The King's Palace
"But, Silas—"
"Epaemo, I can't help that yer fuckin' taste is a pina manna different from mine. Nor that yer an idiot." The long-haired wick slid from his comfortable chair and crossed the room like a cat on the prowl. The Throne Room, as it was affectionately called, was an opulent hall in the King's mansion often used to hold his own mockery of Court—plans were made among the fine fabrics and cushions with the sea breeze enticing the curtains curtains to dance and cast relaxing shadows despite the near-oppressive Roalis heat. Low tables sat in the middle, an earlier meal's leftovers and too many glasses of wine still littering their waxed surfaces. Night had worn on into day and while the party had ended, Hawke was still awake.
He'd had a thought, a need, and he wasn't about to let it escape him without satisfying it. He needed more of something, and yet no one had managed to find what he was after.
Three women stood unashamedly objectified in the Throne Room, barely dressed, one hardly sober, and all of them watching Silas as he meandered closer to them, inhaling thoughtfully as if he was appreciating a fine vintage. While any other man would have perhaps reached out to touch them, to run fingers over exposed flesh and savor what he'd been presented with, Silas instead explored their fields, his magical touch not at all dissimilar from a more physical caress.
"None of these will do. Bring me the rest." The King demanded in a huff, walking past the three women who all immediately looked confused, disappointed, and possibly terrified, "See if Scarlett wants any of them and if she doesn't, then put them back where ye found 'em."
The short, boyish wick who had brought the women to his employer in the first place scowled, but then made shooing motions with his hands, "You heard my Lord. Get. All of you." Chasing them from the room, he left Silas alone for a few moments, the long-haired wick pouring himself another drink and staring out one of the open windows toward the sparkling sea that danced so tantalizingly within view, curtains billowing about him in his fine, dark silk shirt, mostly unbuttoned and very well-tailored pants, Hawke barefoot and hardly as dressed up as usual. It had been a very long night of carousing, after all, and the slightly hungover King of the Underworld was in absolutely no mood to be disappointed.
His underling returned, this time with four more women, his hand still roughly lingering on a dark-haired, dark-skinned witch as though he was reluctant to release her.
"Vrunta, Orik, get yer hands off what's mine." Silas purred, offering the woman a shark's smile, his dark eyes lingering on her once he came closer and his short wick of an employee hastily pulled his hand away and stepped back toward the door, out of Silas' physical reach. Again, it was as though he weighed the fields of the women instead of assessing their bodies, walking among them just within their personal spaces, and finally coming to a stop in front of the witch he'd forced his underling to let go of. The truth was, all of the women he'd had brought into his Throne Room that day had been ridiculously beautiful, as had been his request. Like some fairy tale story as if the King was choosing a Queen, this was Hawke's form of an entrance interview, it seemed.
Interview for what?
He knew what he wanted, what he was looking to put together, what the Bad Brothers needed in their ranks, what he needed close to him to do his bidding.
Leaning toward the witch in question, Silas reached up and let his fingers brush hair from the woman's face to tuck it behind her ear, far closer than would normally be acceptable for a stranger had it been anyone other than himself, he raised his glass of wine to his lips and took a slow sip before asking quietly,
"What's yer name, macha?"