Opulence.

A land of outlanders, foully light skinned and short-eared. Noisy automatons that would take a lifetime of living in the society to understand. It smells. It stinks. The tastes in the air leave me shuddering some days to escape this accursed place. Bangkok is a place of hideous and beautiful sights.

I retreat.

The walls are clothed in thick red velvet, the finest my weave can make. It is always faintly lit, a dim bulb in a frosted glass ball casting an orange glow. There's no windows; there are doors between the room and the exit. The lights never change.

The sounds of quiet, content murmurings greet me. Here I am at home, at peace, and the outlanders have come to accept the looks of their host, dunmer skin, pointed ears, and bone smile. I nod slightly back to them, gesturing to Vhom.

The lad runs to me, quietly taking the package from my hand, and running to the back room to prepare it. He is the only person allowed to move so quickly within these walls.

I move to prepare my own pipe, lingering to watch the beauty of the smoke rising up to the cieling, blown in careful tendrils by my patrons. One is a tourist, the other two regulars. Sallow skin, and blissfully glazed smiles. One is a police officer, the other a 'caller' for one of the brothels in the area.

They nod to me. The tourist smiles, gesturing a small greeting to me with the tip of his pipe. He's a farang, his skin faintly red from the kiss of Thailand's sun, likely a beach-comber. His discussions with the compatriotes is languid, slow, like the thick syrup of perception that covers their eyes.

My room is a comfortable place, my patrons sprawled on richly tassled cushions, on a lavendar chair, the scent of incense and opium drifting in the air.

Once a hiding place, then a strange room with mysteries of it's own. I tamed them, small as they were, and kept the rewards offered; my own pipe bubbles, finally prepared, and I draw from the stem. My opium is a fine grade, but the opulence of this room demands something more for me.

After all, I reflect, as I breathe the sweet vapors... opium may be sweet, but a pipe of endless Skooma is a blessing only the gods can rival.