Catulus' hand shifts in holding Sibyl's, taking more of her soft hand in the basin of his own.  Granite fingers skirt the canals of her wrist, stirring over the nerves that grow like grass along the veins and bone.<br/><br/>The other servants are entering, and their conversation quickly subdues under the solid silence of the Tavern.  They begin to unpack groceries, letting the hush gather in the warm space of the cellar.<br/><br/>Catulus speaks in a low voice, his tenor decanting into Sibyl's keen senses.  "Do for me?  What do you have in mind?"<br/><br/>He steps closer.  Hard and subtle scents spread their landscape for Sibyl to discover.  Hard and subtle touches gather her hand.  The old warrior listens, like a sentinel statue absorbing the private litany of a priestess.