Rain had reached the limits of Venice upon the eve of dusk; blanketing the city’s inhabitants in the sobering truth that Winter was finally upon them. It continued without pause, a lazy drizzle accompanied with the stretching rumble of thunder alerting all that the weather was here to stay for quite some time. Beneath the overhang of a tilted dwelling, Keeva resided out of the rain though not out of reach of the bite of winter’s breeze – the wind slicing through the layers of her clothing despite the stolen cloak of velvet far above her social class. Here, she was paid no mind despite being a woman slotted into the moleskin of a man’s pants – bodice bound not by corset, but vest. A pirate, a boy had pointed and whispered only earlier that evening. It’d earned no more than a mother’s scorn, and a stranger’s scoff towards her. But here, those who wandered cared not for a woman oddly dressed, or the chill the weather carved into their flesh for the Il Convento Dolce blossomed across the street in a vibrant burst of warmth and music. Come one, come all, The Sweet Convent would see to chasing away the cold. Ah, but only for the colour of gold.

A shiver settled through her, causing muscles to tense until an ache had formed in defence of the cold. Keeva had resided across the street of the brothel for an unknown period of time, watching with the patience one caught in the wicked turmoil of their mind could only ever hold. Silent and still, caught in thoughts but attentive to the trickle of numbers to sweep through the doors of the brothel locked in the point of Keeva’s gaze. How many had wives? And how many were simply here not for the taste of bought flesh, but for what their wives would never allow? What resided in the minds of men, dark little fantasies hidden away from their soft-minded wives forced into a particular mindset concerning their bedroom lives? A gloved hand itched at the side of a mouth splintering into a lop-sided grin – almost a grimace if one paid too much attention.

In time, Keeva moved once the cold threatened to set her teeth chattering. By now, the sun had long since settled beneath the horizon and darkness became permanent. The transaction she expected to occur wasn’t entirely out of the ordinary for a woman of questionable morals and an absurd need for knowledge. A familiar realm, a welcomed bed and warm meal, and a ground for whispered pieces of information drawn from the mouth of men too preoccupied. Frustrated, perhaps, by the questions plying them. Answer quick, and the woman would quit speaking. The first time was difficult, Keeva struggling to overcome the opinions of society surrounding women content to sell their flesh for coin. After that, when she deemed it a necessary transaction, she was no more than a career whore.

It was as one would expect; the immediate interior of the brothel rather modest in design – a tavern to quench a parched throat. Ah, but bodies moved between the ranks of men, doused in lace and silk – shoulders adorning shawls looped around arms kissed by candle light till hands could swirl the scraps of material with each movement; seeking out the unsatisfied - the paying customers looking to quench more than an innocent thirst.

And then there was Keeva. Neither man nor whore, an oddity amidst another night of normal trade.

Once upon a lap, a blond soon slid free of the groping fist eager to display the entirety of Il Convento Dolce’s treasures to those lacking the coin to pay. She danced free, slapped away a hand, but he motioned to follow suit. It occurred so quickly, the gloved hand of Keeva landing upon his shoulder – surprised, he simply took the hint to remain seated rather than commit to the hunt of the blonde. No attention was given, Keeva’s motion simply occurring amidst her stride towards the bar.

“Lost lass?”

The bartender spoke, and Keeva ordered, “Il Convento Dolce, Venice’s finest – or so I’m told. You have whiskey…” A shrug disturbed her words, the motion sending ripples through the slipping cloak lounging low on her shoulders. “Lost? Not today.” She slipped the whiskey’s worth across the counter.

Keeva’s back turned once the glass was in her hand, the bar soon resting against her back where her elbows propped up upon the counter – glass tilted in her grasp as she surveyed the room. Watching, waiting.

“Care to point out the matron of these nuns?” Keeva asked, head notching up to speak over her shoulder at the bartender. A lop-sided smile quirked her maw, once again enjoying the choice of names.

Someone had a humour.

Rainy evenings could be both good and bad for business – good if that meant the men wanted a place to stay for night and chose the brothel. Bad if the men were already inside when it started raining and their desire for release was not strong enough to make them get soaked in order to reach the brothel. Tonight was a good night; Renata’s 9 whores were all busy, both upstairs and downstairs and there were even a few musicians who had cared for a dry place too – which certainly made the mood a lot better inside the brothel than outside.

Renata had just taken a break from work and overlooking the brothel; she’d retreated to her own private place to freshen up. Her dress was light pink and yellow tonight; she would be like the sun entering the tavern, when she came downstairs. The sun shining through the rain and making anyone who’d pay for it, feel welcome.

And once she was refreshed and had dabbed a little more perfume on her person, she descended the stairs down to the music and the heat of the brothel and the tavern. The door had just opened to let another poor soul inside and that made Renata arch a brow while she stood there, still overlooking the place rather than going to the floor. It was a woman, was it not? But not wearing a dress. Well, that was always interesting. Perhaps the lady came here looking for pleasure then, from another lady. Just like the Doge’s nephew, whom they said wore dresses but preferred his own actual gender as well. Not that she had ever met the man, but she thought he might be quite the catch for such a place too. At least she had Narciso though and he too was willing to dress up ladies’ clothes if the occasion and the client was right.

Renata went to the floor then, greeting patrons, some with kind and warm words, others with smiles and a particularly handsome man in the corner even gained a kiss blown from her hand. But the woman wearing trousers sat by the bar and had ordered a drink and Renata heard her ask for the matron. She gave a smile for the bartender and moved in in front the younger woman, offering her a smile, “No need to point anyone out. Is it me you’re looking for?” Renata asked, moving closer, looking the woman over more curiously, “Renata Frascati, Ruffiana or Abbess of this fine place. Can I help you, Signorina?”

<a href='index.php?showuser=188' rel='nofollow' alt='profile link' class='user-tagged mgroup-3'>@Keeva O'Caiside</a>

The bartender hadn’t uttered a word in response. Instead, she received no more than the strangest of smiles – scrutinised, though not unfavourably so. It was a recognition she knew well – one built on fascination and mild curiosity whenever she resided between the breath of a cigar and the flesh of women caught in layers of cloth easily disposed of. A brow barely twitched, the glass held to her maw to allow the amber contents to stain her tongue and burn her throat - shooing away the chill of her damp flesh marginally as she continued to wait upon the man. A wait that simply concluded on the arrival of a woman wrapped in such a cheery colour she stood in stark contrast to the morose night swallowing Venice whole. A cheap trick or an efficient business choice to bring warmth into an establishment booming, despite the weather.

The glass was lowered a fraction, poised beneath a mouth rolling the amber liquid around despite the burn of the liquor – thoughtful as she gave pause under Renata’s clear curiosity. Keeva swallowed the dregs, and leant back to settle the tumbler back upon the bar to where her elbow once more resided – languid, lazy in posture, confident but relaxed. “Madam.” A tilt toppled her head in a slight bow of acknowledgement. It was always a gamble when it came to conversing with brothel owners – each with their own agenda, history, rules, and most of – each with their own… physical bearing. Some were ready to expire, some were ghastly young and brought to the position through cunning means or the dregs of a stolen dowry. They were a mottled lot – and Keeva had met an odd sort over the years. The question was, where did Renata Frascati fit into Keeva’s categories? It was unlikely she would be and different. It was simply a matter of what Renata required, what she would allow, and how much she was willing to be generous in return?

“It’s a pleasure to meet you. You have a fine establishment.” Keeva spoke fluidly, smooth politeness that was genuine and yet… well used in design. It was always the same. A little flutter of compliment to quirk a smile before she slid forward with her purpose. So far, Renata seemed to settle comfortably in the middle of the age spectrum – speaking of experience, worth, and therefore, a sense of respect could be drawn from Keeva immediately for there would be no-nonsense here. Or so she could only assume. The blonde before her earned a confirming smile from Keeva, slate eyes lifting from their study to reside upon the gaze of Renata once more – as if, a decision had been made in just a split second. How to proceed, no doubt. Directly.

“You look like a fair woman, milady Ruffiana.” An accent, French in design but awfully mottled by travels spoke as her arms slid from the counter and she stood a little straighter. “Can we speak in private? I have a proposition for you if you would be willing to hear it. A minor business agreement,” A pause was taken, a hand lifting to tuck damp strands of hair behind her ear. There was no crap to be had here, nor a need to dance cunningly around her. On the contrary, in Keeva’s experience brothel owners could smell bullshit a mile away. “In exchange for a warm meal and a dry bed… if you will have me.”

<a href='index.php?showuser=152' rel='nofollow' alt='profile link' class='user-tagged mgroup-3'>@Renata Frascati</a>

<center>“Outside it may be raining, but in here it’s entertaining!”</center>

That’s what Renata was here to ensure anyway. The spring downpour outside was enough to keep the patrons inside tonight, even after they were done with their deeds, instead buying more drinks and perhaps ending up in a bed for a second time on the same night. Not Renata’s, no… she kept hers to herself, except for when she didn’t, of course. With the right offer and the right man, she was willing to display all her talents and skills and quite a few more men wished they could afford it or that she wanted them, than the men who got so far.

This woman right here though, Renata was still curious about her. The woman – could she be called a lady when she wore trousers? – swallowed her drink and then greeted Renata with a tilt to her head. She thought for a moment what a contrast this was; this dark-haired young woman in trousers and downing a drink compared to blonde Renata, who was certainly ladylike in comparison, what with her dress and all. Such contrasts. Such interesting stories to be told, she thought too. The woman then continued her compliments to Renata and the brothel and Renata moved to her side to lean against the bar too, but sideways so she was facing the newcomer.

“Thank you… Signoria? I do think I did a good job with it too.” She wondered too if she should call a woman wearing trousers a Signorina, but perhaps the woman would treat her with that story too. The stranger then smiled and seemed thoughtful for a moment, before she continued talking… calling Renata a fair woman and then adding that she had a business proposition and wanted to speak to her alone. Renata grinned then, when the female stated her terms for a talk and a business agreement.

“A warm meal we can certainly serve you… if I’ll have you, we’ll have to see about that.” She said with a wink, “But we most certainly can speak in private. Follow me… and tell me what you want me to call you.” She gestured for the woman to follow her to the staircase, which they now moved up on, all the way to the top floor, which was where her private place was. There was a room serving as a living room and salon, a bedroom and an office. Once they reached the top of the stairs, Renata fished a key from some hidden place in her cleavage and unlocked the door, leading them both straight into the living room of the apartment. Everything was kept in light pastels and mostly pink, purple and yellow.

But once inside, Renata continued to a door on their right hand side, leading into her simple office. This was business, after all. Inside the office, there was a couch, a few chairs and a desk and whatever else you’d expect to find in a Ruffiana’s office. She could read and write and do a little math; she did grow up in a convent. Once inside that, she turned to the stranger again, “Please take a seat.” She said while moving around the desk to sit down in her own chair.

<a href='index.php?showuser=188' rel='nofollow' alt='profile link' class='user-tagged mgroup-3'>@Keeva O'Caiside</a>

&#8220;Signoria?&#8221;

The title came and went with little objection from Keeva &#8211; the pronounced etiquette simply of little concern to the woman. It warranted no remark nor correction for it was better than what many chose to call Keeva. On few occasion, some preferred the masculine latter of the address as if such a thing could be taken as an insult to the woman of many names and many identities. However, the fact Renata pronounced it in question rather than solid assumption simply caused the ghost of Keeva&#8217;s smile to lengthy, solidify, and become more confident in her expectations of the Ruffiana.

&#8220;Should you choose not to have me, I leave still with a win. Nothing sounds more pleasant than a warm meal on a night like tonight.&#8221; Keeva replied, a good-hearted shrug accompanying her shoulders as she turned to follow Renata up the staircase. Though not before the woman cast one last look over the establishment, quick gaze flittering over the girls and patrons alike. As if searching, for what she knew wouldn&#8217;t be there. No, searching for trouble she aimed to never see within the walls of Renata&#8217;s business for the duration of her stay. &#8220;Though it&#8217;s been quite a while since I heard rain so heavy.&#8221; Keeva added in an afterthought, the soft cadence of her words potentially given before she could think to hold her tongue. The thought simply ran away from her more than seeing the addition of her speech a necessity. The rain, a storm in any of its grand and destructive forms caused a peculiar pinch of restlessness in Keeva &#8211; a product of growing up around a bay of many temperaments. Both in weather, businesses, even the very men used to Keeva in her many forms.

Renata&#8217;s request for a name lingered between whilst she fished out the key, Keeva paying homage to its placement before the door swung open and into a room residing in stark contrast to the satisfying gloom of the night outside washed over her vision in a sea of bright pastels. It was the d&#233;cor Corinne would&#8217;ve chosen, adorned with frills and all manners of splendour that had always made Keeva feel.. closed in, trapped &#8211; a lick of anxiety lingering in her that always set her moving with the desire to open the window and let fresh air in. As if, the wide world outside would flood in and take over the bright colours. Here, she could do nothing of the sort, instead a mild chuckle lingered in her throat, choosing to return to the subject of her name rather than the thoughts of her sister or her opinion on Renata&#8217;s quarters.

&#8220;Keeva will do fine.&#8221; She finally responded as they settled in the office, her name flittering about the room in a quick burst of breath. How unseemly it was for her to produce her name only with in a few moments of meeting Renata &#8211; and yet, brothel owners always had more luck retrieving her real name over most other&#8230; acquaintances. It was better to be honest with those that fed you, gave you a bed, a little work, than those who wandered in and out of your life. A lack of honesty always proved disastrous &#8211; so she had learned long ago. &#8220;I don&#8217;t put much stock in titles. Some would even argue that I&#8217;m beneath such respectful titles of Signoria and Signorina.&#8221; The laugh that was produced was roguish in comparison to the giggle of ladies &#8211; it was free, it was warm, though a little daring as she settled on the couch provided. A leg lifted and hooked ankle over knee, once there, her fingers toyed with the loosened leather strap adorning the heel. Once upon a time, it did bear the embellishment of metal but that had long since fallen away.

Time passed whilst Keeva thumbed the leather of her boot, glancing over the office of the Renata before settling her attention back on the brightly mottled woman content to take a portion of time away from her business for the sake of a stranger. &#8220;Your establishment has grown substantially, I&#8217;ve heard. Each day, each night brings in the addition of new faces. You&#8217;re doing well.&#8221; There was no compliment in it, the sturdy attention that lingering on Renata was watchful, all of a sudden quite calculative though not of Renata, not at all, but of the words produced. &#8220;Alas, the bigger the business, the more trouble likely to occur within its walls.&#8221; Keeva left her boot alone, choosing to lounge back and settle more comfortably into the cushions, lips rolled and licked before she produced all that she had to say. It always was a game of odds when it came to the proposition. Some considered her dead weight. A useless mouth to feed. You were either whore or paying patron. There was no in between. While others&#8230; thought a little differently.

&#8220;What would you say if I told you I can keep that trouble out of your business? A warm meal, a warm bed, and I can offer security.&#8221; Ankle slid off her knee, and once feet were planted, she slid to the very edge of the couch and leant forward for elbows to settle on her knees. &#8220;I can offer you gossip, rumour, whatever you would like to know, to learn. From whores, from potential competition&#8230; personal endeavours, even.&#8221; Keeva always expected a laugh at this point, after all, she was no figure of strength. In fact, she looked to be no more than a pretty scrap of flesh dressed in a wolf&#8217;s clothing. That was until shots were fired or steel clashed with steel.

&#8220;I can, also, offer you an additional income. I will work, as your girls do, though by my own time, my own choice. By necessity. A growing business soon appeals to the more&#8230; esteemed patrons of our society.&#8221; A pause, and Keeva&#8217;s hand rose as if ready to stop Renata if she spoke. &#8220;I am no whore, Ruffiana. I will not be contracted. I am a seeker of facts, and the fact is that the female body will loosen a held tongue quicker than any other tactic. It simply is what it is.&#8221;

<a href='index.php?showuser=152' rel='nofollow' alt='profile link' class='user-tagged mgroup-3'>@Renata Frascati</a>