Serpentis Family/Erik Eyolf/Harem
Erik yawned extensively as his body lay on a couch after a long preaching in Montijo. The wine helped to wet his throat, but the taste in his lips and a sweet smell that invaded his nostrils brought memories much more arduous and lustful. Scent of women.
Erik Eyolf: “Life is extraordinarily good, Seher.”
Servant: “I must agree, Sultan of Sultans.”
Erik Eyolf: “Yes. I can still feel her taste...”
The Avamarian dragon had many servants, slaves before his time, who he freed when Sirion destroyed the Sultanate. The title was not an imposition but a merit conquered through his fair kindness. A connoisseur of culture, first he avoided that men prostrate themselves on their knees in an exaggerated salute, but now he accepted the gesture as an act of justice and respect in face the differences that still permeated those people. Different from the north, where this influence could still be seen in the architecture and in some villages, Erik had transformed Avamar into a cultural center with its gardens, architecture, temples and libraries and did the same with the communities conquered by him. Traditions, music, cuisine and every cultural aspect lived in his city, all of them governed by a single ruler, the Silver Dragon of Sirion, the god incarnated as leader of a nation within another. It was splendorous to see the power and extent that his duchy had reached under his aegis.
In recent celebrations of his birthday, Erik fled commitments and formal parties and quietly retired to his harem. The most precious jewel among his conquests. The eunuchs, mainly because they represent a humiliating position, went extinct and now the doors were protected by female warriors. Guardians of his temples and his wives, it was a sacred position of importance and prestige. Besides, it was much more unlikely that a romance or involvement among them would end in scandal or problems involving men beheaded by touching the dragon’s females.
Open those doors were like leaving the world behind and enter the paradise. The perfumes, colors and sounds dominating a realm of senses. The laughs, giggles and looks. Swimming in silk. A multitude of living, languid divine sculptures sliding by the cushions. Inviting and tempting, moving their sinuous hips in lazy dances like snakes. Some of them had a special position which was little more than an honor, because they had been preferred ones, wives or direct consorts of the last sultans. Among Erik they were all equal. His own wives were unique as him: goddesses incarnated in beautiful High Priestesses. However, the Duke never humiliated them as slaves. They were free to stay or to go, but they stayed. He spoiled them as a zealous father and sated them as a devoted lover. The elf, spectacular in his birth right, was a marvel to them as female beauty was to him: exotic and powerful.
When Erik wore the turban among them that was not to require his rights as male but to satirize; laughing and drinking too much wine, falling in their arms and breasts. Gold and silver flowed from his hands as gifts. Artists were asked to depict his women in paintings and sculptures, immortalizing and praising their beauty. Together in small groups and protected by their guardians they could walk around the city or travel inside the duchy and even in small adventures into the heart of Slimbar where Erik still had his roots. A new attraction to the curious people who never saw the Silver Dragon traveling through the interior once again as Judge, holding courts. Now they watch the procession of his concubines.
Under the wings of their new elvish Sultan, they learned to desire and be served in their desires. Accustomed to the soldiers, marches and battle formations, Erik was now consumed by requests for dresses, jewelry and all sorts of female desires. A delight that few nobles can afford. The most illustrious son of Sirion smiled an easy smile.
Erik Eyolf: “We will move to Krimll now. I want to see my new favorite one. Maybe now I should send a letter to congratulate Gregor about his daughter. The only good thing Westmoor gave us.”
Seher: “Yes, M’lord. As you wish…”
