Ash 31, Year 116, AoS
Geralt had spent a few days in the city of Kamdin, guided there by his mother - the Lady Baringer - in order to extend diplomatic offerings towards the Atinorin Finla. His House had befallen a great deal of turmoil in recent years, particularly upon the passing of his wife, the last major tie to one of his realm's powerful vassal states. With his own family's hand in her death a vague possibility, further mistrust had been sewn between Baringer and its vassal states, and with a rise in the number of Koltoskan migrants even the peasant class had joined in the chorus of voices involved in his realm's many political affairs.
House Baringer was desperate for a way out -- and they knew that foreign intervention was an unfortunate but necessary possibility. And so he had been sent out to consider marriages with foreign nobility, first to Radenor - unsuccessfully - and now to Atinaw.
But that hadn't been successful either, or at least not on the surface. Discussion and deliberation followed and ensued, countless day's worth. He was meant to stay until the Finla had an answer for him, but it was difficult. His patience had been tested.
Geralt's sons were still in Lorien. They were only a reminder that any child born to him and any other Lady would have no place in the line of succession; another detractor that kept powerful suitors away from negotiations. It wasn't particularly satisfying, being told by every Lord he met that he was an uninspiring candidate for marriage. He was the heir to a powerful land -- he thought he was handsome, and at least moderately competent. But for everyone else he was far from enough. He was of questionable import and the seed of a failing dynasty. A shamed Avialae to a distant foreign land, mostly regarded by other nations as confusing if not disturbed.
Foreign nobles were particularly difficult -- they shied from sending their children or themselves to a Kingdom like Lorien, where they would be monitored by the Kindred for all their days. He understood that apprehension; even being here it was tempting to just not go back. He still found himself looking over his shoulder, though, and policing his own thoughts. The Kindred's mark was one that did not easily wash off.
It was why he'd come to a brothel; to forget about it all. The inadequacy, the impossible task, the negotiations and poison-dipped words borne of falsified tongues. He wanted to just -- enjoy himself.
Loveless. He laughed as he witnessed the name tapered upon the wood. It was often how he felt, so he supposed that within this place, he belonged.
Geralt wore far less glamorous clothes than he was used to. He wore a simple black shirt with a somewhat open collar, revealing his chest down to the bottom-shape of his pectorals. His sleeves cut off shortly beyond the beginnings of his shoulders, and his trousers were a soft cotton, molded to shape around his form. His hair was more unkempt than normal; he had intentionally shifted it from his traditionally slick, courtly style. It was short anyway, and it bled out into a well-maintained beard.
Geralt appeared somewhat chipper, though he received a number of curious gazes as he stepped into the brothel foyer. He looked just like a human, but he was much taller than a regular man. And in general, larger. A sort of freak accident of nature, most would guess, rather than a wingless Avialae. He preferred it that way, though -- no one questioned it for longer than the first glance. The wings... they drew unnecessary attention, and suspicion. In some ways it was a blessing that they were gone.
"Hello," he greeted the person heading the brothel's desk. "I'm looking for a whore," the man said bluntly. "Male, closer to my size is good. I don't care what race -- just not anything too freakish, alright? Something vaguely resembling a human. What are your rates?"
He looked upon a sort of menu -- one that answered the question he'd only just asked. "Oh. Right," he said. Cheap. "Well -- talk to your mistress or whomever. I'd like to get this going sooner rather than later."
It was obvious he wasn't in a good mood. He even appeared slightly tipsy, though not enough to do more than slightly slur the ends of his words. He'd snap out of it the moment the... action started, he thought.
