Keaira fled her meeting with Rizzen with as much grace as she could manage. Once she was out of sight she practically ran to her room, shutting out any servants or temple workers. It was not unusual for her door to be shut. It commonly known to leave her alone, no matter the sounds that might come from her room.
She took a cold bath, hoping it would cool the heat that burned through her body. But it didn’t. She was half surprised that the water in the tub didn’t boil as she sat in it. Finally she couldn’t stand it anymore. She told herself it wasn’t because he’d said for her to pray, but rather because he’d left her such a trembling mess.
Thoughts tumbled through her head as she knelt on the bare, stone floor before the altar she had to Ishtar in her room. Part of her wondered if he’d heard of her in town, and had been playing her like a skilled musician. The other part wondered if he had any idea the truth behind her nature, and her special connection to the gods.
Her wet hair was piled on top of her head, tendrils curling around her neck. Her flaming red hair was almost the color of blood when it was wet, making it look like there were trails of blood down her neck. Her exposed back was to the lone window in the room. On her back was an extensive tattoo of a rose over twisting vines. In the center of her back, a ruby imbedded in her flesh. She bowed her head, praying silently to Ishtar. A light seemed to spark within the gem, flashing around its bloody light. It was a light of its own, the sun through the window not casting light on the priestess’ body.
After an eternity, she picked up the whip before her. She handled it with care, and an ease that spoke of many hours spent with the whip. It had been made specifically for her, weighted for her to use on herself, the tongs of the lash the perfect length to curl around her body with each flip of the wrist.
And that was exactly what she began to do, as she prayed to her goddess. Her prayer was silent, and at the beginning, the only sound in the room was the whistling of the whip as she moved it from side to side, letting it slap against her skin, wrap it in a stinging embrace, only to be torn away and brought to the other side of her body. It didn’t take long for the whiteness of her skin to start turning red under the hard lashes of her masochistic prayer.