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God's wash.
At least, that's what it meant in the common tongue.
It was the God-King's private bath-house. Or, at least, it had been made so ever since he had come into power. It was quite possibly the largest, the priciest and most extravagant he had ever seen or experienced. No where else in the world would you find a place quite like it. The instant you walked in, heralded by the opening of two massive red doors, you were invited to a steam that smacked you in the face, filling up your nostrils, being cleansed before even an ounce of skin dared to plunge itself into the scolding hot mineral water, brought over specially from the Seret mountains. Everything was of a fine hard-wood, with gold fittings running across the long joists that held up the immense structure.
The smell was mesmerising, a thousand herbs and spices hitting you at once, a bombardment to the senses. There was an orderly line of baths on each side of the long, seemingly never-ending hallway, each having up to three staff-members each, all tending to the waters, cleaning the floors and fetching whatever drink, dish or other desires you had in mind.
However, all of those were eclipsed by the royal bath in the far north of the room. It was massive, easily 5 times the size of any other bath there, each being able to hold 4 people; this bath however, could fit 16 easy. It was made of the most expensive wood available, being constructed and refined with ancient trees from the Falwood. Supposedly, the wood held magical properties, enhancing the quality of the water held within. Much like the rest of the bath-house, gold ran alongside the edges and seams of it, glimmering in the bright-lamp-light, barely making it through the thick fog.
Gerra himself had recommended he take a wash in it's famed waters. Even ignoring the infamy he'd gained amongst the people, his position as a Vizier allowed him free access to the Royal Bath whenever he wished. The only thing holding him back were the rules of entry:
Stripping naked after the entrance way was compulsory.
It was something to do with the 'God of Cleansing' or something or other. Bad luck not to.
Amol Kalit and its Gods...
He'd chosen to go late in the day. Early evening. The sun had lowered in the sky, and the streets were lit beautifully in the darkness. As he entered the bath-house, he was almost immediately recognised by a managing member of the bath-house, who greeted him graciously, giving about 20 bows before letting him speak. Jerik asked for the Royal Bath, as Gerra requested. Then, of course, the manager asked him to remove his clothes.
It wasn't something he'd ever done before. Rarely did he ever take his mask off, let alone his clothes. He was attended to by a short girl, old enough to be in her 20's, but with stunted growth. She held up a bronze-box for him to put his clothes into. First, he dropped his robes, being provided help unclipping his leather under-armour by another attendant. He could feel them reel back in shock, as his body was revealed for all to see.
Although completing the contract had provided him with superior strength, stamina and vitality to an ordinary man, his skin had awkwardly healed through his scars, leaving huge, sprawling marks across his entire body. He found it strange, how his muscles and stature had increased to that of a seasoned warrior, yet he had done very little physical fighting. Another of Imamu's gifts, he thought. However, he was extremely dirty, his hair had grown very long, and he seemed to be covered in a thin veneer of dirt. If the Imamu had given him any mercy, at least his less on-display parts were left intact, despite all of the suffering and injuries he had gone through up to this point.
He removed his stone-appendages that Gerra had bestowed upon him. The girl almost fell over as he put them in the box, of weight or shock he did not know. Finally, he removed his mask, his scars obscuring the once handsome man he had been. Although all the other scars had healed, the one he had received when he was just a boy stood stead-fast, still bleaching the colour on the left-side of his face.
He then began to walk towards the north side of the room, trying his best not to look at the litanies of beautiful, very much naked women in the bath-house. Unusually, there seemed to be more women than men, which puzzled him greatly. He didn't know whether it would be more or less awkward with Gerra there. He wouldn't like to find out.
He saw one or two people in the bath ahead, but he could not make out who they were. He approached, through the thick steam.
Here we go...