Whatever he’s doing — it’s more promising than anything Yvan’s tried. 

Which means an interruption would be a terrible pity. And Skäli’s servants are ... prone to interruptions. 

Yvan turns aside for a moment, unfastening his shirt to reveal his own piercings, the chains between them. Retrieving the heavy annulus from his pocket and attaching it to dangle from the chains takes only a moment more —

— and then he can turn back, smiling, seductive, Skäli’s servant. 

The southern woman catches his eye, glances at his face searchingly and then nods her thanks.

A petite, dark-skinned woman loitering by the path who had turned towards the spectacle catches sight of him, looks him over appraisingly.

He gives her his prettiest smile — the closest thing to an invitation Skäli allows his devotees to offer. 

(Come on. Bother him, not the man getting something done.)

The woman makes a quiet remark to her friend, who gives Yvan a disapproving look, brow furrowed, hand on the Eye of Velan hung around his neck, and speaks to her sharply. She just laughs and hands off her own amulet before approaching, smirking like she's won something, hooking a finger through the chains to drag him off towards a more intact section of wall.

(The other cultist is still watching the sky, shining tears dripping into the dust.)

He doesn’t care for being pulled like that — he’s never cared for the chains, even the light delicate lines draping from nipple to nipple he wears are uncomfortable, even without the annulus weighing on them — but a little discomfort isn’t so bad, not in the grand scheme of things. 

(Outwardly, he smiles like the cat that got the canary, sprawls against the wall and lets the woman feel him up.)

The moment she's checked that they're out of sight she does so with enthusiasm, leering up at him.

"Fine little haul I've got," she says, chuckling to herself, sliding one hand into his pants.

“If you’re just saying that to get into my pants...”

He moves under her hands, focuses on the physical sensations in order to get the response she wants — thinks of fine brushwork, gaslit stages, applause. 

Satisfied, she withdraws her hand, reaches up to yank his hair a little.

"Get on your back, boy."

He gives her a gratifying little gasp, sprawls on the turf for her.

(They don't have a large audience -- most of the people here are deliberately refusing to attend to heretical rituals -- but they have an audience. Yvan can be very distracting, when he chooses.)

Her pants are just barely down past her thighs when she sits down firmly on his face.

"You make it good, or I'm not getting up."

He makes it good: hands caressing her thighs, tongue working, teeth careful, giving breathless little half-moans that sound involuntarily ripped from him.

(People have wanted much worse things from him. He can hold his breath for a long time, pay attention to what gets a response from her, make it good for her. It's important that she be too satisfied to go looking for seconds.)

She's not particularly interested in drawing it out: she rocks and grinds on his face and pulls his hair and, when she comes, moans out loud and squeezes her thighs tight around his head as she soaks his face.

From around the corner, faintly, the moment his hearing isn't obstructed –

"...for more than a year."

"How long, exactly?"

"The same as for you."

"I told you."

A waste of his effort, it sounds like. Oh well.

(He doesn't stop. He learned long ago not to make any assumptions about when people are done.)

The woman takes another few moments to enjoy herself, sighing, before standing up and fixing her trousers.

"Not bad. Anything else needs desecrating, I might look you up, boy."

She saunters away, pushing past some of the assembled crowd.

"...he wouldn't just go. Not from here."

"So – what, you think something chased him off? What the fuck does god have to run away from?"

"I don't suppose you'd care to appear and smite me for the desecration," he remarks to the sky from his vantage point flat on his back, wiping his face.

The sky is unresponsive. Nary a smiting to be seen.

There's a trio approaching him who don't look especially pleased, though. They're dressed for combat, and one of them has the Eye emblazoned prominently on his shield.

"...I don't know."

...really. They're going to ... what do they even think they're achieving, coming after him for this? He's a devotee of Skäli, he doesn't have a choice in the matter.

Yvan climbs to his feet, fastening his shirt. Maybe they can talk this out like civilized people.

"What do you think you're doing, bringing your filth into this place?"

The man with the shield scowls down at him from under an iron circlet – a hooded woman beside him carrying a heavy tome looks similarly displeased.