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Nov. 1st, 2013 02:19 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pegunicentNeph's hair was his vanity, and his treasure. Running a hand backwards through the myriad of braids near his left shoulder, he cast his memory back to the early days.
It was common knowledge that Neph was born and raised in the Whispering Widow, the most discrete and expensive brothel in Germadeas. The Widow catered to all manner of clientele, Wizard and Beard alike. If a person had a taste for a certain pleasure, and the coin to cover the cost, the Widow provided. With the greatest secrecy and privacy one could ever hope to attain. Rumors abounded of the perversity and atrocities that could be found in the Widows private basements and bedrooms, but none of them were as gruesome or ghastly as the truth. None could ever be as sad.
Neph's mother was beautiful, as all the Widow's women and no few of her men, unless specified otherwise. Few of the Widow's workers would ever dare to carry a 'burden' to full term, much less try and raise it in the hollowed walls of Her house. Neph's father, however, was a very respected client, as well as a Colored Wizard, who willingly put down the coin for the midwife once he learned of his favorite 'sport's condition. Gold, and the promise of exclusivity bought Neph's first five years of life, at the cost of his mother's forbearance. Afterwards, the Wizard's interest ran out, as well as his gold, but Neph's mother was smart and ruthless and the law of Germadeas forbid the killing of any child with innate magic.
For silence and secrecy, Neph's father paid a small fortune not to be associated with Neph's life, and eventual enrollment in the Akademy. Even now, in his nine and thirtieth spring Neph felt the gease that prevented his lips from speaking his father's name.
He felt it as heavily as the weight of his hair. Locks as black as raven's feathers rubbed in pitch at midnight cascaded from crown to firmament, even bound in braids and looped upon his shoulders. A color so common as to be unremarkable, his mother loved his hair. She'd spent hours brushing, combing and oiling it, playing with styles, coaxing him to see the language of knots and binds with nothing but the thinnest strands.
Few men would ever dare to grow out their hair past fashion. Fewer still took pride in the feat. None, Neph knew, would ever understand the power his mane of unorthodoxy held, and that was just another secret he kept tucked in the ebony waterfall.
It was common knowledge that Neph was born and raised in the Whispering Widow, the most discrete and expensive brothel in Germadeas. The Widow catered to all manner of clientele, Wizard and Beard alike. If a person had a taste for a certain pleasure, and the coin to cover the cost, the Widow provided. With the greatest secrecy and privacy one could ever hope to attain. Rumors abounded of the perversity and atrocities that could be found in the Widows private basements and bedrooms, but none of them were as gruesome or ghastly as the truth. None could ever be as sad.
Neph's mother was beautiful, as all the Widow's women and no few of her men, unless specified otherwise. Few of the Widow's workers would ever dare to carry a 'burden' to full term, much less try and raise it in the hollowed walls of Her house. Neph's father, however, was a very respected client, as well as a Colored Wizard, who willingly put down the coin for the midwife once he learned of his favorite 'sport's condition. Gold, and the promise of exclusivity bought Neph's first five years of life, at the cost of his mother's forbearance. Afterwards, the Wizard's interest ran out, as well as his gold, but Neph's mother was smart and ruthless and the law of Germadeas forbid the killing of any child with innate magic.
For silence and secrecy, Neph's father paid a small fortune not to be associated with Neph's life, and eventual enrollment in the Akademy. Even now, in his nine and thirtieth spring Neph felt the gease that prevented his lips from speaking his father's name.
He felt it as heavily as the weight of his hair. Locks as black as raven's feathers rubbed in pitch at midnight cascaded from crown to firmament, even bound in braids and looped upon his shoulders. A color so common as to be unremarkable, his mother loved his hair. She'd spent hours brushing, combing and oiling it, playing with styles, coaxing him to see the language of knots and binds with nothing but the thinnest strands.
Few men would ever dare to grow out their hair past fashion. Fewer still took pride in the feat. None, Neph knew, would ever understand the power his mane of unorthodoxy held, and that was just another secret he kept tucked in the ebony waterfall.
