Sinric the Wanderer

(ooc: from here.)

Sinric's room is exactly as he remembers it. Exactly as he left it. The cross shaped room with it's high arches. The bed cove spread with decadent silk sheets and soft furs. The library and music nook with it's deep leather couches.

He walks over to his wardrobe, running his fingers over the soft cloth of his many outfits. All so rich compared to the rough wool and sackcloth he wears now. "There were moments I feared this was a dream."

[from here}

Sinric comes down from his room, still dressed his furs and heavily embroiled tunic but looking fresh and scrubbed.

He smiles brightly to see Hannibal.

[From here]

Sinric leads Hannibal up to his room, tiredly shedding his belt and pouches. The ones that contain far more than they should. "Would you care to share a bath with me?"

[From here]

Sinric leads Hannibal to his room, to his bed. He kisses Hannibal deeply and gently pushes him onto the bed. He undresses. Slowly.

{from here}

Sinric squeezes Hannibal's hand. "May I came up to your room tonight? I...I don't want to go to mine just yet." He doesn't want Ragnar to see. And he doesn't want to bring any risk to either Ragnar or Athelstan.

{From here}

"This eternal game." He echoes breathlessly as he pulls Hannibal against him to lean into the bark of the cherry tree. "Yes, just so."

He rubs his lean leg against Hannibal's thigh with a soft, needy sigh.

{from here}

Sinric makes a soft protesting sound. "Am I wicked for not wanting to go inside? For wanting to share myself with you here under the cherry blossoms?" Because I want very much to stay here - to bare my body to you and the sunshine?"

{From here}

Sinric's room is small and nothing special, a place to sleep when he's alone and little more.

A bed, only just big enough for two. A window looking out on the kitchen garden with a padded window seat wide enough for Sinric's narrow frame. A decently sized wardrobe with a long mirror on one side. A tiny, modern bathroom, no more than a sink and a toilet.

But there are little touches of Sinric's personality too. A pile of books on the window seat, a grey silk kimono painted with misty mountain hanging in fill display on one wall, a box of trinkets and an ornate oil lamp on the little side table.

And now, a harpsichord! Set by the window to get the best light. Sinric regards it with awe, running his hands over the polished surface.

{From here}

Sinric leads Hannibal out through a door and out into the garden. He picks a path through the trees to what looks from the outside like small and simple marquee.

But inside it is something very different. Large as any room inside the bar, the floor is covered with richly patterned carpets, as soft underfoot as grass. The walls are draped with the finest silks. Silver lanterns hung from the roof cast geometric patterns from their cut work sides, coloured rainbow hues by glass inserts.

A table is set lavishly to one side with all the finest foods and drinks of Sinric's time.

But at the room's centre is a raised dais spread with silks and furs, cushions and bolsters; a bed worth of a king. Or an emperor.