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The water was cold that morning.

That was the first thought that floated through her mind as she dipped her toes into the nearby pool, the bracelets on her slim ankle meeting each other with a metallic clink.

She had thought of other things, once. She used to spend her mornings pondering the twists and schemes of unraveling and planning new plots. She used to put her brilliant mind to work, coming up with elaborate healing spells, and putting them to use on some poor, whimpering sack of meat. She could be in Maztica right now, working to close the arrow wounds of the Amnian army, or perhaps working to regrow the severed limbs of the native population. She could be spending her time curing the realms' worst poisons, testing her limits on every poor fool that found himself at the receiving end of a mage's wrath.

But instead, she was sitting by the pool, clad in a shimmering blue dress instead of healer's robes. Her mind focused on her morning swim, rather than the complexities of her healing art.

She had a choice, she supposed. She could leave. But then, her mother would kill her. Painfully. And being alive and bored was better than being dead, even if she was the living sculpture of a rich prick.

He had merely wanted a trophy wife when he'd met her, and she had certainly met his criteria. With her small waist, firm breasts, long legs, and pretty face, she was perfect for him. He didn't care about the silkiness of her hair, white with just the tracest amounts of blue, turning it the same shade as the first frost in winter. He only cared that it was cared for, and elegantly made when he presented her at his business parties. He didn't care about her polished, dark skin, so long as it was free from unsightly blemishes and wrinkles. He didn't see the anything but the hues of blue and grey when he looked in her eyes, when the sharp, cunning glint was always present.

Her husband—number seven, she believed—was a merchant by trade, and held fast to his creeds of wealth and prosperity. Because of this, he was unmoved by her beauty. They had behaved as husband and wife should, consummating their relationship any number of times. But after the first three months, he grew disinterested, retreating back into his world of numbers and gold. Gold was the only thing that mattered to him, whether it came in coins, in presents that could be sold for coins, or sculptures that could be melted down into gold, and then traded in for coins. She had once toyed with the idea of casting some illusion on herself, making it appear as though her nipples dispensed golden coins, but had dismissed the notion, ultimately deciding that his indifference was better than his interest.

Seeing him step out onto the deck, she bit back a groan, and instead walked over to the nearby bar, collecting the ingredients for a mimosa, and eagerly draining the glass of its contents, before pouring herself another.

"Where's mine?" Atticus asked as she sat down, eyeing her with bleary blue eyes. He had probably been handsome once. But his smooth skin was now bloated and marked by broken veins. His blond hair was greasy and tangled, the byproduct of sleepness nights spent working on his newest agenda for the boardroom. Of course, it would be combed to perfection once he stepped into his office. After all, appearances were everything to him.

She had felt the strangest urge to kill him when she first met him. Initially, she had believed it was a biological response, programmed into her genetics by years of animosity between his celestial ancestors, and her diabolical. But the urge had remained a low, gently prodding idea in the pit of her stomach for some years now. By this time, she could not blame her devil's blood, nor her drow, nor even her sirine, for wanting his death. He accomplished that by sheer personality alone.

"You have two hands and two legs, dear." She remarked, plopping down on one of the deck chairs, and propping her bare feet onto the table. "Use them."

He scowled at her, but it was meaningless. She had dropped all pretense of manners with him, treating him as casually as any of her servants. She had no fear of him. Rather, she watched out for the wrath of her mother, his business partner, and the reason this sham of a marriage existed in the first place. Her mother would kill him eventually, she knew, but probably not for another couple of years.

"Well, I expect my wife to think more of me." Atticus remarked snidely, jamming ingredients into his own cup, and grimacing at the noxious taste of his poor brew. "After all, I think of you."

"You think of my clothes, my makeup, and my servants." She retorted, taking another sip. "Let's not pretend that we actually care about each other's wellbeing beyond life or death."

"Hmph. With an attitude like that, it's no wonder I have to keep you in Sigil at all times." His nasal voice came out as a high whine, once again drawing out the urge to run a rapier through his sternum. She knew just where to hit. Three inches into the skin. That's all she needed to graze his heart.

"I mean, perhaps if you weren't so sour, I would consider allowing you to visit other places. Maybe even work."

That was a flat out lie. He had stipulated that he wished for a wife that did not feel the urge to bring in her own income. The idea of a wife that outshone his own prestige and accomplishments in any field was nightmarish to him. Therefore, her mother had made it explicitly clear that her daughter was to play the part of a doting wife, nothing more.

"And why would I need to work at all when I have such a darling husband to provide everything for me."

Atticus did not miss the snide, sarcastic tone of her melodic voice. "Careful, Reloniira. I'd hate to report any more of your indescretions to your dear mother."

"Just as I would hate to suddenly forget all of my healing expertise, and show up at your next function with bruises all over my face. I can only imagine what your associates would say if they saw that."

A little vein twitched beneath his right eye, and he scowled over at the nearby servant. The boy was eighteen, the son of one of the gardeners of Lady Leera's nearby mansion. He was a marvelous gardener himself, bringing her prized Forget-Me-Nots to full, radiant blues for the last two seasons. Gardens were a luxury only the upper-class could afford in Sigil, and he made her proud to have one. And most importantly (For her husband), he was willing to work for half the price of a full-time gardener.

"That boy is going to go off on his own soon, once he finishes school. Start his own shop. In Neverwinter of all places." Atticus sneered. "Good riddance. I was paying the little shit too much as it is."

"Lolth forbid." Rel remarked with a roll of her eyes. "His name is Rolland. And he has done an excellent job for the past two years, however. Perhaps we should leave him a parting gift."

"Fuck him. Give him three coins and send him on his way."

The priestess quirked her snowy brows at the boy. He was growing handsome as the years passed, his pale skin growing tan from the sunlight, and his muscles burgeoning delightfully beneath his cotton tunic. The shadow of stubble rose on his cheeks, and messy brown hair fell into his dark eyes.

A smirk curled her lips, a nasty, devious thing that wouldn't be lost on the face of Asmodeous himself.

"If you insist, dear."

Later that day, Atticus had departed for his office, intent on presenting his puffed-up and pretentious agenda to his mercantile partners.

As Rolland stepped into the gardening shed, he scratched his head at the sight of the tools, selecting a pair of clippers.

His eyes went wide as he turned around, seeing Rel, standing slinkily in the doorway, one slender, manicured hand holding a mimosa, while other toyed with the diamond necklace at her neck. He tried not to stare at her, though the shallow peek of her firm, generous breasts would be a temptation for any teenage boy. Nevertheless, he made himself meet her eyes.

"I…uh…I'm almost done with the hedges, Mrs. Renoit. They'll be trimmed soon."

She took one last sip of her drink, before allowing her blue dress to slip to the floor.

"No they won't."

An hour later, Rolland found himself sitting on the nearby bench amidst spilled bags of fertilizer and scattered tools, utterly spellbound as he watched his employer's wife finger-comb her hair into something presentable, still as naked as she had been sixty minutes before.

"Wow…I…uh…I can't believe this." The young man chuckled, teasing his hair with rough fingers. "Cameron's never gonna believe this."

"Cameron? You're thinking of another man right now?" Rel asked in a dry voice, pulling her dress over her head, and pausing as she felt Rolland stand behind her, pressing his cheek to her downy neck, and drawing his hands over her front.

"Cameron's my best friend." He replied, allowing his fingers to timidly graze her breasts. "We have a bet going to see who would make it with a woman first."

"So that was your first time?" Rel stood still as a statue as his fingers roamed. "So that's why you were naming off districts in Neverwinter?"

"Yeah…uh…I didn't want to…you know…too quickly."

"A wise choice. But since you're moving there, you should know that Baldur's Gate isn't a district of the city."

He blinked as she pulled away, but soon smiled once more. "So…do you think we could do this again some time? I'm not leaving for another month or so."

"No. I have other lovers, and I don't need anymore." Rel slipped her earrings into place, and started to leave, before remembering something important. "Right…"

Turning around, she took three coins out of her pocket, and handed them to the boy, biting back the urge to laugh.

"Compliments of my husband. It was his idea for a good parting gift."

The boy blinked once more, and Rel simply chuckled, before heading out of the shed.

Description
The water was cold that morning.

That was the first thought that floated through her mind as she dipped her toes into the nearby pool, the bracelets on her slim ankle meeting each other with a metallic clink.

She had thought of other things, once. She used to spend her mornings pondering the twists and schemes of unraveling and planning new plots. She used to put her brilliant mind to work, coming up with elaborate healing spells, and putting them to use on some poor, whimpering sack of meat. She could be in Maztica right now, working to close the arrow wounds of the Amnian army, or perhaps working to regrow the severed limbs of the native population. She could be spending her time curing the realms' worst poisons, testing her limits on every poor fool that found himself at the receiving end of a mage's wrath.

But instead, she was sitting by the pool, clad in a shimmering blue dress instead of healer's robes. Her mind focused on her morning swim, rather than the complexities of her healing art.

She had a choice, she supposed. She could leave. But then, her mother would kill her. Painfully. And being alive and bored was better than being dead, even if she was the living sculpture of a rich prick.

He had merely wanted a trophy wife when he'd met her, and she had certainly met his criteria. With her small waist, firm breasts, long legs, and pretty face, she was perfect for him. He didn't care about the silkiness of her hair, white with just the tracest amounts of blue, turning it the same shade as the first frost in winter. He only cared that it was cared for, and elegantly made when he presented her at his business parties. He didn't care about her polished, dark skin, so long as it was free from unsightly blemishes and wrinkles. He didn't see the anything but the hues of blue and grey when he looked in her eyes, when the sharp, cunning glint was always present.

Her husband—number seven, she believed—was a merchant by trade, and held fast to his creeds of wealth and prosperity. Because of this, he was unmoved by her beauty. They had behaved as husband and wife should, consummating their relationship any number of times. But after the first three months, he grew disinterested, retreating back into his world of numbers and gold. Gold was the only thing that mattered to him, whether it came in coins, in presents that could be sold for coins, or sculptures that could be melted down into gold, and then traded in for coins. She had once toyed with the idea of casting some illusion on herself, making it appear as though her nipples dispensed golden coins, but had dismissed the notion, ultimately deciding that his indifference was better than his interest.

Seeing him step out onto the deck, she bit back a groan, and instead walked over to the nearby bar, collecting the ingredients for a mimosa, and eagerly draining the glass of its contents, before pouring herself another.

"Where's mine?" Atticus asked as she sat down, eyeing her with bleary blue eyes. He had probably been handsome once. But his smooth skin was now bloated and marked by broken veins. His blond hair was greasy and tangled, the byproduct of sleepness nights spent working on his newest agenda for the boardroom. Of course, it would be combed to perfection once he stepped into his office. After all, appearances were everything to him.

She had felt the strangest urge to kill him when she first met him. Initially, she had believed it was a biological response, programmed into her genetics by years of animosity between his celestial ancestors, and her diabolical. But the urge had remained a low, gently prodding idea in the pit of her stomach for some years now. By this time, she could not blame her devil's blood, nor her drow, nor even her sirine, for wanting his death. He accomplished that by sheer personality alone.

"You have two hands and two legs, dear." She remarked, plopping down on one of the deck chairs, and propping her bare feet onto the table. "Use them."

He scowled at her, but it was meaningless. She had dropped all pretense of manners with him, treating him as casually as any of her servants. She had no fear of him. Rather, she watched out for the wrath of her mother, his business partner, and the reason this sham of a marriage existed in the first place. Her mother would kill him eventually, she knew, but probably not for another couple of years.

"Well, I expect my wife to think more of me." Atticus remarked snidely, jamming ingredients into his own cup, and grimacing at the noxious taste of his poor brew. "After all, I think of you."

"You think of my clothes, my makeup, and my servants." She retorted, taking another sip. "Let's not pretend that we actually care about each other's wellbeing beyond life or death."

"Hmph. With an attitude like that, it's no wonder I have to keep you in Sigil at all times." His nasal voice came out as a high whine, once again drawing out the urge to run a rapier through his sternum. She knew just where to hit. Three inches into the skin. That's all she needed to graze his heart.

"I mean, perhaps if you weren't so sour, I would consider allowing you to visit other places. Maybe even work."

That was a flat out lie. He had stipulated that he wished for a wife that did not feel the urge to bring in her own income. The idea of a wife that outshone his own prestige and accomplishments in any field was nightmarish to him. Therefore, her mother had made it explicitly clear that her daughter was to play the part of a doting wife, nothing more.

"And why would I need to work at all when I have such a darling husband to provide everything for me."

Atticus did not miss the snide, sarcastic tone of her melodic voice. "Careful, Reloniira. I'd hate to report any more of your indescretions to your dear mother."

"Just as I would hate to suddenly forget all of my healing expertise, and show up at your next function with bruises all over my face. I can only imagine what your associates would say if they saw that."

A little vein twitched beneath his right eye, and he scowled over at the nearby servant. The boy was eighteen, the son of one of the gardeners of Lady Leera's nearby mansion. He was a marvelous gardener himself, bringing her prized Forget-Me-Nots to full, radiant blues for the last two seasons. Gardens were a luxury only the upper-class could afford in Sigil, and he made her proud to have one. And most importantly (For her husband), he was willing to work for half the price of a full-time gardener.

"That boy is going to go off on his own soon, once he finishes school. Start his own shop. In Neverwinter of all places." Atticus sneered. "Good riddance. I was paying the little shit too much as it is."

"Lolth forbid." Rel remarked with a roll of her eyes. "His name is Rolland. And he has done an excellent job for the past two years, however. Perhaps we should leave him a parting gift."

"Fuck him. Give him three coins and send him on his way."

The priestess quirked her snowy brows at the boy. He was growing handsome as the years passed, his pale skin growing tan from the sunlight, and his muscles burgeoning delightfully beneath his cotton tunic. The shadow of stubble rose on his cheeks, and messy brown hair fell into his dark eyes.

A smirk curled her lips, a nasty, devious thing that wouldn't be lost on the face of Asmodeous himself.

"If you insist, dear."

Later that day, Atticus had departed for his office, intent on presenting his puffed-up and pretentious agenda to his mercantile partners.

As Rolland stepped into the gardening shed, he scratched his head at the sight of the tools, selecting a pair of clippers.

His eyes went wide as he turned around, seeing Rel, standing slinkily in the doorway, one slender, manicured hand holding a mimosa, while other toyed with the diamond necklace at her neck. He tried not to stare at her, though the shallow peek of her firm, generous breasts would be a temptation for any teenage boy. Nevertheless, he made himself meet her eyes.

"I…uh…I'm almost done with the hedges, Mrs. Renoit. They'll be trimmed soon."

She took one last sip of her drink, before allowing her blue dress to slip to the floor.

"No they won't."

An hour later, Rolland found himself sitting on the nearby bench amidst spilled bags of fertilizer and scattered tools, utterly spellbound as he watched his employer's wife finger-comb her hair into something presentable, still as naked as she had been sixty minutes before.

"Wow…I…uh…I can't believe this." The young man chuckled, teasing his hair with rough fingers. "Cameron's never gonna believe this."

"Cameron? You're thinking of another man right now?" Rel asked in a dry voice, pulling her dress over her head, and pausing as she felt Rolland stand behind her, pressing his cheek to her downy neck, and drawing his hands over her front.

"Cameron's my best friend." He replied, allowing his fingers to timidly graze her breasts. "We have a bet going to see who would make it with a woman first."

"So that was your first time?" Rel stood still as a statue as his fingers roamed. "So that's why you were naming off districts in Neverwinter?"

"Yeah…uh…I didn't want to…you know…too quickly."

"A wise choice. But since you're moving there, you should know that Baldur's Gate isn't a district of the city."

He blinked as she pulled away, but soon smiled once more. "So…do you think we could do this again some time? I'm not leaving for another month or so."

"No. I have other lovers, and I don't need anymore." Rel slipped her earrings into place, and started to leave, before remembering something important. "Right…"

Turning around, she took three coins out of her pocket, and handed them to the boy, biting back the urge to laugh.

"Compliments of my husband. It was his idea for a good parting gift."

The boy blinked once more, and Rel simply chuckled, before heading out of the shed.