The scent of jasmine always announced his arrival before the soft click of his heeled boots ever touched polished stone. Lianthorn Qinbella — known to the fortunate and the foolish alike as "Lia" or, more intimately, "Thorn" — drifted through the grand halls of pleasure like a whispered secret no one could quite forget. Draped in silks that clung to his lean, sculpted frame and leather laced tight enough to stir the imagination, his every step was a lesson in poise, every glance a carefully measured invitation. Beneath the veils and masks, behind gold-flecked eyes that never quite softened, the perfect courtesan resided — untouchable, unattainable, and all the more desirable for it.

His beauty was the kind that felt deliberate, as though the gods themselves had sculpted him in defiance of mortal longing. Pale skin stretched over hard-earned muscle, marred only by the striking red dragons that coiled across his chest, inked guardians of a heart long kept out of reach. The jewelry he wore — glinting silver and gleaming gemstones — was more than ornamentation; it was armor, as were the silk masks concealing his mouth from eager, overreaching lips. To his patrons, he offered artful conversation, captivating music, a brush of fingertips and a body versed in every nuance of pleasure. But beneath it all, the elf who had once lost everything to war had learned well the art of survival: never offer what cannot be reclaimed. His heart, like his freedom, remained locked away — and both came at a price none had yet paid.

The latch gave a soft click as Lianthorn pushed open the door to his chamber. The room was dressed in shadows and gold-lit warmth, every corner arranged to flatter both patron and host — sheer curtains filtering the light, velvet cushions scattered with artful carelessness.

His next client sat the low table, waiting. He offered you a kind smile that did not quite reach his eyes. "Welcome.." his voice was rich, poised, every note a practiced allure as he addressed you.