[ P ] nectar of the gods

T

he dank air reeks of cheap alcohol and bile, with faint traces of lingering iron from the drunken brawls of nights past. Alone in a darkened corner, the fallen prince laps at a shell filled with the finest wine on offer, but it still runs short on her palate and has little to say on the finish. An insult to wine, really, but she supposes it is not the type of crowd that drinks for the taste... a truly excellent artisan wine would be wasted on their tongues.

As a Dionysian, she is so fond of altering her state of consciousness, whether it be through pain, pleasure, or a flask of heady wine — all of these are sacred and meant to be savored. Nyx supposes that is why she could never simply chug down drink without taking the time to appreciate its aroma, its flavor, its body. It is so much more than just a means to find a way out of your head for an evening.

Glacial grey eyes sweep across the tavern, watching wolves come and go, observing the occasional whispered exchange. Pointed ears subtly shift to hushed words about a prince and freedom. Her brow furrows as she tries to listen in while not being too obvious, but the conversation is too quiet and too far to glean much of value.

A nearby retching steals her attention. Nyx turns her head and spots some waste spewing his guts out right on the floor. Her lip curls with overt disgust as she looks away, and in doing so, she makes eye contact with a wolf of smoke and ash.

@Pan

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

T

his were his people, these rogues and scoundrels, the sort of crowd, perhaps, that one’s mother would speak warnings of to not stray to close. Of course, Pan valued his mother’s words—she was now gone from the world, and he appreciated her even more. Even the scalawags here would not dare cross their own mothers, the bringers of life, and nurturers of the young. Still, he found fellowship here among the brawlers and thieves, mercenaries and urchins; they brought him a sense of comfort, knowing he might blend in among them.

He enjoyed consorting and confabulating, gossiping and jabbering, enveloping himself within those social circles that brought so much novelty to his life. Wolves were so very interesting, the way they talked and thought and acted, even and especially when Pan did not understand them—he thought sometimes he was better that way.

There was one who seemed new around her, one who caught his good eye, and he watched her for a moment, scowling at the brute who retched the contents of his stomach. Pan could not help but chuckle, lips drawing up in mild amusement. ”Ye’ll find only the most polite crew here, miss. Etiquette be o’ utmost import when ye’re thick in the midst o’ miscreants,” he said. ”Wha’ brings ye here, if I may ask? Ye don’t seem t’ enjoy yer drink. Perhaps one wit’ a refined palate such as yers might prefer somethin’ else?”

@Alexandre

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

T

he first thing the prince notices upon laying eyes on the stranger besides his grizzled coat is the abundant scarring across the left side of his face. Her immediate impression is that he must be old enough to be her grandfather — the man might even be around the age Aidoneus would have been now, had he not died at the age of five. Nyx would have passed him with nothing more than a cursory glance, if it weren't for him initiating conversation. The first words out of his mouth are dripping with sarcasm. With an arch of an eyebrow, the Dionysian flashes the stranger a sharp smirk and says, "Indeed. One could mistake these noble patrons for members of the court."

In a rather unrefined dialect, the man asks what brings her here, as she seems to not enjoy her drink much. "Boredom and curiosity," is Nyx's earnest answer as she contemplates her beverage. "I'd not sampled this tavern's wine before. Now I know it is a disgrace. Whoever made it would be better as a sacrifice than as a vintner." The words are said casually before she takes another lap at the bitter swill.

”Perhaps one wit’ a refined palette such as yers might prefer somethin’ else?” says the ashen stranger.

"Is this an offer?" asks Nyx, looking placid except for the curiosity lighting up her eyes. "What is the catch? I will not spend the night with you, if that is what you are after."

@Pan

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

T

o have someone to share a conversation with, a quick-witted and sarcastic partner was a blessing for Pan, for oftentimes the company he chose to keep was far from the favorable end of the intelligence spectrum—there were plenty of followers among the crew, the brutes that chose to dwell here. They required a leader to appropriately allocate their efforts to mischief and raids. Otherwise, they would find themselves in the hands of the law, and that would not do.

As for Pan… well, while he had his loyalties, he would not consider himself a follower; he had his own thoughts and wits about him, and he imagined himself too old to be merely subject to the whims of another. Still, he was well-mannered enough, charismatic for a gruff senior, and he relied upon humor to begin conversations.

He grinned upon hearing this woman’s jab at the quality of the wine. ”’tis a shame, ain’t it? Ye might find many here worthy o’ sacrifice—the average scallywag does nah come t’ the Drunken Seagull t’ partake in fine vintages or exquisite spirits. In fact, I doubt many o’ ‘em know the difference.” He waved over a barmaid with his paw.

”An offer, aye! Lucky be ye today.” Pan let out a laugh, his voice rather boisterous for such an accusation. ”I do nah dare assume any strumpet be a beauty o’ the night! ‘n I certainly wouldna waste me best cabernet on someone I could pay wit’ other wares.” He gave her a wink of his good eye before turning to the barmaid who had now arrived.

”Two o’ me finest. Ye know where I keep me stash, I trust. Be discreet, will ye? Ye’ll be compensated, poppet.” It served him well to have connections, to have people here who would do his bidding, only to be bought with other goods to which he might have access.

@Alexandre

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

T

he way the old man speaks, it takes quite a bit more effort on her end to really follow what he is saying, as his words are not very clearly enunciated, but she is able to follow without too much trouble. A smirk flashes across her dark maw as he more-or-less confirms her earlier observations. "Of course not. They're too busy conspiring and fighting and whoring to notice the difference; it only matters that it gets them drunk," says Nyx, raising a paw on that last point before setting it down on the stone tabletop.

The grizzled man laughs and tells her she is lucky tonight. The prince huffs, not believing it but admittedly quite curious to see just what he has in stock. "I would feel much luckier if you were a pretty young woman with nice legs," she says in return as she toys with the half-empty shell. Any woman would be much nicer to look at, really, even one that was not especially pretty or young. A half-smile tugs at those thin lips and a brow arches at the elder's next words. She is unsure what a strumpet is, but she can take a guess from the context. She muses, "Would it really be a waste? Are the whores not deserving of a little luxury?"

It is a tragedy that so many women have been forced to sell their bodies by a male-dominated society, and the man's words serve as a reminder of this terrible fact and how these women are worth nothing more than a scrap of hare meat to the filthy men that seek their 'services'.

The man flags down a barmaid and instructs her to bring two of his finest, asking her to be discreet about it. As the barmaid walks away, Nyx looks towards her acquaintance and says, "You never told me if there is a catch or not."

@Pan

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

A

mused by her comment regarding being a woman, Pan laughed heartily. “I would feel luckier if that be the case, as well!” He looked at her, leaning in for a whisper; his preferences were, perhaps, different than many of the men who frequented the Drunken Seagull—rather than focus on carnal parts of the body, he enjoyed elegance. “But, I reckon I prefer a plush tail more than anythin’, if I’m bein’ honest—thick fur along the neck, soft t’ the touch, smellin’ like smoke ‘n honey.”

Her concern for the night workers was understandable. “Aye, well, that would depend. Wha’ might a lake o’ gold in a desert be t’ a cool, fresh spring? Wha’ good be a fine wine t’ someone who requires grub fer thar nursin’ pups? ‘n further, ‘n finally—why provide yer best vintages t’ someone who can nah appreciate the taste?” Pan gestured across the room with his paw. “Nah everyone has a refined palate, miss. Ye said it yerself. These scallywags would guzzle greedily without any comprehension o’ the work ‘n artisanship that has gone into me vinos—‘tis the same with some strumpets. I ‘ave seen it meself, after makin’ an offer. Ach! The guzzlin’ hurts me heart!” He pulled a dramatic pose, raising a paw to his head. “Always, I be searchin’ fer true admires of luxury, those who nah drink for the mere sake of it. Ye, yer expression said it all—ye’d rather ‘ave a shell o’ good than an ocean o’ mediocre, eh? Fine wine deserves to be savored. ‘tis a craft.”

He tilted his head to the side, feeling rather jolly and mischievous about this exchange. This was a businesswoman he had chosen to sip wine with—sarcastic and straightforward, though she was very intent on outcomes and intentions. “If I told ye this would be the best vino yer taste buds ever embraced, would the ‘catch,’ as ye say, even be o’ import?”

Truthfully, Pan had no expectations. He would offer the wine as a gift to a stranger who seemed unhappy with her own selection—now, her reaction was really what he was curious about. He was quite the generous pirate and thief, perfectly willing to purchase interesting conversations with his hard-earned wares. Among a sea of urchins and brutes, most of them drunk off their asses, engaging confabulation was hard to come by.

@Alexandre

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

U

nconsciously, Nyx pulls back when the old man leans in a little closer, the increased proximity triggering an automatic sense of repulsion. Silver eyes narrow as she eyes the grizzled bounder while he tells her of his own desires, not for a woman with voluptuous curves or long legs but for one with a soft, voluminous mane and a pleasant scent.

"Hmm... I think this is one of my favorite things as well," she says halfheartedly, an attempt to carry on pleasant conversation in spite of her welling agitation, "but really, the entire female body is a divine work of art." There is so much to admire, it's a struggle to narrow her preferences down to any one thing in particular... though she supposes she does have her weaknesses; a petite woman with pretty eyes, a plush coat, and a coy demeanor can so effortlessly bring the prince to her knees.

The old man delivers quite a speech at her comment — men do love to hear themselves talk. Though it's a lot to follow, she understands the gist of what he's getting at, at least. His final words are the one thing she can agree with, that winemaking is a craft. "Of course," the Dionysian will not deny this truth, "though you take my point too literally. Is it not unfortunate that some are brought so low that things as basic as a sip of clean water or a bite of fresh game is their luxury? That they will trade their dignity for it, or be forced to do so?"

It isn't as if these wolves make this exchange for the pleasure of it; they have little choice, either brought into it by need or by slavery, and others are more than happy to take advantage of their misfortune. Meeting the man's half-blind stare, she says, "What they need is not to be paid in wine or meat. What they need is freedom." Nyx doesn't expect him or any male to be sympathetic, and it is probably a waste of breath, but at the same time she cannot say nothing.

Her mother fought for these things, to better the position of women in their state and abolish sexual slavery. She may be gone now but her fire still burns within Nyx.

“If I told ye this would be the best vino yer taste buds ever embraced, would the ‘catch,’ as ye say, even be o’ import?” the man replies when she insists upon his intentions, an answer which does little to bring her any comfort.

"Yes. After all, what man gives something for nothing?" she says simply. Even if he doesn't intend to take her to bed, he could very well rope her into a bad situation, or he could slip something into her drink so she faints, allowing him to harvest her organs. There is a chance his intentions really are pure, but Nyx remains skeptical.

@Pan

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

“A

ye, the female body is divine, indeed,” Pan agreed, reminiscing on the times he had spent with such women. He liked them—he liked them strong and confident, not the broken and submissive sort that some men preferred. Why, he enjoyed a free woman who took charge!

Upon hearing her respond to his explanation, Pan quieted. He listened, ears folding forward in interest at her perspective. It was a common opinion among women, no doubt, and he nodded in acknowledgment, a rare solemnity consuming his demeanor. He was a thief, a pirate, a swindler, but he was also a feminist of the highest degree. “Aye, I agree with yer point,” he said, lowering his voice. “Ye must understand, poppet, tha’ this be a systemic issue—the King and his parliament allows it, ye see? And tha’ is how it perpetuates. ‘Till the issue of poverty be addressed, women still mus’ work t’ fill their bellies. Ain’t no two ways ‘bout it.”

His good eye narrowed, wishing to test her resolve, attempting to decipher what political beliefs she might harbor, if any. “Ye wish t’ do somethin’ ‘bout it, poppet? Then ye take action. Ye do good where ye can. Don’t matter wha’ yer beliefs are—only tha’ ye act on ‘em.”

He rolled his shoulders back as he made himself comfortable. “With tha’ said, freedom is the key, ain’t it? Assumin’ tha’ all strumpets would prefer not t’ use their god-given bodies is sanctimonious, aye? I know a beauty o’ the night or two or three who enjoy their work—they enjoy the companionship they provide t’ their patrons. ‘Tis not the work itself tha’ brings shame but the way society looks upon it, treats it. Let ‘em unionize, says I, dictate them safety standards, charge a fittin’ wage, and let the free market take care o’ the rest.” He revealed more about himself than he usually would, speaking his opinion freely—he felt comfortable enough in present company, despite the many brutes in the bar that would likely disagree.

“I appreciate a cautious woman, tha’ I do.” They had to protect themselves in this time and place, especially among such rabble, and even he would admit that he was no looker. “But if I said I don’t be wantin’ nothin’ from ye, would ye believe me?” Pan thought not; he could be wrong.

The barmaid arrived with two shells, each one carefully held on both sides of her mouth. She set them down, nosing one shell in front of Pan, the other in front of his acquaintance. “Thank ye kindly, love,” Pan said to her.

Pan turned back to woman he offered a drink. “Well, now,” he started after the barmaid left, “what will it be? Will I be havin’ two drinks tonight? Not that I might either way.” He took a deep breath. “Smells luxurious, don’t it? If ye ain’t goin’ t’ take a sip, then at least have a whiff. ‘Tis good on the nose, jus’ as it be on the palate.”

@Nyx

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

T

he rogue's sense of mischief seems to subside for moment as he solemnly nods in agreement — Nyx looks to him with a slight arch of the brow when he expresses this unexpected sentiment, noting the shift in demeanor and the lowering of his voice. The prince has long been aware that these issues are systemic — something like this is deeply ingrained into a society, on each level. It is beyond the word of the King or his parliament, and even beyond class inequality. "A fair point," she concedes as she laps away the last dash of wine left in her shell. "So long as the council turns a blind eye to the misfortunes of the poor and disadvantaged, nothing will change. But poverty is only one piece of it. It is just a means of control."

But she does suppose addressing poverty would mitigate a lot of issues plaguing the land. She wonders if this was part of why those wolves made an attempt on the King's life last season, because there are wolves starving and desperate while he sits in his castle and ravens on the finest prey, for which he never had to lift a claw.

The wolf of night narrows her eyes as her greying counterpart does. He tells her to take action, that what she says and thinks is not nearly as important as what she does — a mindset which has already been ingrained into her from birth. "Spare the lecture, geron. Taking action is why I am here, instead of leading my wolves to glory," says the fallen prince, words collected but laced with agitation. If she needed to be told this, she would not be having this conversation right now. She'd be living and serving under the conquerors that left Orphne a shell of what it once was.

He begins talking about those prostitutes who claim to enjoy what they do — she has heard of this before, but it makes little difference to her, as these wolves are the minority. "So long as pornoboskoi, brothel keepers, exist, I will have my doubts. There are too many women and girls who never wanted this life, too many who have no choice but to smile and say they love it, because they fear what their masters will do if they say otherwise," Nyx says. It all goes back to what she was saying before about control.

"In an ideal world, where these women are all free and are all their own masters, I would agree. However... in the world we currently live in, legitimizing this work would do much more to benefit the whore-masters than the whores." There is much that would need to be done first, to ensure those that don't want to be in this line of work can get out and those who do can do it safely and on their own terms.

“But if I said I don’t be wantin’ nothin’ from ye, would ye believe me?” It's a hard thing to believe, that he would really want nothing. There has to be some sort of motivation behind his offer. Before she says anything else, the same barmaid from before has returned with two shells of wine. One is set down before her. Silver eyes are intent on the new drink, the tempting aroma hitting her already. “Smells luxurious, don’t it? If ye ain’t goin’ t’ take a sip, then at least have a whiff. ‘Tis good on the nose, jus’ as it be on the palate.” Her attention shifts over to the man as he coaxes her into having a taste.

Thin lips curl into a crooked smirk. "Malakas. I know what you're doing," says Nyx. "I am still not convinced. Perhaps it's true you don't want anything from me, but there must be some reason for this."

@Pan

geron (yairr-own) - old man.
pornoboskoi (por-no-vos-kee) - pimp, or brothel keeper as Nyx translates it.
malakas - in this context, bastard.

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck

“C

ontrol, aye. Power. Authority. Where thar be unchecked power will always be corruption, and I say parliament have kept their arses warmin’ their seats fer far too long.” Perhaps it was not disdain in his voice, per se, but it was certainly not approval—in his time here, despite growing up as a mainlander, he saw the injustices for women in particular, this refusal for them to divorce their partners, no matter how abusive or how unfulfilled their marriages were.

Pan loathed it, watching his very mother suffer from such an arrangement. He wished to changed things, little by little, step by step—thieving was not any such way, specifically, but he did what he had to do to support the true king, the one who belonged on the throne, the one who would support women and children.

Like his late mother. Like him.

“Greed,” he said as if he were one to talk. He liked fine things in life, of course, but he only took from those who could afford it. He would never rob a poor family or an orphan; that was why intelligence was so valuable to him. It gave him perspective, information on who could best sustain a looting for the good Prince Jacob. He preferred to operate in larger cities, the capital, usually, for that reason. “It corrupts men. Decentralize the banks, says I. Let the clans and towns determine their own taxes and spendin’. Less will go t’ the crown, less will go t’ lavish waste. More fer the people, t’ cure poverty.”

He chuckled at her next comment. “Ain’t a lecture, poppet, so much as a gentle reminder.” The youth were so opposed to being told what to do and how to do it. Pan could not blame them—he loathed it, too.

Instead, as a pirate and thief, he chose to do nothing that people told him to do. He made his own life, carved out his own path with his own experiences.

“Even one unwilling lady or child is too many,” Pan said, lamenting the women and girls who were forced into such positions. “Legitimizin’ sex work would allow fer regulation—thar could be a minimal wage, reasonable hours, safety standards, consentin’ adults makin’ their own choices, both men and women. Righ’ now, brothel keepers do wha’ they like when they like it with nah oversight nor consequences. Prostitution be a victimless crime, per se, so long as thar be freedom o’ choice for those tha’ partake. Ye outlaw it, and it be goin’ underground.” It was a topic he was passionate about, having grown up in a brothel. “‘Tis why freedom is priority. All should choose wha’ they wish t’ do—all should be treated the way they wish t’ be treated, never mind how others might have t’ say ‘bout it. Even the likes o’ ye and I.”

Pan raised a brow. He did not understand her choice of words, but he could very well hear her tone. “Picaroon,” he said in response, mimicking the exact cadence of her insult, every syllable. The jest would continue. “Aye, ‘tis good t’ be acknowledged every now and then. I do know what I be doin’ here and now, and wha’ I be doin’ is offerin’ a stranger a drink, sharin’ with someone who can enjoy a good vintage, is all. But if ye ain’t interested, don’t mind if I do.” He lapped at the wine, familiar notes of fruit and smoke rejoicing upon his tongue.

@Nyx

art and code by Yahtzee-Penguiduck