The Temple of Serenity

"Thanks, yer a good man Tiqal even if yer as annoying as a cat in a hen house."

Roarin gives the old man a pat on the back and then he walks into the city. He was probably supposed to wait in the temple for his papers from Lady Fairuz, but he didn't rightly care about that. There wasn't anything she could do to him that was worse than what he'd already done to himself. So he'd go and do whatever tickled his fancy until he was ready to leave, or he died.

When Hansel von Dietzhoff truly came to, it was to the cool touch of something on his face, his body feeling lighter, and perhaps crisp and cool as well.

"Shhh," spoke a soft and gentle voice, feminine. A faint chime could be heard before the tell tale sound of water being poured, and a cup put to Hansel's lips. "Slow drink..."

Whoever was beside him, perhaps an angel, was soft and cool, a comforting sensation given the heat he had just endured. Even the air felt softer, fresher, a little more humid.

Gentle hands seemed to be applying something cool to the skin on his face, a brushing touch almost like a wing over his seared flesh. He was most certainly lying down, in a soft bed of fresh linens, his body unhindered by clothes or armor or restraints.

It was restful. Peaceful. Serene.

"I... I do not... see family," answered that soft and gentle voice, although it seemed to be struggling to speak the words in a language Hansel could understand. It was this fact, not the sound of her voice, that was perhaps discordant to the overall feeling of bliss and peace Hansel felt.

There was a pregnant hesitance in the initial response, as the quiet sound of water could be heard, like s cloth being run over a bowl. A refreshing coolness came over his chest soon after, as if the soft, damp cloth had been laid flat over his skin with a tender touch.

"I... no," the feminine voice said gently, a silken but soft touch on Hansel's wrist keeping his palm from touching his face. "No... ahm... leaf must... it must set. No touch."

When his eyes opened, they looked upon the ceiling of his room in the Temple of Serenity, a similar room to what Roarin Fletcher had had, but instead of waking to an old, wizened man like Roarin had had, there was instead a young and beautiful priestess kneeling at his side, a small assortment of bowls and jars of healing products, and a sincere and sweet expression of concern on her face.

Oh, and a wealth of skin visible to the naked (ha) eye.



She misinterpreted what he was quietly crying about however, and she rose up onto her knees instead of where she had been sitting beside him and she leaned partially over him, her dark hair a pretty tumble around her shoulders, her light brown eyes searching his face.

His burns were covered in an aloe-like substance that was meant to quickly heal and revitalize, and he had been stripped completely nude of his clothes, just a thin layer of linen over his body.

"It... hurt?" she asked him gently.

The young maiden beside him -- with ripe curves and soft skin and exotic beauty -- felt her heart break at the way the young man in front of her seemed so hurt. His skin had healed remarkably well while he had been out, what little magics the temple could afford and the ability of the girl herself making him more of a rosy pink than the angry, scabby red he had been before.

Still, she wanted to keep the poultice on him, and she had wanted to keep him cool, but clearly, he needed comfort. She understood, in a round about way, what he had said, and the girl slipped onto the bed beside him, and she wrapped her soft arms around her, and her curves were pressed close, and the faint exotic scent of her skin and her dark hair was in the air, and she tipped her head onto his shoulder, and there was only that sheer linen and the faint jewelry she wore that separated her from being lush and naked beside him.

But her touch wasn't sexual in nature. It was meant to be comforting more so than anything else, for the young man was crying.

Her first day within the sandlands where filled with taking in the sounds; learning what she could from shopkeepers to locals at taverns of Sakand, before she could invest in earnest in the sights. Presently, the Temple looms before her, however she takes time to pray at each dais, for hers were a spiritual pursuit, not the adventuring glamor of a tourist. She spends a particularly long time at the dais' of Light and Fire, for these are the ones that befit her the most.

She was barefoot, adorned in swaths of slightly shear, slightly beige fabric with only a belt for her sword and a strap for her broad shield across her back; beautiful, if not for the perilous look of her features-- softened in the presence of the temple somewhat-- and the scars that dotted her olive-complexioned skin. She has a small satchel on the opposite hip of her sword, fastened to her belt along with a variety of pouches.

By the time she made it to the temple proper, her mind was a bleeding edge of focus, a sort of serenity not typically seen in her harsh features tinged with a curiosity for the meticulous and ingenious masterwork all around her stays her somewhere near the entrance, for which she collects her thoughts, her green eyes fogged over in whatever train of thoughts typically occupied the huntress.

To Aluandra:

"You've traveled a long way, but you know our customs," said a distinctly feminine voice from behind Aluandra, but it was a little older, a little sharper, the voice of a woman who was not usually second guessed, the voice of a woman who did not speak unless their were words worth speaking.

There was a tingle of warmth beneath her soft skin as his face nuzzled into her slender neck, the scrape of his unshaven cheeks and has rough against her silken flesh, the heat of his breath as it traced along her collar bones, the dampness of his tears that slid along her feminine jaw line. She held him close, and with the way he curved into her, her gentle bands smoothed and stroked over the young power of his naked shoulders, up into his shaggy white-blonde hair and down again.

The young woman didn't speak, but listened to him and felt his pain and tried to take it into her own body, tried to strengthen his spirit with the strength of her own, communicating with her body what couldn't be translated with words... but the communication was a mere whisper of what the sabina taliph could truly do for those broken souls, like Hansel.

Still, the exotic beauty he held wrapped in his harms, that he held tight to his chest, that was veritable wrapped around him so that the softness of her breasts pressed into his upper chest, so that even his chin sometimes stroked those soft swells, so that her ripe and tight and curvy and warm and comforting body was pressed to his... she only held him, skin to skin, beating heart to beating heart.

He drew back to look in those deep, enchanting depths of her brown eyes, and her lips were sweet and close, and there was passion in her face, her heart in her eyes. She nodded gently, and stroked a fingertip over the eyebrow of his "bad" eye, unafraid of his war torn looks.

"Yes," she whispered gently to him, and her gaze dropped down to his poor mouth, her lashes almost fanning against her cheeks as her fingertip lightly touched his bottom lip, where several cuts were healing well. "Speak more?" She asked gently.