The specimen Ashu accosts is a fine example of what happens when men apply themselves—rugged, toned, repressed. Reminiscent of the Imperial legionaries running all over Vvardenfell, their short leather skirts displaying their thick thighs, sculpted calves. The layer of ash that covered their skin, same as everything else near Ald'ruhn, only made it more appealing, as if the land itself laid its claim, political alliances be damned.

Yes, Ashu wants to break this man as much as he enjoyed breaking the martial discipline out of those Cyrods.

"Deal," he replies, uncaring of what that favor might entail, what position they might find themselves in afterwards. They're going to take their time. The blond looks sturdy. This is not a man who'll renounce his gods after one good bout of sex, and Ashu would have it no other way. It always much, much fun when prey takes its time to yield.

"Are you sentimental enough to want a name?" Already bent over a table, dropping his pants in a flash. Magic, perhaps, but there's nothing magical about how worked up Ashu is after watching all those couples have a turn, the sexual frustration built from incompetence. Two fingers, ungloved, rub at his clit, thanking the Spinner the metal bar above it speeds up the process. He spreads his legs to display his cunt as if daring the man, moaning shamelessly.