropping to her knees. I admit, I would have shrunk into the armchair if I could have. But I couldn’t. My body did not move, and nor did Sherlock’s. It was as if I’d lost all control of my senses, of my body for it longed for her something frightful.
“My image will haunt you behind your closed lids,” she smiled, a sly grin with a tug on a side of her lips.
“Touch me,” she said. And my hand obeyed her command against my will. I lay my hand on her shoulder, I’m proud to note, and she felt soft like a flower petal under my touch. Sherlock had turned white next to me, fists clenched to restrain himself. He was a man proud of his intellect, of his cleverness and had always made crystal clear of his distaste for what ordinary people call passion. Him and his brother both, I knew, had no wish for any emotional nor physical connection with people. A mindless rush, the need that enslaved the general populace, they had only ever looked on with contempt.
So, it came to me as a shock when I realized, that he was as affected by her as I was. It was hard to think, I admit, around the thick mess that had become of my thoughts by then but even to this day I clearly remember the horror etched on his face as his hand ever so slightly reached for her.
“Can you hear the want in my breath?” She whispered, crawling up his legs. Her voice was like honey, sweet and runny, and her warm breath tickled our ears. In my head I could hear her moans and I had to swallow to keep from the embarrassment of salivating like a starved fool.
She was amused, no doubt. For her smile was that of an unaffected bystander. She had settled into Sherlock’s lap at this point, arms wrapped around his neck and torso flush against his. Her legs fell over the sides of his hip, dangling. Her lingerie kept her decency precariously intact, and yet it was somehow more intimate than if she had been bare.
“Will you resist my scent?” And then I was aware, of the heavenly scent surrounding her. It made you feel as if you were floating atop a cloud, for it was a light scent, lulling you to complacency. It was sweet of course, everything about her was extraordinarily sweet, and somehow, I knew her scent was of want.
“Or will you yield and taste me?” Acolea leaned back and her wet hair waterfalled down her back, and in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to devour that woman. Looking back on it now, I am grateful that she chose Sherlock for her center of attention for I do not think I could have resisted. As it was, my nails drew blood from my palm with an effort to stop myself from ripping her away from Sherlock.
Sherlock, who was receiving the brunt of her attack. His eyes were bulging, his hawkish nose flaring as he took in the scent of the woman straddling him. I know his body wanted to simply lean forward and accept her invitation for a taste, though what his clever mind wanted was surely different. He sat there, fighting the urges all men bear, and losing it badly. Even back then I was fascinated to see his composure fall apart so utterly, ever more so than all the years I have known him.
Just as I thought he was going to throw her onto the floor so that he could taste her nectar, she burst out laughing. Acolea fell apart with incomprehensible mirth in Sherlock’s arms, almost falling backwards before Sherlock caught her.
It was as if a spell was broken then, a taut leash snapped. I cleared my throat and sank into my armchair as much as I could. Similarly, Sherlock loosened his hold on Acolea, allowing her to wiggle from his embrace.
When Acolea calmed, she took the blanket I’d offered earlier, and threw the door open.
We shared a look, of embarrassment and relief as somehow, as we stitched our composure back together. The stuffy air inside the room cleared a bit, along with our head. Acolea then glanced at the window and shrugged, wrapped and wrapped herself in the blanket many times over and fell back onto the chair with a satisfied sigh.
“I do apologize Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. But would you have believed me if you hadn’t felt the poison for yourself?” She chuckled.
“That was… the poison? Piedra? That’s what it did to you? To us?” I asked.
“Yes, and not many can resist what it does. None have, in my experience.” She raised her perfect eyebrows, her eyes flicking down to my… well. She looked away with a smile and Sherlock and I… shifted.
“Why? For what purpose would they make someone into… that? Who?” I shook my head once I was certain we were once again presentable. And calmed.
“Why indeed? Mr. Holmes, have you a mind of who I am?”
He was uncharacteristically silent, and I looked over to see him leaning back against his chair. He looked terrible. Fingers digging into the arm rest, eyes wild with something primal, lips thinned, and jaw clenched. It took me a second, but…
“Are you-” I gasped.
“No,” he spat.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, Sherlock-”
“Shut up.” He growled, before storming out of the flat. I gaped at the door and flinched when I heard his bedroom door slam. Hard enough to shake the building.
That… was… unexpected. To say the least.
“He’s sensitive, is he?” Sounded her voice, and I turned to stare at Acolea wordlessly. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with her, as it was.
“I’m assuming this isn’t how this normally goes?” She shrugged under the blanket.
“Uh, no. No, not really. Uhm, do you mind?” I pointed towards the door and she smirked.
“Not at all, Dr. Watson. I’ll be here.”
“Right. Yeah, okay.” I nodded.
“Go on,”
“Right. Okay.” And I bolted out of the room, chasing after Sherlock and leaving her wrapped in the blanket alone in the living room.
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...The client for that case, I’ve never seen the like before or thereafter. She was… sensational, in a way. A stranger, finer lady you could not find. She turned our genre of thrillers and mysteries of day-to-day life into a tastefully sensual erotica. And with Sherlock Holmes, you can imagine what a feat that was.Hers was a story delightfully scandalous, unerringly captivating, and… well, she was simply extraordinary.
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