The last time Remi had gotten even close to being this fucked up, she and a couple of "friends" (who the fuck was she kidding? They'd been drunks, in some rat-infested little tavern with creaky floorboards, a roof that leaked and molded, wet rushes on the floor; a shitty little place with even shittier drinks, but it'd been in the middle of nowhere) had robbed and demolished a dry-goods store and set fire to a blacksmith's shop; she'd made a "gown" from a moth-eaten curtain, proudly proclaimed herself the fucking queen of everything and everyone. Everything else had been a blur and she'd ended up waking up the next evening in a bed that wasn't hers, with two other women and a man- none of which she'd even known. Needless to say, that had been a gods-damned splendid two evenings.
And tonight was going even more fantastically than that memory had. Amaya had followed along with her perfectly; not fumbling a single step as the crowd went fucking wild, cheering, shrieking their names; the patrons were throwing money their way with wild abandon- and a few of them were even stripping, tossing random articles of clothing at the dancers, begging for a turn with one or the other. "Gods, Rephaine!" A couple of swooning kobolds cried out, "You two are the greatest things to ever live!" A noble decked out in impossible, infathomable wealth turned and begged: "Remi, I'm yours!" (What a gods-damned shame that it was nothing more than hallucinations.)
That stupid grin remained plastered across her face as she tilted her head back, watching the "starbursts" grow in number. There was no way to deny that earlier that evening, she had despised the bounty hunter; but now, she was doing something incredibly stupid: she was falling hard and fast for him; well, at least for now.
"Alright! Keep up, now!" She purred, gesturing at the imaginary "band"; which of course knew exactly what to play: the lights were dimmed even further as the imaginary drummer picked up the pace, pounding out a primal rhythm; soon to be joined by the slow, aching drone of a set of pipes and an ethereal, fragile dulcimer. (There was no music.)
The next dance would start somewhat slowly; with swaying hips and mincing steps, light, teasing, ghostly touches delivered with her fingertips, aimed to taunt and tease Amaya; though she picked up the pace quite quickly, with a quick pirouette that would swallow the distance between them; her movements more forceful, far quicker than during the waltz, she'd grab the bounty hunter's hands and place them low on her hips as her own would continue their teasing, taunting caresses. Without a word of warning, she would set a quick, demanding pace; hauling Amaya even closer, into one of those "brutal" exotic dances: all writhing, undulating, almost serpentine movements and quick, punishingly graceful footwork, paired with devilishly promising, slow caresses and shimmies, swift twirls, playful shoves and even more mischievous groping: a bellydance meant for two, rather than a single performer; extremely easy to get lost in and add to; at some point during the dance, her shirt had somehow found its way off and was instead in her hand, playfully being used as a whip, a prop (like how a fan or scarf should have been used instead.) When it ended, it felt as though that performance had lasted an entire lifetime, though in reality, it had only been around three minutes or so.