Lysandra
Trippin balls
Somewhere on Ession // Midnight
Streets draped in scarlet and silver crooned into the night air, the heavy thrum of Ession's cantinas and clubs pulsing with the swarm of hedonists that claimed the red light district as their own. A cloying smog of oily street snacks, sugary perfumes and the pungent saltiness of sweat wafted through the districts veins, basting the chrome towers and littered lane ways with an aroma distinct to such hallowed grounds. Men and women, of all colours and creeds, came to the throbbing district like pilgrims converging upon the bosom of a fallen goddess. Here, under the veil of night, they worshiped with all the shameless zeal such debauchery encouraged. Credits upon credits were spent on the fleeting bliss of a courtesan's touch and the sweet high of spice that powdered the darker corners of the neon drenched district. It was a cacophony of sound and scents, coaxing every desire of the flesh to relinquish the tethers of modesty and dive head first into the wanton embrace of hedonism that marked the area for what it was.
Many, if not all, of the district's visitors came for something. An experience, a memory, an addiction or some semblance of worth to whittle away in the early hours of the morning. None would fall sway to ignorance or discontent, for even the most prudish of folks were bound to engorge themselves on some form of entertainment, be it the readily available food or the parade of performers that peppered the pastel lane ways.
It was this chaos, the musical orgy of sound and colour, that beckoned the presence of one silver haired waif.
Lysandra knew not what she was doing before the tide of music called out to her from the void. Like a siren, the symphony clutched the typically immodest creature by the heart and lured her away from the safety of the capitol's gaze, relinquishing her of the stern and tired murmurings of a prince that would be far less than impressed by her nightly 'stroll' into such degeneracy. With feet bare, hair messily tumbling down her porcelain visage and a simple silver slip of a dress covering her waifish figure, the girl quickly blended into the tide of intoxicated revelers and lost herself within the storm of delight and debauchery.
"...Two Twi'leks for the price of one! I'll say it again, two Twi'leks-"
"...that the Archlord himself slew the mastermind behind the recent-"
"You there! Pretty girl, looking for work! We got clients that like young thi-"
"...Dried kelp strips, with the enyak mustard and-"
The surging tide of voices filled her vision with a crackling buffet of vibrant reds, speckled greens and flares of gold and grey. Each noise was its own stroke of paint on to the canvas of her vision and soon enough Lysandra stood frozen in the central hub enthralled by the cascade of colour that danced in her peripherals. Perhaps, to any onlooker, the dainty creature was on an intoxicated trip of a lifetime, mesmerized by the throbbing lights swaying over her silvery, petal laced crown.
"Sweet meats and deep streets, pretty girls with their rosy pearls..." Lysandra sang to herself, aimlessly wandering past a riotous brothel and several food stalls, her feathery voice melting into the cool blanket of night.
How long had it been since she'd been surrounded by so many people? She could not remember, nor did she particularly care.
She was simply enjoying it for what it was, a gift to her senses.
[member="The Slave"]