Sidra

The Mare Stable was loud in the way only desperate places could be. Tankards slammed against wooden tables, dice rolled across scarred surfaces, and laughter — drunken, sharp, hungry — mixed with the constant sound of rain hammering against the tavern windows. Smoke drifted beneath the rafters in pale clouds, carrying the scent of burning cedar, spilled ale, sweat, and expensive perfume meant to disguise the uglier parts of the business. The Stable sold comfort as much as drink. Warm beds. Warm company. Someone willing to listen while patrons drowned whatever haunted them.

Sirda had spent over a century becoming very good at that. She leaned one shoulder against the polished edge of the bar, crimson eyes half-lidded beneath the lantern glow as she watched the room with practiced patience. Her dark brown hair fell in soft waves down her back, partially braided away from her face with thin bronze chains woven between the strands. It framed sharp features and smooth light-brown skin that seemed almost golden beneath the candlelight. Elven blood gave her an unnatural kind of beauty — too symmetrical, too graceful, too enduring. But it was her expression people remembered most: that faint, knowing smirk that always looked one insult away from becoming dangerous.

The Mare Stable dressed its favored servants carefully. Sirda’s uniform was designed to entice without fully surrendering mystery. Deep burgundy fabric wrapped tightly around her torso, the sleeveless bodice laced low enough to draw wandering eyes while still appearing refined rather than cheap. Thin black straps crossed over her shoulders and left most of her back exposed except for delicate chains draped across her skin like jewelry. The skirt split high along one thigh for ease of movement through crowded tables, revealing flashes of toned legs whenever she walked. She was athletic in the way dancers or fighters often were — lean muscle beneath soft curves, strength hidden beneath elegance. Gold rings decorated her pointed ears while matching cuffs circled her wrists, decorative enough to look luxurious until someone noticed the tiny engraved ownership marks along the metal.

And always the collar. Black leather with silver fittings rested snugly around her throat, polished so well it caught every flicker of firelight. The Stable liked its servants looking expensive. Patrons paid more when the merchandise appeared proud enough to tame. Sirda excelled at the personal side of the work. The Stable employed plenty of bodies; what made her valuable was conversation. She remembered names, favorite drinks, habits, tempers. She knew when a patron wanted flirtation, silence, mockery, softness. Some came to her because she was beautiful. Others returned because she looked them directly in the eyes while speaking, as though they were equals sharing secrets instead of customer and property. That alone made people obsessive.

Of course, her mouth also got her into trouble. Sharp-tongued by nature, Sirda hid exhaustion behind sarcasm polished razor-thin over decades. If someone grabbed too roughly, she might smile sweetly while asking whether their parents had raised them in a barn. If insulted, she returned it prettier and twice as poisonous. She was a brat and some patrons liked that and if they could not handle that? Well she could adapt, even if it was alot less fun, but those customers, that make her obey? Make her submit, through pain? Fuck those, make er gush, before she ever took their cock. She would brat, if they were able to punish her properly.

The last patron had finally stumbled out on the streets, nearly half an hour ago, drunk and satisfied enough to leave her alone. She cleaned herself afterwards, but she hard bruises on her ass. He was quite rough with her and she still ached. She rolled tension from her shoulders subtly before straightening as the tavern door opened once more, letting cold rain-soaked air spill across the room. Ah. Her next distraction. Her smile returned instantly — smooth, shameless, edged with dark amusement as crimson eyes settled on the newcomer approaching the entrance.

“Welcome to the Mare Stable,” Sirda said warmly. “I'm Sirda, your servant for your as long as you are here. I am as much on the menu, as is any cake, or stake.” She winks at them. "Though, to make sure has it's order, most customers get shitfaced to have the courage to get handsy with an elf like me....So would you like me to bring you a strong drink, to start that process?"