50 Ash, 122
The party had continued late, but Raithen was young and he'd made sure not to drink as he might have on a night out with fellow soldiers. Having no intention to embarrass or bring any shame to his family, and every intention of attempting to trip Sir Ayreon into a bed of their choosing after the reception and dancing had finally wound down to its ultimate conclusion, abstaining had not been difficult. Additionally, he wasn't particularly in favor of the very finest wines and cocktails typically served at such functions, preferring instead simpler drinks that he'd started drinking in the guard barracks and grown a fondness for.
Now he was waiting outside one of the gates that led into and out of the ambassadorial complex. He'd had a servant slip a note into the pocket of the object of his lusted intention that informed the elf where he would be once the evening's duties were discharged. Whether Sir Ayreon's tastes ran to high entertainment or low debauchery, Raithen had places to take him, and if he wanted to forego any such diversions to trip directly over Raithen's offered wooing onto the nearest comfortable surface, Raithen would be just as happy to oblige. The Avialae's lovers found him nothing, if not obliging, nor was he shy to express his own desires, verbally or physically once clothes and bets were off.
How long he might have to wait he did not know, but it was a comfortable state to be in. If the sun began to lighten the horizon without him having been joined he would find his way home, or, more likely, to one of the brothels where he was known and allowed entry at any time of the day or night. He was in the mood to spill himself into another person, or several other people, however things panned out. If he was stood up he would make inquires later to ascertain if the slight had been intentional or unavoidable and go forward accordingly.
The boy and the moon were high and bright, the night air was just cool enough that the slight outfit he'd worn to the ball wasn't enough to keep his skin from pebbling and his nipples from growing tight, but he hardly felt it. The gift of his father. His wings were another gift from the man he'd never known and, truth be told, hardly bothered to imagine, the third patriarchal endowment rested above the hem of his tunic, and while it was not raised to taunt by the chill of the sun's absence, it was ready to be so as soon as there was a worthy offer for it's attentions.
He began to whistle, a clear, lively tune that put him in mind of flight, and fighting, and fucking, and other things that brought him contentment and joy.
The party had continued late, but Raithen was young and he'd made sure not to drink as he might have on a night out with fellow soldiers. Having no intention to embarrass or bring any shame to his family, and every intention of attempting to trip Sir Ayreon into a bed of their choosing after the reception and dancing had finally wound down to its ultimate conclusion, abstaining had not been difficult. Additionally, he wasn't particularly in favor of the very finest wines and cocktails typically served at such functions, preferring instead simpler drinks that he'd started drinking in the guard barracks and grown a fondness for.
Now he was waiting outside one of the gates that led into and out of the ambassadorial complex. He'd had a servant slip a note into the pocket of the object of his lusted intention that informed the elf where he would be once the evening's duties were discharged. Whether Sir Ayreon's tastes ran to high entertainment or low debauchery, Raithen had places to take him, and if he wanted to forego any such diversions to trip directly over Raithen's offered wooing onto the nearest comfortable surface, Raithen would be just as happy to oblige. The Avialae's lovers found him nothing, if not obliging, nor was he shy to express his own desires, verbally or physically once clothes and bets were off.
How long he might have to wait he did not know, but it was a comfortable state to be in. If the sun began to lighten the horizon without him having been joined he would find his way home, or, more likely, to one of the brothels where he was known and allowed entry at any time of the day or night. He was in the mood to spill himself into another person, or several other people, however things panned out. If he was stood up he would make inquires later to ascertain if the slight had been intentional or unavoidable and go forward accordingly.
The boy and the moon were high and bright, the night air was just cool enough that the slight outfit he'd worn to the ball wasn't enough to keep his skin from pebbling and his nipples from growing tight, but he hardly felt it. The gift of his father. His wings were another gift from the man he'd never known and, truth be told, hardly bothered to imagine, the third patriarchal endowment rested above the hem of his tunic, and while it was not raised to taunt by the chill of the sun's absence, it was ready to be so as soon as there was a worthy offer for it's attentions.
He began to whistle, a clear, lively tune that put him in mind of flight, and fighting, and fucking, and other things that brought him contentment and joy.