91. Friends! (II) (Patreon)

“I wish to be more than mere friends, Io Rust,” she purred. “I find you very promising. I saw your work in the Guild. I wish to sponsor you in the Tournament. I want you as a vassal of my clan—I want you to bear my crest.” She leaned in, her blue-gray eyes gleaming like deep-sea gems. “I want my mark on you,” she said in a coy whisper.

Dorian cocked a brow.

“I see. What can you offer me?”

She smirked. Two dainty hands reached for the thick goggles on her face and wrenched them off in one smooth motion.

Her hair was the lively red-brown of a wildfire, drifting around storm-gray eyes, around a heart-shaped face, around cheeks tinged with a faint blush. When the bards told of nymphs, those proud, gorgeous spirits of nature, they must’ve thought of a creature like her. She ran a finger through her locks as she treated him to a coquettish grin.

But this time, Dorian was ready for it. Her beauty struck him like a wave crashing on stalwart rocks. Saints, that face is a weapon.

“Me,” she breathed, low and sultry. Her head tilted, bathing her face in warm light. “You can have…all of me.”

Dorian blinked, waiting for the rest, but nothing else seemed forthcoming. She settled back, smug against her seat. “…that’s it?” Well, she certainly has a very healthy ego.

“…”

“…”

“Excuse me? What do you mean, ‘that’s it’?” said the girl, a perfect little frown on her perfect little mouth.

She seems a bit confused on my priorities. Dorian had an awkward look on his face. She must think I’m a typical lusty young man. A fair assumption, to be sure, but by now base urges simply weren’t very interesting to him.

Admittedly, her offer was most certainly interesting to his body. His heart-rate had ratcheted up instantly. Heat rose to his crotch; a flurry of fantasies pressed in on him—mostly of his sweaty body atop hers in various stages of undress—but Dorian had braced himself for these too. He grimaced, shunting away the thoughts. The whims of this adolescent body had made a fool of him before. Not again.

“The Tao clan, is, as I understand, a small, obscure clan,” said Dorian with a grin. If you want to rope me in you’ll need to cough up more than that. “Pardon me, but your clan barely has enough influence to make an Oyster restaurant give one of its servants face. I’m a Tier 2 Artificer and a Tournament qualifier to boot!”

He tapped the butt of his chopsticks against the table, grinning. “Counter-offer. Twenty thousand Lira and access to all the Technique tomes in your vaults.”

It was her turn to stare at him. Then her mouth snapped shut; the tinge of red turned to a full-on indignant flush. “I don’t think you understand, Io Rust,” she said, her voice soft and lilting. “I’m offering you my body.”

She leaned over the table; her robes sagged down, exposing Dorian to a heart-quickening view down the front of her robes. She leaned close, so close their lips almost touched, then farther, until her lips graced the tips of his ears. An involuntary shiver went down his spine as she spoke in a breathy whisper. “Join me, and I will serve your heart’s desires. You can touch me however you like. You can do whatever you wish to me. My body is yours to take.”

Dorian swallowed. He could see the appeal. She was jaw-droppingly attractive for this plane; as her hand felt up his, as her lips met his ear, his nerve endings felt as though they were on fire. It was dizzying to look at her as she pulled away, a teasing smile playing on her lips. He’d seen her figure down the front of her robes—a tight silk wrap struggled to hold back the ample swells of her chest, all above a trim waist and long, supple legs. Her skin was soft, milky pale, without blemish; one glance at her face was apt to reduce men to helpless blubbering. The original Io would’ve certainly been drooling on his knees by now. He would’ve become her dog then and there.

It was pity, really, that she was dealing with Dorian.

A blast of heat surging up his body, spreading a red-hot vigor all over him, but he was all-too-ready for it. He iced the simmering arousal by sheer force of will.

He nearly snorted. Please, girl. These tricks might work on these desert bumpkins, but you’re leagues out of your depth with me. She’d caught him off-guard with that little hair-flip—but he was braced for her now, and he was cooler than the morning frost. She could’ve stripped naked and started grinding on the table for all he cared. I’ve not only seen women far prettier than you, I’ve been women far prettier than you! When I was Empress Caecilia of the Nilüe plane, bards wrote epic poems about my looks. With two winks and a kiss I’ve made kingdoms go to war! Sorry, girl—on a multiversal scale you’re simply not ‘epic-poem’ material. You’re a stanza at best.

It was amusing to see her face. Still so smug, so poised.

“You’re coming onto me rather strong, miss Tao,” he laughed.

“And what if I am?” she said. She licked her lips. “Mm. I’ve wanted to taste you the moment I laid eyes on you…”

Dorian had no idea what to make of that little tidbit.

Was this body really that attractive? It was news to him. He seemed to attract more suspicious stares than admiring ones on the street. Maybe it was the exoticism factor for her? Whatever the case, this made for two Azcan ladies of high birth throwing themselves at him in two days—which wasn’t a lot, to be sure, but it was still weird that it happened twice.

How would he handle this? She seemed determined to take a bite out of him. But he wouldn’t let himself be entangled in any sort of relationship; no-one would get their hooks in him. It’d be far too much hassle for him—and Heavens knew he had no time for that nonsense.

“Very well,” he said slowly. “I propose a fair compromise. A middle-ground between our offers.”

A flicker of incredulity came across her face. “Huh?”

“Fifteen thousand Lira, and daily hand-holding. Best I can do.”

“… Excuse me?!” She gawked at him.

She was staring at him as though everything in her world fit together like pieces in a puzzle, and he was the only piece out of place. She had the look of a girl who was used to getting everything she ever wanted; like she only had to bat her eyes and the world would fall at her feet.

She’d batted her eyes at him, and he hadn’t been reduced to a slobbering puddle, and now she seemed very confused.

Then her lip curled up. Her teeth gnashed together; her demeanor shifted in an instant. Uh-oh. I’ve managed to offend her.

“What the hells is wrong with you?! Am I not enough?” she snapped, jabbing a finger at him. “Do you like men? Is that it, you little ingrate?!”

“Look, miss,” Dorian said gently. “It’s no slight on you. All I mean is that your clan will need to offer me more for my allegiance! My allegiance isn’t sold for cheap.”

She went very, very still, and Dorian instantly realized his mistake. “Did you just call my body cheap?!”

Well. Clearly I won’t be getting anything out of this little chat, he thought glumly. Making friends had never been his strong suit, but even still things had managed to go south faster than usual.

“Ah, I see the misunderstanding—that was not quite my intention—“ was all he got out before she started to lay into him in earnest.

“Never in my life have I been met with such—such blatant discourtesy! Who the hells do you think you are, you half-cooked turd, speaking to me like this? Who are you to spurn me? You’re no-one!” She’d worked herself into a deep, angry flush. “You’re not even that good-looking! You—you pompous little no-good savage brat! Men a thousand times sexier than you would grovel to kiss my hand!”

He had half a mind to try to salvage this conversation by claiming that he did, in fact, like men—that might assuage her pride. Hells, he had good evidence! Just this morning he’d been sucking away on a sweaty man’s toes.

The other half of him had ceased caring. He hadn’t lied, in any case; he’d stated his terms, but this girl was more interested in her little ego-trip, and things didn’t work out. It happened that way sometimes. Oh, well. At least he hadn’t missed out on any great gains or offended anyone important. Let the Young Mistress from the little no-name clan throw her tantrum. He tuned her out; watching her teeth gnash and her face grow progressively redder was great entertainment on its own.

Her little outburst was starting to attract some attention. A few heads were swiveling to glance over at them. She quickly flipped her cowl back up and slapped on those thick-rimmed goggles, making sure to glare balefully at him all the while. “Oh, you’ll regret this, Io Rust,” she growled. “You’ll regret this!”

Dorian rolled his eyes.

“Is everything alright?” The old waiter had returned. Young Mistress Tao shot one last glare at him, swaddled herself in her robes, and turned away from them both.

“Splendid,” said Dorian with a wry smile. “I’m ready to order, actually! The Three-King oyster soup, please, with seaweed dressing. Oh, and ten of your largest giant mollusks, please—“ At his raised eyebrow, ”yes, ten, you heard me right—it’s for my sister…”

***

Twenty minutes later, the room was steaming, Dorian’s newly-arrived oyster soup was steaming, and Young Mistress Tao was also still steaming. She hadn’t ordered anything. Instead she was content to simply glower at him, muttering under her breath.

For his part, Dorian was quite happy to ignore her. The soup was a lovely mix of tangy and salty. The silky meat melted on his tongue, too. And the rumors were right; as he ate, he did feel a gush of qi curling into his veins. It would serve him well for his breakthrough tonight.

Halfway through the meal, Dorian felt he should say something. “Miss Tao. We couldn’t come to a deal, but there’s no reason for any animosity between us. I was careless with my wording. For that I apologize. You are a stunning young lady, and I mean no disrespect. No harsh feelings?”

“Hmph. Took you long enough.” She’d leaned back in her chair, arms crossed, chin up, looking down at him over the bridge of her nose. “But I do not accept your piss-poor try at an apology. I have a feeling we’ll meet again very soon, Io Rust, in very different circumstances. You may see me in an entirely different light, shall we say. And you’ll be very sorry then, I promise you!”

Dorian sighed. He supposed he should at least try not to cultivate another enemy.

“Is there nothing I can do to make it up to you?”

“None!” …Well, I tried.

He shot her an amused glance. “Miss, are you going to stew at me silently for the rest of my meal?”

“Yes. And there is not a thing you can do about it!”

“Well, there is a thing the waiter can do about it…” he muttered under his breath. Indeed the man had been walking by, shooting irked glances at her each time she refused to order. He looked a hair’s breadth of patience away from booting her out. Or maybe he figured it wasn’t worth the hassle.

Just then, the door slammed open. Slammed. Two wooden slaps cracked flat against the bamboo walls.

In strolled two huge, beefy men in black-and-silver robes—not a servant’s, but not a noble’s either. Bodyguards, perhaps? Between them came a thin, pale, weak-looking waif of a boy with his hair tied back in a ponytail. His robes had a fine silver sheen, embroidered with gold emblems and lined with white fur. He reminded Dorian a bit of Hento, but even Hento had had some muscle; this fellow was even slighter of frame. Still, he carried himself as though he had the stature of a giant.

Heads turned at his arrival. The crowd was enveloped in whispers.

“It’s Young Master Heilong!”

“No way...”

“That boy? Truly?”

“Surely not. How could a dragon father beget a wyrm son?”

“It’s him, it’s really him!”

Heilong, heilong… ah, yes. It was a name Dorian had heard while eavesdropping on the street. General Heilong, leader of the Azcan army in its campaigns against the Ugoc in the North. The Heilong family had long been the bulwark of the Oasis’s defenses, producing its finest tacticians, fighters, and war heroes. From what Dorian could glean, General Heilong was still out in the field, doing battle against the advancing Ugoc hordes. This family must be one of the pillars of the Oasis. Interesting.

Dorian strained his ears, focusing in on the old waiter. The man had a constipated look on his face as he swept his eyes across the restaurant. Then he turned back to Young Master Heilong with a most apologetic hunch of his shoulders. “My deepest apologies, sir,” Dorian heard him say. The man was trembling. “Unfortunately, the restaurant is full—I must ask that you wait a scant few minutes—“

“Wait? You’re asking me, Tan Heilong, to wait?! How dare you!” The Young Master’s shrill screech was audible over the din. “Do you know who my father is?!”

The old waiter folded on the spot. “Of course, sir! Of course! I was wrong! This—this old Shen has eyes but cannot see the depths of the Sinkhole!” he wailed. “Right this way, sir, right this way! I am certain one of our guests can be convinced to cede their spot…”

“That’s more like it,” harrumphed the Young Master. His bodyguards remained by the doors, hands clasped, and frowning menacingly, as the waiter led Young Master Heilong through the grid of tables.

Dorian paused, a ladle of soup halfway to his mouth.

….He’s coming over here, isn’t he.

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’ve been in this restaurant not half an hour and I’ve made one new arch-nemesis, with another on the way! Can’t I enjoy some gods-damned oyster soup in peace?