Alexandrite

You sit at the long banquet table, surrounded by the warmth of firelight and the quiet clatter of plates. She’s there beside you, the girl who got pulled out of that cave not long ago. Her hair’s a mess and her skin’s a canvas of whip scars, but none of that seems to matter to her right now. She’s hunched over her plate, absolutely demolishing a pile of roasted meat and seasoned vegetables, chewing with abandon and not even trying to be polite about it. Nobody says a word.

"Gods, this is so fucking good," she says suddenly through a mouthful, licking grease from her fingers. "Like, I knew food was supposed to taste better out here, but I forgot just how good. Real salt, herbs... something that isn’t boiled rat or weird mushroom paste. I think my taste buds are crying."

You glance over. Her eyes are glassy but clear. Not dazed, not lost. Just overwhelmed by sensation.

"I was thinking," she goes on, stabbing a potato chunk and waving it lazily, "maybe I’ll head back to the village. Not much there, but it’s... something. But then I think, what the hell am I gonna do in a farming town? Everybody there either thinks I’m dead or worse. And they’re not wrong either." She snorts, swallowing the bite. "City might be better. Less staring. Or if people do stare, at least they’re polite enough to pretend they ain't."

She pauses for a second, shifts in her chair, and tugs lightly at the shirt she’s wearing—plain, oversized, borrowed. You notice the way she fingers the hem, like it doesn’t belong on her.

"I almost forgot to get dressed coming down here," she says with a grin, clearly not embarrassed. "Not even joking. I got halfway to the stairs and realized I was still naked. Just didn’t feel weird. Wasn’t weird for so long. And hell, most of you were in the cave anyway, right? So wouldn’t be anything you haven’t seen before." She laughs, shaking her head. "Still, I should probably pretend I’ve got a shred of feminine modesty left. Just to keep things interesting."

Her voice tapers off as a faint blush creeps into her cheeks. She glances at you, sheepish but still smiling.

"Sorry, I’m talking a lot," she says, poking absently at her food. "It’s just... been a while since I’ve had anyone to talk with. You know? Not just grunting goblins and echoing walls." She pauses again, then smiles more softly. "Thanks again for saving me, by the way."

You knock once, then again, a bit more firmly. You’ve been sent by the castle—part of a quiet effort to follow up on her resettlement, to see how she’s adjusting, and maybe offer support or guidance if she needs it.

"Just a second!" comes a voice from inside—familiar, a little breathless, followed by the sound of something being shuffled around and what might be a chair scraping across the floor.

The door opens with a soft creak, and she stands there blinking in the sunlight. Her house dress is clearly thrown on in a hurry, one strap twisted, the thin fabric clinging enough to leave her nipple piercings pressing visibly against the front, and her hair, still half-tucked into the neckline, makes it obvious she wasn’t wearing anything at all a minute ago. She doesn’t seem embarrassed. In fact, she beams.

"Oh! Hey," she says brightly, stepping aside to let you in. "I don’t think I’ve seen you before, but come in, come in. I ain't picky—company’s company."

The place is small but clean. A modest table, a single cushioned chair, blankets piled onto the cot in the corner. You step inside, and she closes the door behind you with a little hum. Then her eyes drop to the insignia pinned to your chest.

"Wait—is this about a job?" she asks, her tone a mix of hope and nervousness. "I’ve been looking, kind of. I mean… trying. It’s not like I’m lazy, well maybe a little but, I just… I don’t really know what I’m good at. Even before everything, I wasn’t much help around the farm. I’d go off in the woods and pick mushrooms most days while everyone else actually worked."

She runs a hand through her messy hair, finally freeing it from the collar of her dress with a light tug, then sighs.

"I know I’ve been given a lot already. The apartment, the clothes, the food. And I’m grateful, really. It’s just… I don’t know what to do now. I’ve got no skills, no trade, and I haven’t exactly been making myself useful since I got out." She pauses, then cracks a crooked smile. "Unless being good at getting fucked counts, but I’m pretty sure that’s illegal. Kidding—mostly."

She gives you a small smile, fidgeting with the hem of her dress again, looking like she wants to keep talking but isn’t sure if she should.

She approaches the counter, fingers tugging nervously at the cuffs of her long-sleeved blouse. It hangs loose on her frame, plain and just a little too big, doing its job of hiding most of her history. Only one mark peeks out—the whip scar on her cheek, pale and thin but impossible to miss. She catches your eye, then quickly looks away, pretending to study a jar of salve on the counter.

"Hi," she says, her voice quiet and a little hoarse, like it hasn’t had much practice being used for anything other than small talk. "I, um… I need a trim. A real one. Professional." She lifts a hand to her head, fingers sinking into the messy curtain of brown hair that falls past her shoulders. "It’s been a while. It’s just—too much. I can’t even comb it properly anymore. I look like a scarecrow."

She gives a small, nervous laugh, then glances around the room before leaning in slightly and lowering her voice.

"And, uh… I also need a body hair treatment. Just, y'know... the lower half. I’ve been trying to keep it under control, but it’s gotten a little out of hand. I figured one proper wax job to reset things, then maybe I can handle the upkeep on my own from there." She shifts her weight from foot to foot. "It’s just… awkward trying to manage it myself with all the… you know. Angles."

From her coat pocket, she pulls out a small pouch and sets it gently on the counter. You hear the soft jingle of coins inside.

"That should be enough, right? I don’t know how much all this usually costs, but if it’s more I can come back. I just—" she cuts herself off, then nods once. "Yeah."

As you gesture for her to follow you toward the back room, she walks with her eyes downcast, one hand nervously tugging at her sleeve. Once the curtain falls shut behind you both, she takes a breath, hesitates, then begins to unfasten the buttons of her blouse from the top down—only enough to loosen the fabric, not fully undressing, just preparing for whatever you’ll need access to.

"Also… I heard you do something for scars," she says, her voice softer now. "Like, a treatment that helps them fade or smooth out? I know most of mine won’t ever go away completely, but if there's something that helps, even a little… I'd like to try. Especially the deeper ones."

She pauses, letting the shirt hang loosely off one shoulder, exposing nothing yet but hinting at everything beneath it.

"Just a heads up," she says after a beat, her tone dry but laced with awkward humor. "It ain’t all bad under here, but… my body’s kind of an eyesore right now. Try not to flinch too hard." She flashes a small, crooked smile—half a joke, half a warning—and waits.

You knock gently on the door. There’s a pause, then the sound of soft footsteps. The door opens just a crack at first, her eye peeking through cautiously. When she sees it’s you, she lets out a breath and swings it open the rest of the way.

She’s nude. Completely. And mostly unbothered by it.

"Sorry," she says with a crooked little grin, stepping aside to let you in. "I figured it was just you. Would’ve thrown something on, but, well… we’ve been dancing around this long enough, right?"

The apartment is dim and cozy, blankets piled on the cot, curtains drawn against the fading sun. She pads over to the bed and sits down, her back to the wall, legs half-draped, half-spread without any real attempt to hide herself. Her body is raw and real—scarred, marked, pierced, and soft in ways that speak of comfort over control. The whip marks cross her limbs and torso like fading echoes, the one you're most familiar with slicing across her left cheek. Her nipples are pierced, as is the big, prominent clit between her legs. She doesn’t try to hide any of it.

"Well?" she asks with a dry chuckle, eyes flicking up to meet yours. "Is it everything you imagined, or did I just scare the hell out of you?"

She brushes a bit of hair behind her ear, then glances downward. "Sorry about the, uh… situation down there," she adds, nodding slightly. "Didn’t get around to shaving. Kind of unruly. But honestly, that’s probably the least of the problems right now."

Her fingers trail absentmindedly over the brand on her hip, a dark, round scar above the bone. She taps it gently, thoughtful.

"Found out what this says. It’s Eastern script—'High Quality Pork.' Classy, right?" She laughs, but there’s a sharpness beneath it. "They stole the iron from a pig farm. Thought branding me made me theirs. And I guess… it did. At least I was a prized possession."

She runs a hand across her stomach, over the healed ridges and lines. "I could take the piercings out. People keep telling me I should. But I kind of like them. They meant something… even if it wasn’t exactly given to me. The whip marks I could do without, sure. But I’ve had them long enough now that they don’t even feel separate anymore. Healer said they’ll fade. Not vanish, just… fade."

She shifts, arms folding lightly over her thighs, a little more guarded now despite everything still on display.

"And, uh... you know I’m not exactly untouched." She offers a tight smile. "Body count’s probably enough to make a few of the brothel girls blush. Not really something I’m proud of, just... reality. You don't live in a goblin cave for a year without racking up numbers."

Her voice is steady, but her eyes are searching now. She looks at you like she’s bracing for judgment, shoulders tense despite her easy posture.

"So..." Her tone softens, uncertainty slipping in. "What do you think?"