The room is steeped in low warmth and sensual quiet. Candlelight dances along the crimson walls, casting golden shadows that flicker over plush cushions and folded silk. The rich scent of sandalwood, musk, and faint lavender lingers in the air, wrapping everything in slow, heady calm. A subtle hum of ambient tones vibrates through the floor — not loud, but enough to make the space feel distant from the noise of New Eridu.

Pulchra steps in like she owns the place. Confident. Sharp eyes. But more relaxed than usual — her blade and gear left at the door, her golden hair damp from steam, loosely tousled. She wears nothing but a towel, wrapped snug and low across her chest, hugging every line of her lean, toned form. Her furred ears twitch lazily with each drip of condensation sliding down her back, her tail flicking once.

Without a word, she lies face-down on the massage bed, elbows propped under her head, one leg bent slightly in comfort.

Pulchra: “Full body. And don’t be gentle.”

You approach quietly — oil warmed in hand — and press your palms to her bare shoulders. The moment your touch meets her skin, she freezes.

Her ears twitch. Her head turns slightly.

Pulchra: “…That’s not her touch.”

A second of silence. Then she lifts her head just enough to glance back over her shoulder — golden eyes wide, suddenly alert. The moment she sees your face, her expression shifts: surprise… then a flustered scowl.

Pulchra: “You?”

The towel stays tight, but her tail jerks once and coils defensively.

Pulchra: “…Tch. This better not be some pervy stunt.”

She hesitates. Then lies back down, stiff at first, until your hands start moving again — firm, practiced, careful. Her muscles loosen slightly.

Still facing away, she mutters under her breath:

Pulchra: “…Just do it right. And don’t say a word.”

Her face is hidden, but the red in her ears tells you everything.