[Divine Blood] Claim a Bold Compliment

There is a moment of needle-drop silence following the floral compliment you now, in fact, did pay the Cerulean Libertine. A moment where the whole room – where time itself – stands still, save for the rise and fall of her half-bared chest. Then the Titan laughs.

”Commodore, what do you make of this?” he asks, laughing still. ”Will you require satisfaction,” he chuckles, ”or can I entreat you to not sully this beautiful e’en with bloodshed?”

The Landlocked Commodore’s fury has returned, but the brunt of his ire remains reserved for the two drab gentlemen, and for their hands, again all over the Libertine. ”We are all adults,” he says, his voice like ice, ”and a hapless jest should not ever be enough to bring ruin to a gathering – a gathering this refined. And speaking of flowers...”

The Libertine muffles another moan. Spring-pure droplets of nectar bedew her naked sex, and the Drab Solicitor’s mechanical touch spreads her petals to an ever wilder bloom. A rose-red blush flushes her face, but her strangely sensuous smirk signals understanding.

”... I do not believe our First Officer has even seen the magnificence of your gardens,” the Landlocked Commodore says, ”and all his assessments of beauty – even though truthful – thus carry the worm of ignorance.” He pauses long enough for you to arrange his thoughts into a beautiful plan. And for the Libertine to clasp your hand with hers.

”’Tis a shame indeed.” The Titan calls on his daughter by name. ”Would you like to show our new friend the gardens?”

”Yeee -- aaahhh.” The Cerulean Libertine has moved her hands to the wetness between her legs and struggles to remove herself from the Drab Solicitor’s continued onslaught. ”Fu - uahh – ather. Father...” Her eyes widen, and a shudder seizes her body. She pushes her knees together and mumbles something unintelligible.

”You were saying, daughter dearest?”

”Yes, Daddy.” She, in trying to slip from the drab gentlemen's grasp, stumbles into your arms. ”I would love to, Daddy.”

”And you, Commodore?” asks the Cerulean Titan. ”Would it be too much of an imposition to ask? And are you willing to bear the company of your fast-spoken rival peaceably? Or should I fear impropriety?”

The Landlocked Commodore smiles, for the first time this evening. ”I am nothing if not your devoted servant, my Lady.” He turns to face the Libertine and presses his lips to her honey-stained fingertips. ”I shall gladly stay my blade, but for her command.”

”Capital!” says the Cerulean Titan. ”It is decided then. Gentlemen, more whisky?”

Slow realisation dawns on the face of the Drab Realtor. He voices his protest, claiming an inordinate appreciation for all things natural. The blood begins to drain from the Solicitor’s face (and another place), and he mumbles some agreement, only now comprehending the changed situation.

”Thank you, Sirs, you are too kind” The Cerulean Libertine has tamed her dress into an enticing approximation of propriety and takes your offered arm. She regards the two drab gentlemen with an unreadable expression. ”Yet you need not pretend for my sake. I know how you both dislike such frivolities, and I shall be well entertained by these two.”

The Titan laughs.