What people tend to misunderstand is that it's not about the drugs. On their own, drugs are not that thrilling. It's about the pain. I'm a high-enough-functioning addict, but I don't need to get high to function. I just use to take away the pain. I'll stay perfectly clean as long as there's someone there to hold me tight, but the second he wants to let go, I'm back on whatever I can reach. I don't care about being high. I just don't want to be lonely.
Désmoda had been living a comfortable life—well, comfortable for her. She had a rather nice roof over her head and she could get to the market if she wanted to ride in the carriage. But she also had a few people she could ask to do so for her… for a sufficiently-inclusive definition of “ask”. Yes, she’d released the last poor bastard she’d indentured from her cellar, but not without taking some insurance that, should she request a favor or two, they’d not feel in a position to turn her down. And now that her cellar was housing only empty wine casks at the moment, she found herself in need of someone to share her home. She’d never admit it, of course, but she did get terribly lonely from time to time. Maybe there was a more appropriate way to meet men than entrapping, torturing, and blackmailing them… but how would she know? Her mother had wanted to raise a lady and she’d wanted to spite her mother, so away she’d run when she was 16, taking some of her dowry with her b...
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