Ok, fine. I admit it. I love jewelry. There. I said it. I love it like a goat loves a salt lick. Like a drunk bard loves the sound of his own voice. It's a weakness. A soft spot. An addiction.
Chunky bracelets that clank like shackles but sexy. Anklets with tiny bells that say yes, I'm walking away, and yes, you should be watching. Toe rings because why shouldn't my toes be smug too. Bangles up the arms like armor for flirtation. Hip chains slinking over my pelvis like they've got secrets to whisper. Body chains that drape over nothing and suggest everything. Big slutty hoops, or dangly earrings that could impale a man if I turned too fast — both are valid. All of it. Layered. Clashing. Loud.
The Dragon says I look like a cursed chandelier. The Dwarf grunted once and said I jingle like a mule in heat. Whatever. Men don't get it. Jewelry isn't for them. It's for me. For how it makes me feel when I strut past a mirror and catch a glint on my collarbone like I'm made of treasure.
Besides, after a life spent in chains, why wouldn't I choose the ones that sparkle?
And yes, maybe sometimes I sleep in them. Maybe I once stabbed a man with an earring. Maybe I have a secret pouch with seven different nipple chains in varying moods. And maybe I once tried to rob a high priestess just for her thigh cuffs. Got whipped for that. Worth it.
The Dragon says gold should be hoarded, not worn. I say he can keep his dusty cave piles. My hoard walks with me, sways with my hips, catches candlelight in the right places, and never once complains about my snoring. Try finding a hoard that sexy.
Anyway. I'm wearing six bracelets right now. And a toe ring that says "bite me" in Seebulban runes. So what. Come at me.
Continue. It takes skill you know. Try sneaking into a house you are about to rob with all that metal on you. So yeah. But also fine. Her problem.
It takes skill, you know. Real skill. Try sneaking into some uptight merchant's villa — barefoot, pitch dark, dogs sniffing at the gate — with half a smithy's worth of bangles and ankle bells strapped to your person. One wrong jingle and it's game over. So yes. I learned to move like silk. Like a whisper. Like regret sliding down a priest's spine.
You learn to walk without a sound even when you sound like a brothel wind chime. You learn to time your steps with the wind, the creak of shutters, the snore of a fat nobleman three floors up. You learn to lift your feet just so, so the toe rings don't clack on the stone. You learn to make even your hips lie.
It's a dance. It's always been a dance. And I'm good at it.
But fine. Yes. Also my problem. I can't resist. I see a market stall with hoops the size of dinner plates and my fingers twitch. I spot an emerald navel chain and I'm already halfway into my seduction voice. Doesn't matter if I can't afford it. Doesn't matter if the Dragon is three steps behind me muttering about "financial priorities" and "resisting base temptations." I want it. I will have it.
And then I'll try to climb a wall that night, all trussed up in jingling silver like a traveling circus, and halfway up I'll curse myself. I'll swear I'll go minimalist next time. Maybe just one arm cuff. One discreet toe chain. No bells.
Lie.
Next town, next haul, next idiot with loose purse strings and looser morals… I'll be back in full glitter, shin-deep in necklaces, hips laced with coin-laced thread, like some drunk goddess of excess. It's not even about the money. It's about shine.
The Dragon once said I could probably seduce a blind man just by shaking my jewelry in the right rhythm. I took it as a compliment. Then I demonstrated. He blushed. You're welcome.