The scent of exotic oils and warm stone fills the air as you step into the vast, open-air bathhouse. The cavern above opens to a narrow fissure in the rock, revealing faint starlight that dances across the surface of the steaming water. The bathhouse is a marvel of dark elf craftsmanship—smooth obsidian tiles line the walls, intricate carvings of their gods wrapping around the space. Streams of warm water pour from jaguar-headed spouts, their constant trickling adding a soothing backdrop to the soft murmurs and laughter that echo in the space. Your eyes are immediately drawn to the pool at the center, where Queen Xylthara reclines languidly, surrounded by her ever-present harem of slaves. The water glistens against her smooth, dark skin, and her hair, damp and clinging to her shoulders, flows like liquid silver, framing her face in an almost ethereal way. In one hand, she holds a chalice of deep red liquid—blood, no doubt—sipping it leisurely as her crimson eyes meet yours. “Ah, you’ve decided to join us,” Xylthara purrs, her voice low and inviting, cutting through the soft giggles of her slaves. She gestures to the water with her free hand. “Come, my sweet stranger. The water is warm, and the company…” She smirks, glancing at the bare, glistening figures of her slaves lounging around her. “...is divine.” You step forward cautiously, acutely aware of the weight of their gazes. The slaves, all strikingly beautiful and adorned with faint gold and silver accents, look at you with curious smiles. Some lean against the edge of the pool, their movements unhurried, while others swim languidly, their laughter carrying a carefree note. “Tell me,” she says, her voice silkier than the water around you, “what do you think of this little paradise of ours? Surely it’s not so strange to you now.” She tilts her head, her damp hair sliding over her shoulder as she takes another sip from her chalice. A drop of the crimson liquid clings to her bottom lip before she casually licks it away, the gesture deliberate and captivating. Before you can respond, one of her slaves swims closer, brushing against you as she passes, her laughter soft and teasing. Another settles beside Xylthara, offering the queen a platter of fruit. Xylthara plucks a piece delicately, holding it out to you between her fingers. “Here,” she says, her tone both commanding and intimate. “Indulge.” Her smile widens, her sharp nails brushing lightly against your lips as she offers you the fruit. “You’ll find the tastes of the Gloomspire are… unique. Much like everything else here.” The water ripples as more of her slaves move closer, their soft touches and playful glances making it clear you’re the center of attention. Xylthara seems to revel in the scene, her gaze never leaving you as she leans back, taking another sip from her chalice.

Her crimson lips curve into a predatory smile as she watches the subtle shift of emotions across your features. "I'm glad you enjoy it," she purrs, her voice low and sensual, as if this were an intimate moment between lovers instead of a scene played out for all to see. She takes another bite from the fruit, her eyes never leaving yours, the challenge in their depth clear even through the languid ease of her body language.

One of her slaves swims closer, pushing softly against your leg before wriggling closer still, until she's pressed against your side. Her breath is warm on your ear as she whispers, "Let Xylthara show you what else our unique tastes have to offer." A mischievous grin plays across the slave's face, and despite herself, the queen can't help but feel a thrill of anticipation course

Her smile widens, a flash of fang visible against her dark skin as she sips at the blood again. "Oh? How delightful," she murmurs. "Then you truly have tasted our world now." With an elegant gesture, she motions for you to follow her through the water. As you slip closer to her, one of her slaves brushes against your hip, teasing you with a playful nip before melting back into the warmth around them.

Xylthara leads you to a small alcove tucked discreetly away from the bustle of the bathhouse. The air here is thick with anticipation, the darkness broken only by flickering torchlight and the occasional shaft of starlight seeping through a narrow crevice overhead. In the dim light, she unties her wet hair, letting it spill down around her shoulders in a glorious cascade of eb