Sinric is by no means passive in this. The flames arch across golden skin like the light of discovery over a living statue.

He arches to meet the antlers, crying in pleasure as they impale his flesh.

The fire engulfs them both and Sinric shares in return - a crowed hall, men and women bedecked in jewel toned cloth, draped in decadence, the smell of food and wine and sex and perfumed smoke. The pleasure of music, of dancing. The caresses of a hundred eyes, the hunger of lust directed at him. The power of desire at his fingertips.