<div class="floatleft">(https://s-media-cache-ak0.pinimg.com/736x/da/89/f7/da89f76a45d16c8fe97c67469dcedb6a.jpg)</div><hr/><strong>Name:</strong>Taytu<br/><strong>Race/Culture:</strong>Nafasi<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The Crimson Palace<br/><strong>Day/Time:</strong>Yaus al-Niwt (Day of Houses), Amt (first month) of Alak Paret (Harvest Season), Late Afternoon<br/><strong>Tagged:</strong>Ajda<br/><hr/><br/>She'd wandered in with that languid, and ever so slightly arrogant gait of hers. A leopardess on the prowl, fastidious and dangerously sensual. The attendants knew her, but kept a safe distance, fascinated, and fearful of her ifrit taint. Bathing at the Crimson Palace was a ritual she had been happy to adopt since her arrival in Sha'ib. It didn't have the bracing immediacy of plunging into free-flowing water, but it was a pleasing distraction after a long run. There, in the wafting layers of steam where the late afternoon light lazed over the windowpanes and through the clerestory, she could wash off the sweat, the dirt, the scent of the city. Spice, stone, mud, the cellared scent from down in the Mazes. The jasmine perfume of the girl from the night before – it had clung to her fingers, clung to her lips.<br/><br/>She'd sweltered in the hot rooms and seen the lazy lick of steam moisten the marbled walls and now she drew water from the burbling cold fountain into a brass-ringed bucket and rinsed away the day's troubles.<br/><br/>Even standing on the slicked tiles of the bathing chamber, she had no need for clogs to hold her footing, nor did she drape her body with a cotton pestemal. She had accepted the Shaibite ritual, but made it her own. The Crimson Palace was like the wallows of the Great Veldt, her place of rest. Her lean-muscled body shimmering with cold water, droplets tearing on her deep-tanned skin, she sauntered down the vaulted corridor leading to the wide relaxation rooms. Sound of skilled hands kneading tight muscles. A few patrons, their modesty now wreathed in bright-coloured cotton, stole a glimpse of her and observed from afar, demurring each time she challenged their gaze. They had eyes on her - the rolling power of her thighs, the wiry flex of her biceps.<br/><br/>But she wasn't here for them. Admirers were a double edged sword, for she knew how readily humans mingled admiration and fear, hatred and desire. But humans had their uses, especially when their hands were gifted like Ajda's. And after a long day scaling walls and vaulting over porticoes, she felt her weary limbs deserved some relief.<br/><br/>So she made her way to the massage alcoves, where unguents were mixed in tall, painted earthenware jars. The steam wafted from the hot rooms, leaving a lingering haze in the air. Her keen eyes could see through it.<br/><br/>“Ajda,” she called, the unfamiliar sound on her lips tinged with the taut rhythm of her native tongue, “this roof-dancer seeks your soothing touch.” She chuckled, lips still tingling from the ten-day old palm wine she had drunk swiftly in a shady market stall. Now that she had paid for her bath, the last of her coin was gone. Hopefully Ajda had work, or at least a lead.