A Prince's Request (Closed Harem/Humor RP)

[Roania]

OOC Boilerplate: Obviously, I do not approve of holding women hostage for good behavior, etc, etc. Nor do I endorse the view of women as property. That's not what this thread is about. This thread takes its cue after a fashion from harem animes/mangas, but more importantly from a question I asked myself; what would a 16 year old boy do with absolute power? This thread is meant to be light-hearted fun, with no violence and no OOC angst. Please view it in that light.

OOC: Grand Duke Selevar was shot here: viewtopic.php?f=5&t=298847 .

Prince Damalin was bored. His mother the Empress had departed with his recently attacked father to their summer palace, leaving him in charge of the Empire. Well, not really 'in charge', per se. There was the whole secretariat to handle all that business of government, and the Empress had left clear instructions that he wasn't allowed to start any wars or raise taxes or spend the empire's budget on video games or have anyone executed or any number of other things that he might have wanted to do, he'd stopped listening as the Grand Secretary had listed them all it was all so depressing didn't the Lady of Ten Thousand Years trust him?

So he'd been left mostly to his own devices. Sure, it had been nice wandering the palace, letting himself into rooms he ordinarily wasn't allowed in, but that lasted only as long until he found out his mother had explicitly forbade the guards from letting him carry any heavy weaponry out of the castle's armory. Hardly fair. AND he had had to attend all his lessons with the ArchChancellor, as if he wasn't in charge at all!

So mostly he sat there, throwing a ball against the wall and catching it. At least his siblings were gone; Tonen with their parents, the other one wherever it was she disappeared to. So there was no one whose opinions he cared about to see him so... so... so... "What's the word I'm looking for, Rimeil?"

The Grand Secretary looked up from his paperwork and smiled tightly. "I'm sorry, Lord of a Thousand Blessings?" Rimeil had taken to following him around and doing his busy work from the position of being able to keep an eye on the young prince. More interference by the Empress, no doubt. "What would you like the word to mean?"

"Like...I can't do anything, even though I'm meant to."

"Impotent, Lord of a Thousand Blessings?"

"Right. That." Damalin fell back into his sulk and pulled a poetry book out of his pocket. At least doing nothing was letting him catch up on his reading. His eyes skimmed the calligraphy as he looked for a poem that summed up his feelings as to the matter. As he did, he stumbled upon a word that he didn't recognize. "Rimeil, what's a... harem?"

"Hmm? Oh, it's a collection of concubines for the entertainment of a master, if I remember correctly. There's a harem quarter off the old wing. The Emperors of the Third Dynasty kept a few women there before they were overthrown." Rimeil licked a finger and turned a page.

"Women? How many women?"

"Well, the Konkou Emperor had a harem of a few dozen women. That's the upper limit, oh Lord of a Thousand Blessings."

"A few dozen girls?" Damalin asked, stunned. For a moment, he sat there, thumb resting on the page he'd had open. "...when did the Lady of Ten Thousand Years say we could expect her return?"

"Not before the year's out, Oh Lord of a Thousand Blessings." As if Rimeil hadn't been counting down every week, every day, every hour until Ailiese's return.

"Rimeil, I want a harem." Damalin decided quickly, closing his book quickly and waving his hand in what he thought was an imperious manner. "By the power imbued in me by the Lady of Ten Thousand Years, I command you to assemble me a harem of the prettiest girls in the galaxy." He hesitated for a moment. No, that hadn't been something he was forbidden to do. If it was, no doubt Rimeil would tell him immediately.

The Grand Secretary studied the Prince-Regent for a long moment, all sorts of considerations going through his head. Slowly, Rimeil stood up and bowed low. "Absolutely, Oh Lord of a Thousand Blessings."

***

"ABSOLUTELY NOT, Rimeil!" Daeri snapped when he bought it up to the full cabinet the next day. "It's beneath the dignity of anyone to serve as a pimp for Prince Damalin. He's not really the Emperor, or did you forget that?"

"Of course I didn't forget that, but look at it from my perspective. A prince amusing himself with scantily-clad women is probably not a prince who's trying to interfere with running the business of government." Rimeil stroked his short beard and stared down the table at his secretaries. "We have a responsibility to the Lady of Ten Thousand Years to ensure the Empire is at least as good as she left it." Daeri snorted, as if she doubted the Grand Secretary's stated reasons.

"I think it's all harmless." Her husband murmured, stroking his own chin.

"Nesar, you cannot be serious."

"No, no, hear me out. Obviously, women of our people, of good breeding, won't be wanted. I'm afraid they wouldn't get into the spirit of things." Daeri snorted, but Nesar continued. "Nasty cold, darling, we'll have to look into that. Where was I... ah yes. And peasant women? Pfeh. They'd just give the prince whatever he wanted."

"Well, we should let him have whatever he wanted!" Daeri snapped.

"But he doesn't want whatever he wants. It's not like he doesn't realize that if he just wanted a girl, he could easily have one procured." Nesar shook his head. "No, he just wants a harem. He's probably not even given it any thought, what one does with a harem. So, we need a few girls who aren't afraid to stand up for themselves even to royalty. People who'll say 'no' if pressed to do anything beyond, say, stand around and look pretty for him. So we find a few girls, pay them a substantial sum of money, explain that nothing too onerous will be expected of them, and everyone goes home happy."

"And if the Lady of Ten Thousand Years should find out about this?" Daeri asked, dubious.

"She'll probably be more amused than anything else." Nesar shrugged his shoulders. "But if not, our excellent Grand Secretary will no doubt point out she didn't specifically prohibit her son assembling a coterie of girls for his amusement, and it could have gone ever so much worse." There was general agreement on this point, and the Secretariat resolved to put it into action immediately.

Thus, in foreign papers, an advertisement was placed. Its form and wording varied immensely depending on its placement, but there were a few essentials:

*Beautiful young women wanted.

*Easy, short-term job. *

*No heavy lifting.

*50,000 Universal Standard Dollars, payable in a form of the employee's choice, upon completion of services. All benefits.

Those who responded were then given an interview, which basically boiled down to finding out whether they were willing to be pretty for the prince, and also if they weren't going to be overawed enough by the title that they'd take being a 'concubine' too seriously. There were four points touched upon in the interview:

#1. Within limits she found comfortable, it would be her responsibility to dress in a fashion the prince would find attractive. Clothes would be fitted, designed and developed to the employee's specifications to be ready for when she was introduced to the prince. A substantial wardrobe would be provided, and all clothes would remain the property of the employee upon the end of her contract.

#2. While it was not expected that the prince would request sexual favors, it was made explicitly clear that it was not in their job description to provide them. Should they do so, it was their responsibility to inform the overseer so all actions may be taken to ensure there was no pregnancy resulting. Failure to do so could lead to termination, in more ways than one. The women were mildly encouraged to refuse politely, but firmly, and report the prince if he refused to accept no for an answer, though such an eventuality is unexpected.

#3. The employees are expected to maintain a high standard of personal conduct. A morality clause is in place that prohibits any romantic or sexual interaction with anyone other than the prince (but see #2) without the Prince's explicit permission, that may be revoked or invoked at any time. Failure to follow this morality code could lead to termination, in more ways than one.

#4. While all employees would be guests of the imperial palace, they would be restricted to a specific set of rooms, beyond which they may not go without the prince's written permission, whilst accompanied by guards. This requirement is not expected to be onerous.

OOC: Well, them's the requirements. Just a bunch of pretty girls expected to lounge around in pretty clothes and be cute and friendly (but not too friendly) with royalty. Actresses, etc, encouraged. Do try to not take things too seriously!

[Roania]

OOC: Essential information:

The Harem quarters are off the main palace, and have recently been cleaned and dried and refit with all the modern conveniences. Every girl, no matter how many there are, will have her own room, but they will be expected to attend the common room whenever the prince is there. The common room is the usual living room stuff, with plenty of couches and lounges.

All reasonable needs will be met by the servants, though in order to preserve Damalin's illusion it's preferred you ask for things to be delivered to your chambers while he is otherwise engaged.

For setup, just post your character in whatever clothes she thinks appropriate for the job, lounging about or otherwise waiting for the prince to be introduced.

[Scolopendra]

It was, perhaps, highly unlikely for any normal person to be where Doctor Deborah Deacon, previously Ms. Keisha Kelly, was right now: lounging about languidly on an opulently overstuffed couch, indolently running numbers on a Menelmacari-model holotablet--all fine filigree and rare woods in the handhold, the 'screen' softer and more refined than the usual slate-like 'surface'--that she'd bought with her own money for this specific jaunt. She was an elf of the meta-human variety: long, statuesque, smooth in complexion and movement with pointed ears close to her head, coffee-with-cream hair pulled back into an orderly, but not excessively so, bun. She wore a pink gown that, when standing, with her arms to her side and while wearing the light purple stole that was part of its ensemble, could be considered quite demure. Such a posture would hide the fact that it was slit right to the waist on the left hand side and that its top was no more than a band of fabric stretched up from the right hip over the bust and supported on the left shoulder--counterweighted by the additional fabric draped down her back--leaving all else exposed. It was not only good, it was vital that it was especially tailored to her frame since without that consideration, only double-backed tape would have kept it in place. As it stood, only a few strategically placed electrum clasps and brooches held it together. Remember, also, that she was on a couch; her left leg was arched up on the cushion and as such without coverage at all, and only the careful tailoring of the gown allowed it to maintain any decency whatsoever. Her posture on one elbow and propped up by additional pillows left little to the imagination and offered many angles where more flesh than was generally considered decorous could be seen.

Which was, to be fair, effectively the entire point.

Again recall that it was highly unlikely for any normal person to be where she was. This was not so much a matter of where the normative standard might lie on the prude-exhibitionist scale; no, it had more to do with the fact that Doctor Deborah Deacon had, in her previous nom de guerre, had been rather efficiently caned by the highest Roanian authorities for her tangential involvement in a little incident that under slightly different circumstances could be called, with no exaggeration, a war crime. The scars had certainly healed (they'd also been cosmetically removed), but most people could probably be classified as less than interested in returning to a place where they had earned such.

Deborah, however, wasn't most people.

She was a serial medical enthusiast.

That was her preferred term, at least. As Ms. Kelly, she was considered by Triumvirate Space Patrol and International Rescue as something more akin to a serial killer. She found that wildly inaccurate. Sure, she tended to take cost-cutting when it came to medical care to something of an extreme, and could (and did) jury-rig major organs and entire bodily systems in ways that would be lauded and admired if she were simply doing it with mere clapped-out machine parts, but she didn't kill anyone. It's only when other, inferior doctors were called in to try and maintain her work once it was out of warranty that people died. Her propensity for making improvements on her patients without their knowledge was probably something of an aggravating factor as well, to be fair. She couldn't quite understand why the meat machines she worked on wouldn't appreciate improved functionality like smuggling compartments in lungs they weren't using or wireless hotspots instead of an extraneous kidney or other such things. Then again, to be brutally honest, she couldn't quite understand meat machines in general, at least, not in the way they appeared to want to be understood.

It was almost as though they were people. Laughable, really. She was the only real person.

Well, other than Zoe, and the jury was out on Zoe. She liked Zoe, though. They'd been through hard times--particularly the previous trip to Roania--but the pale girl had managed to not only make that situation pay out but also made sure that 'Doc Kelly' had received her fair share of the proceeds. Kelly took those funds to make a down-payment on a garage manufactory kit and begin the manufacture of an idea she'd had just when she thought she was going to die: a simple coagulant nasal spray that could quickly alleviate the symptoms of the Fractal Sensitivity Syndrome endemic to Scolopendrans. It sold as well as she knew it would, and with that money expanded her factory, which accelerated her income, and being the sole source for a product that billions of people used was predictably profitable. At first Ms. Kelly had to supplement her income by running jobs with Zoe, being the party medic, but that became a side hobby as her product sold and she could instead put Zoe and whatever additional muscle her only friend in the universe liked on retainer. Between her invention and her absolute lack of business ethics (well, pretty much all ethics) she made shrewd, meticulously legal, and morally questionable business decisions that only caused her wealth to expand exponentially--and even then the careful attention to legality was only there because it was more profitable and important that she remain on the correct side of the law ever since she started a legitimate business.

That legitimate business required a new name and a new face. Luckily, she was able to heal herself in this regard. After a little bit of facial bone structure modification, retinal rewiring, earlobe resculpting, skin micropattern rearrangement, and retroviral genetic scrambling, she was no longer identifiably the person she once was (though her entire body was black and blue and yellow for weeks afterwards as her skin and musculature had to adapt naturally to its newly reformed substrate, plus the retroviral treatment was the absolute worst cold she'd ever had--kind Zoe was there throughout the process). Between that and a past purchased via Moneylaunderingstan and her knowledge of the old Suunto databases, she was now Doctor Deborah Deacon MD, an expatriate Suuntoan who earned her doctorate through doing surgical work and medical research for a since-folded Suunto microcorporation. At the time of the Reformation she'd wandered out to the Periphery to hermit, and, while there, she'd come up with her nasal spray idea while doing odd chop-doc work for Zoe and her mercenaries. The rest was public history.

Which meant to say that she didn't need the money. But years on the lam and living on a shoestring meant that she liked easy money, and it was something of a vacation. She could relax secure in the lap of luxury, continue to monitor and run her business from afar--which would also possibly get any possible usurpers to show their heads, which meant that she could 'remove' them and then maybe practice on them--and, on some level, face her fears after a fashion. She'd had to run from the Segments, and now she sold a dependable household staple to them. She'd had to run from Roania, and now here she was, lounging on a couch looking over stock numbers and test results from the latest batch of Doctor Debbie's Fass-Away Nasal Spray Extra Safe (TM), which had additional ingredients to make it effective against brainslide as well as the typical FSS-induced nosebleed. The trick was to have it be effective without making it habit-forming. Sure, habit-forming meant another angle for increased sales, but she thought in the long-term and left the habit-forming drugs for the perfectly legitimate Recreational Pharmaceuticals Division of Doctor Debbie's Dependable Dispensary, LLC.

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Here kitty kitty ...

Gods, my parents will kill me if they find out about this.

Talia Patroni was not what one might term ‘conventional’. She was equal parts tomboy and rather obviously sexual tease. She had fun dressing up, and grubbing it, playing rugby or going dancing, working on cars and getting her nails done … the outdoors, she loved, and had most recently been serving her term in the Dominion military, and excelling.

Right up until the accident that had left her with a mild concussion and a short term leave of medical absence, in any case. After having so much going on, she had found herself bored near to tears. And then this opportunity had shown up on her radar.

That it was slightly scandalous was enticing. The assurances were solid enough, and she was at least tangentially familiar with the Roanians enough to know how to mind her manners. And ye gods, the money. All to just sit around and look pretty. Seriously?

She had the time, she had the connections, and she had an uncle with a twisted sense of humor and ample clout who found the entire thing absolutely hilarious, who had helped make the arrangements, as well as excuses and a cover for her to some degree for her parents.

In addition, she was what might be considered slightly exotic, given her part nekoite heritage. The catlike bearing and grace, the dusky skin and long, purple hair, golden eyes, and the lightly tufted ears that were usually hidden beneath it … the Roanians seemed to have a thing for the demihumans of certain types. Could be fun.

Her orders had been to rest, relax, and recuperate. This seemed as good a place as any to do so, and make a very, very tidy profit in the process. There wasn’t anything really against it in the rules and regs, she wasn’t breaking orders by lounging about as she was in her ‘Make Me Purr’ cutoff shirt and form-fitting boyshorts in matching black. The earbuds conveyed her playlist to waiting ears while she perused her tablet, reading something from her e-book library while downloading a game in the background.

Talia glanced up from her position on one of the couches, feet crossed and lifted above her backside, leaning up on her elbows as she laid on her stomach, and looked across the way to the lady in pink. “Hey Debs,” she said after a moment. “Is that outfit comfortable? It’s pretty, but I think I’d be afraid it would slip and then hell-o. I don’t have the upper curves to pull it off.”

True enough, though she was full of feminine softness along with a mix of toned muscles. She was not top-heavy as some were, though it didn’t bother her. She was who and what she was, and she made no apology for any of it.

[TotallyNotEvilLand]

(Well, I feel immediately overwhelmed by the sheer walls of text facing me... Here goes.)

A young, Arkadat woman known as Sherril Isracue was sitting on a rather uncomfortable leather chair. Sure, it wasn't poorly made or ancient like the ones back home, but it certainly wasn't pleasant. She also wasn't surrounded by guards or her adoring niece and nephew. Instead, she was surrounded by total strangers of a race she wasn't quite familiar with. Sherril typically wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this, but with her mother, the queen of Tinell withholding her personal funds due to a few misunderstandings back home, she had to find an easy job, one to bring in the cash to support her addiction to computer construction. Give her a few spare parts, she'll build you a powerful machine. This was easily reflected in her appearance, rather atypical of her kind. She had fur, fangs, and a horn like the rest of her kind, although she wasn't seven feet tall and she didn't have those massive saber-teeth. She was dressed in a simple garment, at least, compared to the lavish, jewel covered dresses of Castea Ju T'nell. It was a small, possibly formerly white T-shirt, long since turned a darkish brown from stains, burns, and soot. On her neck, a small sword shaped necklace, supposed to reflect the war-like ways of the Arkadat, although she didn't particularly subscribe to this idea. On her legs, a pair of brown shorts, the pockets filled to the brim with a phone, a music player, a nail file, and on her hip, a small metal club with a pad of leather wrapped around the top. For self defense, of course. She wasn't going to start a crisis by beating the prince to a pulp because he offended her. At the moment, she was scratching her head, although this was a difficult task with her thick head of long, blue-green hair. She hadn't even bothered to introduce herself to her co-workers. What would they care?

[Prydaen]

Aeronwen ferch Maecan sat away from the other girls, a nervous expression on her face. She wasn't sure she was as pretty as them, and she'd never seen a non-human until her arrival here, though she had heard of such things. She was short and thin, pale in a way that suggested that sun wouldn't help much, and pretty in a bland, inoffensive kind of way -- the proper allotment of curves, perhaps a bit refined compared to the other girls, but nothing that suggested she didn't belong here. Quietly, she spoke, her voice musical in the way all Prydaenwyr were. "How long were we to wait before the Prince came? I do not mind the absence of the man who is to be our 'master', but the longer it goes, the more it concerns me." She immediately blushed and hid herself under the covers, embarrassed to be speaking.

[Scolopendra]

'Debs.'

Doctor Deacon looked up from her work with a smile, the sort of smile that generally only the wealthy bother with. Even then, if one were to look closely, they'd see that her left maxillary central incisor was just a millimeter or two in front of the right. Maybe it was a sign that she had far more money than sense, since it'd be the sort of 'flaw' that people with money would invest in just so they'd have a bit of individuality in their not-quite-perfect smile. In reality it was more along the lines to throw off her old dental records: she'd had well-ordered teeth just by nature--back when she had quite literally just the clothes on her back--but now she could claim, and she did, that it was artificial.

"It is," she replied to the younger woman. "While certainly some cultures tend to see beauty in various constrictions, I doubt I could be at my best in them, so I opted towards this. As for slipping... well, there's advantages to being a doctor when you're making recommendations to a tailor, particularly with regards to the range of motion of the skeletomuscular system and exactly how subcutaneous layers react to internal and external pressures. To be honest, if I was much curvier on the upper side, to borrow your terminology--or if I had slightly weaker fibrocollagenous septa, to use my own regarding a different factor, I could hardly pull it off."

She was perky. That was what she was saying.

"I'd considered failsafes, but there can be advantages to strategic slips in this line of work, such as it is. I've discovered I ascribe to two theories of titillation that, when combined, read something along the lines of 'the sexiness of an outfit is directly proportional to both how naturally it hangs off the form and the apparent likelihood that it will simply fall off.' Needless to say, one's mileage may vary."

It did seem to her that everyone else's outfits were perhaps sturdier and certainly more functional. Talia's theoretical baseline was apparently along the lines of strategic skin exposure; the quiet, armed woman's ascribed to greasemonkey kink, maybe. Despite herself, Deborah couldn't help but think she was the only one really getting into the spirit of things. Then again, she could, at times, be something of a traditionalist.

Such as her preference for steel scalpels.

Her mind wandered towards various cosmetic improvements she could apply, a wandering that was somewhere along the lines of visualizing rib sculpting (collagen was for amateurs) before she was brought back to the here and now by Aeronwen's statement and subsequent cover-hiding. The poor lady looked like an eroded mountain range made of blankets. "Eh, what harm could there be? Apparently this is some teenage crown prince's brilliant idea--and our contracts rather explicitly give us quite a few rights to keep the job acceptable to us--so he's probably playing video games or something."

Her old runner's mindset popped up for a moment to think that if people didn't want the job, they shouldn't have taken it... then again, anyone could get cold feet. A run sounds like a good idea, then in the thick of it suddenly it doesn't seem so brilliant anymore. "Besides," the doctor continued, with a bit of extremely well-practiced professional sympathy artificially--since her neurological condition didn't allow her to do it naturally--injected into her voice, "it's easy money and the more our employer is elsewhere the easier it is."

That self-same mindset made her just a little nervous about the strong, silent type. The nervousness annoyed her, since it was irrational. The experience was, though, that team-building was important and she actually did enjoy banter, like a game--plus it was team-building 'friendship' that had kept her last Roanian run to a manageable Charlie Foxtrot rather than a wooden overcoat fashion show. She turned to the Arkadat. "Wouldn't you agree, um... sorry," she said with a winning grin, "but I didn't catch your name, or if I did, I uncharacteristically forgot it. Maybe the silliness of our chosen situation is getting to me--I'm sorry."

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Talia nodded thoughtfully, looking over the doctor’s outfit with a more carefully discerning eye. “I wonder … would you mind maybe helping me put in a request for something that might work on me? I mean, I’ve got some nice dresses at home and all, but they’re more appropriate to formal occasions or dances or the like. And the lingerie bits I had didn’t seem entirely appropriate, given the um … well, limitations on things for this job, if you get me.”

No, they wouldn’t do at all, she thought to herself. Not that she’d had the occasion to use any of them what with deployment and all. Strictly off regs, those. So was fraternizing, not that some didn’t sneak around a bit for it. She’d chosen not to engage in the shenanigans. Her service had been tackled with a seriousness she lacked in other aspects of life, though with the same strong sense of competitiveness she maintained. At least here, there was none of that to worry about. The other ladies were all different – extremely unique in some cases, even. But they were all here for the same reason, and she had no cause to treat any of them with any less respect or courtesy than they deserved.

“You know, not too much but enough? Maybe in lavender … anyways.”

She turned her attention to the quiet girl when she spoke, then covered herself up again all shy-like. Poor thing – had she been forced into this by someone else, maybe? It wasn’t as I they were being asked to do anything untowards, or immoral, after all. Doc Debs … DeeDee – ha, that might be pushing it – smoothly addressed those points, and Talia smiled with that lazy half-lidded-eyes way she had about her.

“Nod and smile, sit around and look pretty – we can all do that just fine, Aerie,” Talia said, shortening Aeronwen’s name out of habit. “Even our curiously quiet companion over there.”

The doc had addressed her as well. The Dominion girl had no idea who or what she was, and she was rather unique in her appearance and mannerisms she supposed, but hey – all here for the same reason, all in it together.

“And ‘master’ my tanned buttcheeks. Employer, sure. But I didn’t see ‘master’ in the contract there.”

[Scolopendra]

The doctor squinted, narrowing her eyes in an appraising way. "Yes, I could see my way to that. Our employers have offered, after all, so there's no reason not to take them up on it. I'm thinking... something with a classical Persian flair. Lots of sheer, gauzy material that gains opacity through layering, looking like it reveals more than it does. With an emphasis on hips-and-shoulders two piece... quite stable, then, and I wouldn't have to get out my tensionometer."

There'd be two ways to use said tensionometer; one was merely uncomfortable and the other was fun. Well, fun for the doctor, at least. What a shame that, between a closed environment with a limited number of potential patsies and the need to stay legitimate...

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

"Awesome," Talia said, grinning broadly. "Thanks, Dubba-Dee! Persian, even. You know, that reminds me. Historically in some places anyway, they say harems started up with some things for bonding and entertainment - of a non-naughty sort, mind - what with the stories and dancing and what not. I learned a few moves from some friends who lived abroad. Sound like fun, ladies?"

Belatedly she realized she'd crossed that line, but it was anyone's guess whether or not it might offend, the nicknames and all. Well, one could hardly learn boundaries if they were never tested. And if anyone were capable of testing, it was Talia.

[Scolopendra]

The doctor so addressed instantly sat bolt-upright with a scowl, then looked down, then performed some quick self-measurement (and adjustment) before looking back up with a wink.

"I think your measurements are off. And that's Doctor Dubbadee to you.

"But yes, that sounds like an excellent idea. Dancing is not one of the tools in my little black bag. Forceps, retractors, stints," she counted on her fingers, "scalpels, cauterization irons, bone saws, rasps, curettes, mallets... well, let's just say dancing is not one of them, for brevity's sake."

[TotallyNotEvilLand]

Sherril glanced up from her curiously intriguing fingers to the lass that had just asked her a question. She was kind of surprised that she didn't get as many "What the hell are you" reactions from her co-workers. She expected humans to be a bit more ignorant. Anyways, she spoke up, her voice and accent like some sort of horrid mix of Cockney, Slavic, and Arabic accents. "I certainly would agree, ma'am." She said, pulling her nail file out of her pocket and starting to wear down what was starting to look like claws on the end of her fingertips. "The less I deal with teenagers, the better. Don't even get me started on my brother." She chuckled, giving her green eyes a quick roll. She then turned her attention to Talia with a sharp toothed grin. "I could be plenty loud if I wanted to. It's mostly out of habit that I don't talk. My twin brother does all the talking, I run things from the background."

[Scolopendra]

'Pendrans--a class which now officially included Suuntoans, but which unofficially had included the core of the First Among Equals for quite some time--were a pretty open-minded people. They'd seen, lived with, and granted citizenship to everything from squid-snail Snel to magical dragons to giant ex-combat robots. The fact that Sherril was still vaguely humanoid with two arms and two legs made her relatively normative in that regard. Even the tail wasn't that odd. Deborah's only curiosity as far as 'what the hell are you' went was how the darker lady's extremities worked with holes through them, but since it offered something of a anatomical puzzle she was content enough with just trying to figure out the skeletomuscular arrangements in her own mind.

"Running things from the background, you say?" She grinned with social enthusiasm. "Doesn't that mean you're a bit high-ranking for what's basically a stereotypical 'I'm-paying-for-medical-school' job writ large?"

From her tone, she certainly wasn't judging. It was half joke, half honest question. After all, she herself was in charge of a multinational corporation now, so she had no room to talk on that account. She then said as much: "Not that I can say anything, I'm here because if anything I've been running things from the foreground for too long and needed a break. This?" She held out the holopad. "Going back to my roots--well, kind of--with pharmaceutical design. May also design some new implants and a prosthetic or two while I'm at it. None of this international business and acquisitions and market placement silliness for at least the next few weeks for me--and the people I've left in nominal charge of all that know that I'll string them up by their interconnected intestines if they screw anything up too badly."

They did know, yes. They didn't know she'd meant it literally, but hey.

[Roania]

Speak of the Devil, and he appears. A proverb from a rather different nation than the Radiant Empire, but one which certainly applied to this situation. The doors leading to the rest of the palace swung open, and Prince Damalin himself entered the chambers. The Prince was dressed in the typical Roanian finery. A long silk robe hung to his ankles, though it was tight about his chest and arms. On his feet he wore the usual slippers, common to Roanians who stepped on the palace's fine floors. In physical appearance he was tall, at least by Roanian standards; at least five-feet, ten inches from the tips of his slightly messy blond hair to his toes. "Hylee!" He said, cheerfully, before he opened his eyes properly and took in the scene that he was least expecting.

Barbarians? In his harem? Not that there was anything wrong with barbarians, of course. Fine pseudo-people, all of them, he was sure. But... still... he had been hoping for a selection of the Empire's finest daughters, not... Obviously he should have paid more attention to what Rimeil and the Secretariat were doing. Still! He had a harem. A harem full of barbarians, but they were beautiful barbarians, regardless. That made it okay. Except he wasn't sure what to say to barbarian women. He bit his lip. Come to think of it, he was barely sure what to say to civilized women in this situation.

"So!" That was an excellent start. Yes. Let's see who comes first to his mind. A somewhat feline girl. That's good! He liked that. Damalin wondered momentarily if she had a tail, and his thoughts drifted to the posterior that such a tail would be attached to. Make her purr... oh, Light, barbarians were forward! Or, at least, he'd love to take it so easily, but he suddenly realized he was staring at the words on her chest, and his cheeks turned bright red.

He snapped his eyes right, finding little relief there. 'By all the great and small spirits!' The elf in the pink dress... how was it staying on? Oh, Light! He turned redder still, and suddenly became conscious he was staring again. Come on, man, Think!

His eyes brushed over the strange alien, finding safety in their natural urge to examine those amazing horns. At least for a moment, until his eyes went downwards again, and kept going. Zlith! She was tall! And so large! If he didn't stop himself from blushing soon, he feared he'd burst, but everywhere he turned there was beauty.

Finally, his eyes wandered to Aeronwen, who seemed the most normal of them... though she was concealed in a blanket, which gave him a momentary relief. He smiled a little, trying to put the women at their ease -- conscious of the irony that he was... undressing the poor girl with his eyes, even though she'd obviously been shy! Stop it, you monster! Finally, his eyes skipped back over the girls, and he went to stare fixedly at a point on the floor equidistant from all of them. Something seemed called for. "I... that is to say..." He coughed.

"The... the gentle sparrow... welcomes the..." He froze. He'd never frozen when reciting before, but now he was frozen. "Um... that is to say... I am Prince, Empire-Regent of the Damalin. That... I mean, Damalin, Prince-Regent of the Empire. And you're all..." His voice cracked upwards several octaves, "um... well, you know."

[Prydaen]

Aeronwen had slowly begun to come out of her blanketed cocoon, smiling at Talia and Debbie. "I... I'm just... it's my first time away from Caer Derfel, you see. My family has a title, but no money... and we believe that with the seed money... that is to say, I volunteered... and..." She blushed. "I'm sorry, I'm new at all this..." And then the doors swung open, and the prince walked in. She squeaked in dismay and hid back under her blankets, though she could feel him looking at her. God, please have mercy on a poor innocent soul only trying to help her family... I hope I've not committed a terrible sin just by being here!

[Dread Lady Nathicana]

Aeronwen’s situation was clear from the few things she said. And she seemed a rather gentle soul to boot. Talia made a mental note to have a bit more care when dealing with her – a friendly hug may not be such a bad thing once the girl relaxed a little.

Sherril was definitely in a social class above her, given her talk. That was fine, but also a point to keep in mind, to avoid accidentally ruffling any feathers. Er, fur. Still. Not such a bad sort, most likely. Different, but then she’d seen a lot of different out there. She was different herself in her own way, amongst her adopted family and the Dominion natives, all of whom were baseline human. Not that they cared that she was different. Nor did she.

And the doctor – she was alright, Talia decided, grinning back at the woman after a momentary wince of ‘I done screwed up’. A sense of humor was priceless. And the lady seemed to have a good one.

The prince, on his entrance, surprised her. Cute, she noted. Aw bless, awkward to boot. That was simply adorable. She had to remind herself she was not here to corrupt him. Playing with someone’s emotions and heart was a bad thing in her book in any case. Mutual fun, that was entirely different. He seemed unfamiliar with those sorts of games, however. It was probably best the rules of the job had been set down as they were. It kept things nice and simple.

Talia rolled smoothly off the couch and came to her feet in one fluid movement, taking a few steps forward towards the stuttering prince, and made a grand sweeping bow, one leg far forward, the other bent at the knee behind though not touching the floor, not unlike a graceful ballet move. She straightened and offered the young man one of her more brilliant smiles, brushing stray strands of her purple hair back from her face in an offhand manner.

“E 'un onore conoscerti, Your Highness. I’m Talia. This is Deborah, Aeronwen, and Sherril. We were just getting to know one another better. Would you like to join us?”

[Scolopendra]

The dog that chases the car only knows he wants it; he has no idea what to do with it once he's got it.

The doctor watched the Prince enter with pomp and aplomb, then, having realize that he's caught the car, proceed to smack face-first into his hormones competing with his training. She watched this with no small amount of medical interest since she'd never quite seen a blush response that severe before that didn't involve alcohol--and the alcohol incident included capillaries burst by a combination of dilation and blood thinning.

She probably didn't help much by 'casually' stretching out, arms along the tops of her couch, body tilted in just such a way to accentuate her curves hidden only in a nominative sense, hips twisted to take full advantage of the fall of her gown and thus the exposure of her leg. You know, the kind of leg that goes alllll the way up. As far as she was concerned, this run was about looking sexy and, from a bit of trial and error in the past, she knew what that looked like--much in the same way that she knew what it looked like to be a 'decent' person--and played it up.

"Indeed we are, Your Highness," she said easily, with a certain command of the situation. "And what would be your first... command?"

She was really, really hoping she, in concert with Talia's fluid response, could cause a blood vessel to burst. Then she could play doctor practice medicine!

[Prydaen]

"Oh... yes, please, do... um... join us." Aeronwen bit her lip and sat up a little, revealing some of her finely crafted body. She was, as previously said, not particularly exotic, but she was pleasant enough to look at. With a nervous smile, she cast off the covers and stood up. She was dressed in a fine green dress that didn't reveal too much flesh, but was cut tight enough to be interesting regardless. The nervous young Prydaenwyr curtsied slightly bashfully. "I am Aeronwen ferch Maecan, and... I mean, I am here to serve, I mean... if that's all right with you." She turned hot red and ducked back under the covers as soon as she was able to, while watching the other girls be far more confident than her. That was good! She wanted the prince to like her, obviously, so she could have her money, but she was uncomfortable with this whole thing.

Yes, she remembered the contract's terms, but... well, she'd known far too much of noblemen back home to trust that they would be punished for handling mere girls like them as they pleased.

[Roania]

Damalin opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again quite quickly; it had taken everything in him to stagger to a wall to hold himself upright; as it was, he was glad for the loose concealment of the robes. "I... I thank you kindly." His eyes moved from Talia, to Debbie, to Aeronwen, to Sheril, and back to Talia. And there they stayed as she did the hottest thing he had ever seen outside of his dreams. Momentarily he swayed as if struck with lightning, but some inner sense forced him to say, "A... a pleasure to meet all of you. Please, call me Damalin. I mean..." Finally! Some inner well of confidence was tapped, and he managed to correct himself, brushing off the past few minutes. "I mean, I hope we shall all be friends, and friends shouldn't hide behind titles, right?"

And then the well was tapped, and his cheeks turned hot red again. He was staring, his eyes dancing between the girls; his instinct was to focus on the woman who was speaking at any one time, but that was no rescue. They were all gorgeous. He wanted them, he knew it, but... but that wasn't right. He couldn't just... well, he could, they were his harem... but that wouldn't be right! Besides, they were... oh, Light and the Spirits and the Ancestors! He took a step forward, but not too close to Talia, whom he did his best not to ogle. "I... I would be honored to join you."

[Scolopendra]

'Call me Damalin' sounded something like a command. It was an imperative sentence, at least, and Deborah could go with it.

Standing up, she let the dress cascade to something a bit less titillating (as long as no one minded the sides too much) and, train flowing behind her back, walked easily forward, perhaps notably without any extraneous sashaying. "That sounds most reasonable, Damalin," she said, drawing politely--and not Arab-politely, like al-Halishi Scolopendrans might--near. "After all, it would be impolite for me to insist on anyone addressing me as 'Doctor,' no? Doctor Deborah Deacon, at your service." She curtsied gently, complete with a lift of the hem of her dress as she crossed her ankles and dipped through the slight bending of knee, though she was sure to grip the front of her gown and not the back--to preserve modesty, after a fashion--before rising to her full stature again. "Except for Talia. She simply must address me as Doctor Dubbadee from now on, as her punishment for that nickname."

She pondered, for a moment, what angle to play. The kid was obviously out of his depth, and admittedly she had more than a little academic interest in seeing if she couldn't burst that blood vessel. Then again, he seemed to have finally gained a level keel. The important question is 'what would pay the most.' She didn't quite have an answer for that yet; there was nothing about hazard pay in her contract.

As such, she settled on reaching out and very gently--doctor's fingers, after all--taking the prince's hand with one of hers to guide him over towards a centrally located couch, one of the kind obviously designed for multiple people and lounging. Going with her attire, she figured a courtesanal attitude would work best... too bad she wasn't much for art or poetry or music or anything really that wasn't medicine. She'd have to go with what she'd picked up on the side. "And among friends, we should all relax, no? Get to know one another better, learn about what we all do for a living." She grinned that well-kept smile of hers. "Though I suppose that getting too specific should be avoided. Generally talking shop is... inapropos for such a gathering, plus I'm sure that me going on and on about pharmaceutical interactions would be deadly dull to anyone other than myself."

[Rastynhaven]

...

[TotallyNotEvilLand]

Sherril smiled at the supposed doctor. "My mother cut off my funds due to my 'continued refusal to be a proper Arkadat'. As in, being a screaming, raving lunatic like herself. My brother may be the king, but my mother still struts about like she owns the place." Sherril said with a chuckle as the prince entered the room. He was... short. Well, okay, to be fair, short by the standards of her species is anything less than six and a half feet, but still. She raised an eyebrow when the prince glanced at her horn. While most Arkadat had a horn quite easily capable of impaling someone if they weren't careful, Sherril's horn was much shorter, though no less jagged. Perhaps the length of a kitchen knife, as opposed to a short sword. She smirked and leaned back, letting the others do the talking. If she could avoid interaction with her 'boss', all the better.

[Sauhuga]

Katrina Westmor was an entirely different woman than she was roughly a week ago, at least she thought it had been a week ago. That was around the time she had checked herself into a rather discrete facility owned by Saint Medical Systems on a Sunset controlled planet called Notch. There she had her entire physique altered for her new gig. She had seen the ad displayed and thought the timing was an opportune one.

First she needed to go into hiding for a little while. until things cooled off with the Onyx Dragons. Katrina had pulled a scam with the gang that had netted over a hundred thousand credits, but before the Dragons could collect their share Katrina had disappeared with every single cent. Word traveled quickly in the underworld and Katrina soon learned she had a bounty on her head and had already come close to being caught once at a Grekma port by one of the bounty hunters.

As soon as she learned of the palace job she knew it was win win, she would just need to make a few alterations. At thirty nine years old though she was what most would consider good looking, maybe not a head turner by all means but certainly an eye pleaser. She kept herself in peak physical shape and her body was well toned due to those efforts all that was to be changed though. Secondly it presented the opportunity of another scam that could give her enough money so that she could disappear and never be found again by anyone or anything looking for her.

When she came to at the facility she was pissed, she knew trusting her “friend”to make the appropriate arrangements was most likely a terrible idea, looking at herself in the mirror confirmed the assumption. Her eyes traveled up from her now dainty looking feet up to long luscious looking legs that flared out into a sensual pair of hips and a nice well rounded rear that had been enhanced. The hips narrowed into a thin stomach that had the barest outline of the six pack abs that Katrina had worked so hard to maintain on her own, the narrow waist flared out again to the impossibly huge bust she had been given, an obvious joke on her friend’s part. Kat noticed her skin had been smoothed as well and any blemish or scar was gone and nothing but silky looking olive skin remained. Her face had been altered as well, gone were the signs of her aging, the crow’s feet around her eyes and the slight wrinkles around her mouth were done away with. Now she looked at some twenty-something in the mirror that had plumped up lips and eyes as green as emeralds which angled slightly upwards. Her dirty blond hair was gone too, replaced by a long luxurious mane of fiery red hair that seemed to give off its own glow by those that stared at it.

She had been sitting in the harem room quietly watching the other girls to get a read on them, the felinish girl seemed to move with a distinct military gait, the larger black furred horned humanoid had a slight aristocratic way about her. The elf looking woman was confident and poised, she read like a power player that was used to getting what she wanted when she wanted it. Katrina figured her for some sort of high powered lawyer or something, it was curious why she might be here. The other girl in the room appeared meek and shy, she did nothing but mostly hide under the covers.

Then he arrived, the prince strode in with the utmost confidence, right up until his eyes scanned the girls and his ego deflated like a popped balloon. Katrina smiled inwardly as she realized how easy it would be to manipulate this young child who had an obviously pampered upbringing.

Katrina had was slightly thankful but mostly pissed at the wardrobe selections her partner had picked, the short miniskirt clung to her bottom like race car clings to the curves of a race track, the top wasn’t much better, it barely contained her enhanced bosom and stopped well short of her belly button, exposing a sizable chunk of midriff. As she stood up on the six inch heels that came with the outfit an orcish looking girl came barreling into the room and made her way over to the prince and clumsily introduced herself. Katrina decided it would be best if she waited for the prince to become a little less occupied and sat back down in her seat and recrossed her long legs and continued her observations of the room.

[Roania]

Damalin, who had been showing distinct signs of panic as Debbie introduced herself, did not stop as he was led to the couch. All these girls and women! His cheeks remained bright red, but he sat down and tried to enjoy himself. "I... you're a doctor?" He managed. "That's nice, my mother... I mean, the Lady of Ten Thousand Years, has a nursing degree..." That was pathetic, Damalin. Hold yourself together. Deep breathing exercises, just like the Grand Duke taught you. Close your eyes... no, that would be rude, wouldn't it? Somehow? These women and girls and females had come here to see you and be seen, and obviously most of them were totally fine with it... I mean, if they weren't, he'd know, wouldn't he? It's not like the Secretariat had gone and kidnapped these girls, they must have been hired for this purpose. Yeah.

Finally convincing himself it was okay to look around a bit more, Damalin smiled his best smile. "I... yes, that is to say, unless you wished me to call you doctor, it probably would be overly formal at this moment." His eyes glazed somewhat with the effort of keeping them on her face, and he moved them elsewhere. Unfortunately, elsewhere was Talia. "Doctor Double D?" He asked after a moment, blithely unaware of the English innuendo he just used, as was obvious from his expression; the measurements meaning nothing in Roania.

Slowly, slowly, slowly, the Crown Prince of the Empire began to relax, and even enjoy himself. He smiled at Talia, his eyes mostly staying at face level, then moved over the other girls. The strangely attractive large horned woman seemed to want to take a back seat; that was okay for now, though he hoped he could get her out of her shell later. She looked interesting, in a way he wasn't sure wasn't an offense to the ancestors. The same went for the girl introduced to him as Aeronwen, who seemed to have slipped back under her covers. That would not do at all! He wanted to see... well, okay, he didn't want to make them uncomfortable, either, but...

Then it all went to hell when some new girl came charging down the stairs in an outfit smaller than anything he had ever seen before. His eyes widened, his cheeks turned red, and his eyes momentarily darted hither and yon, searching for anything but the expanse of flesh once again. He stuttered as she introduced herself, his voice cracking up again. "I...it is a..." She wasn't 16. There was no way! Ancestors give me strength! Her top slipped, and for a moment Damalin felt sure he was going to black out.

They may all have been barbarians, but they were all lovely. Some of them more mature, perhaps, than he had been expecting, but lovely. All soft curves and perfect shapes, regardless of the color of that shape. Damalin couldn't help himself but stare some more all around him, not even smiling. This had been a terrible idea. All these girls were no doubt expecting someone else, and right now he could barely command his own voice. Being called 'Your Highness' bought him out of his shock, though it took him a few minutes to register it. "I... I must insist that I be called Damalin. And I know that beyond the borders of civilization... I mean... beyond the borders of the empire, that is to say... I'm sure you're all quite civilized..." Well done, Damalin! Stop before you get into the debate on titles. "I mean... that is to say... yes. I must insist that you call me by my name." He squeaked out at the end, "Please?"

Maybe it was time to make his mistake. Throwing a ball against the wall hadn't been that much of a chore, had it? Nonsense. But then he'd be wasting the time of all these lovely ladies. They just... and Damalin would swear he did black out as his eyes once again traced over a plethora of nicely rounded curves. He just needed a moment to get used to these girls being here, and... maybe ask them to put on some more clothes? Or take off more clothes? No, definitely not. They all were dressed in just the right amount of fabric if this was the issue. It was... well, that is to say..."Aihun." He mumbled, a gentle oath, but carrying with it some feeling.

Not caring what the girls thought of him for it, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, letting it go through his nose and out through his mouth. Then he took another, and another. Slowly, he found himself on an even keel. His father would be proud of him for how well he'd learned the lessons of his teachers on meditation... after no doubt shouting at him for getting into this situation in the first place. Still with his eyes closed, he recited a little poem, a nonsense rhyme, really, in High Roanian. Had any of the girls studied the language it would make even less sense, as the words were chosen purely for their auditory qualities and the sentence meant almost nothing. Then he opened his eyes and smiled a little, feeling far more able to cope with the world. "Why don't," his voice cracked upwards again, but he ignored it and barreled on, "why don't we find out a little bit about each other, I think? That was what you were doing before I came in, wasn't that what you said? Well, I'm definitely interested in knowing about all of you." His cheeks turned red, but he managed to scan the room, keeping his eyes on the faces of the girls and women present.

There was another woman, he noticed in an almost idle fashion. She didn't seem to want to join the coterie currently giving him so much trouble maintaining an even keel. Which was fine. He supposed she was another one who wasn't entirely comfortable being here. Well, maybe they'd see he's not so bad! ...though maybe he was pretty bad, since he had ordered a harem like some decadent third dynasty Emperor. That type of luxuriousness hadn't worked out well for the third dynasty. He swallowed slightly.

[The greater Vakolicci Haven]

It wasn't her fault really, she told herself, as she entered the common room to see her employer already standing their. No, not her fault at all.
No reasonable individual would have been able to schedule their cigarette breaks to fit in with the schedule of a boy they knew very little about. So, when she felt those familiar cravings, she excused herself, walked somewhere farely empty, lit up and had a fag. An imported fag, importantly, she didn't want to smoke anything that might kill her, now did she?

Elissa Koran was a beauty: even by Celari standards, and Celari were known for it. In fact, it was the over-heated nations primary saving grace on the visual front: that and its luscious sandy beaches.
Elissa carried herself rather proudly: she was beautiful, and she knew that the average boy would be so easily seduced by her that he'd end up giving into her every whim;and she was rich as well, no need to stop showing that off.

As she entered the commonroom, she did the thing that was her only real manorism: she gracefully swiped her long, blonde hair out of her eyes. Despite the fact that she did it almost obsessively, people seemed to think that it still showed her off whenever she did it: emphasising those deep, brown eyes and those long, beautiful locks of hair.

Showing her off, however, was something that her clothes didn't really do. Though they were tight-fitting, emphasising the fact that her body curved and bumped in all the right places, they weren't all that revealing: very little breast was on show, and the beautiful patterned skirt she wore wasn't short enough to be considered sluttish by any stretch of the imagination.

Despite her good looks, Elissa was no fool. She'd done rather well in school, getting into one of the best universities in all of Celeria. This job, however, was part of the over-extended 'Klogvratura' (gap time) that her mother was getting annoyed at already: she had been whittling away Koran money for the past 12 months already. But, as her university had allowed her to defer her application for 2 years, their wasn't much of a rush in her mind.
So, after doing a little acting in Velstrania, some rather injoyable halusegenic experiences in New Cinoth and a bit of the usual fighting that all Celari with too much time did here and their, hhe had decided that everyone needed some money, and to do something decidedly weird.
So, when she rread the rather vague job description in a low-grade paper somewhere in the Tyrrhenian provinces she knew what she had to do: some easy money, using a trait she knew she had, with no explisit mention of the use of penetration. When you added in the hissy fit that the Vakolicci government would pull if she ended up dying, it seemed like their was little threat in accepting such a strange new job. All in all, it was perfect.

So, now here she was, in Ronia. She'd talked a little to the others, a mix of rich people like herself, girls angry with life, and some bizarre non--humans. If you were in Celeria, non-humans were weird. If you were in Celeria, a Velstranian was something to be viewed with suspicion, and the 2 nations had been both part of the Greater Vakolicci Haven for as long as anyone could remember: 148 years, in fact. So in her rather insular Celari mind, these people were extremely exotic...so she'd gone out for a cigarette to calm her mind.

When she re-entered, however, she found to her bad luck, that the Prince had arrived just in the nick of time when she wasn't in.
Well, she thought, might as well be friendly. She looked at the boy: more cute than handsome, a few years younger than her, well out of his depth in this situation. Where as before she had felt as if she didn't want to see the Prince because of what he might do to her, now she had to use the self-control she had been taught to stop herself either smirking, or much worse...laughing at the poor boy.

She perched herself on the couch, adding to his problems by showing him her most beautiful, winning smile, which showed off her face (not even her prize asset) extremely well in the light.
"Hi Damalin," she said confidently. "I seem to be late. I'm Elissa, by the way. Elissa Koran. How are you enjoying the company so far?"