<div class="floatleft">(https://i.pinimg.com/564x/c4/a2/eb/c4a2eb3622a5fd5f4149b8e094a22fa3.jpg)</div><strong>Name: </strong>Danae Vine-Lott (https://www.dndbeyond.com/characters/13428552/mqOlTT)<br/><strong>Location: </strong>Asylum - interior<br/><strong>Wearing: </strong>Stripped down<br/><strong>Content: </strong>Bath time<br/><strong>Tagging: </strong>Medb, Margaret, Open<br/><br/>Sudden pressure on her healing wounds made her wince.  She hissed a pained sigh.  She had forgotten how intense the sensation of her flogging had been - how raw and all-encompassing the pain to the point that it seemed to transmogrify into a kind of religious ecstasy.  She had been closer to climax than she had been in months with her wife.  "You have my gratitude," she told Medb, though there was a tension in her shoulders that betrayed her unease at a healer's art.  It was ever so difficult to tell who the wise woman was, and who the witch, "though I would be slow to trust the staff of this place.  For now, I shall have to endure."  She squatted on her haunches, and placed a hand over her shoulder, feeling the residual tenderness suffuse the muscle.  It felt better now that she was no longer wearing a shirt.<br/><br/>She had caught a glimpse of Margaret's unusually dark complexion. A kind of oiled walnut brown that seemed slightly out of place among Dementlieuse ladies and decidedly exotic by Mordentish standards.  There were more Traveller-folk in Dementlieu than in Mordent, where the rootless were viewed with suspicion by the stalwart yeomanry of that domain.  It occurred vaguely to Danae in her pensive state that Medb and Corinne from their positions would have seen her with her yes on Margaret, and inferred intentions none too chaste.  There was complicity in that.  It reminded her of being a prefect at boarding school and the freezing baths they were forced to endure after riding or fencing practice.  She smiled wryly to herself.  Everything about Mordentish education was discipline and stoicism, but when it came to games and tyrannising the juniors as head girl with her coterie of power-drunk fellow-prefects,<em>she</em>had been the one in charge - and had her pick.  Five years in a cold, puritan, dog-eat-dog institution taught the wise how to go about things discreetly, but efficiently.<br/><br/>"This place reminds of boarding school," she spat, and went and got the slacks that were altogether preferable to petticoats,  "only that its uniform is worse, and I did not think that possible."