Continuing straight on, with an air of Dejah vu:
La! trouble on our home turf. But no, Dejah, Le Lupanar is not a weird name for a brothel; it is the most appropriate name possible, thank you very much.
Rushing back to the well-named brothel, I am witness to this scene:
Using my good sense and Charisma, I sing the chorus—of a song titled The Phœnix King’s Lament—along the mercenaries, then offer them a private booth wherein they can finish their night without further disturbing the other patrons.
The situation is resolved to everyone’s satisfaction; when all of sudden: surprise Ciri!
Wait… wait, no, that’s not Ciri, though apparently Dejah also knows how to teleport. 
Curious to see how I would handle the matter of her rambunctious Stormbreakers, she shadowed my steps. Then and there, aloud she wonders if I can accomodate for a private room of some kind, to talk.
Moments later we are alone, in the meeting room of the brothel. I have ordered my staff to not let anyone in. Observed by my cat Pearl, while tireless devils fan the flames of lubricity in my loins, I light sconces left and right but miserably fail to light the fireplace. All the same, Dejah and I stare at it; and I can feel the warmth radiating—almost pulsating—from her.
We talk about her mercenaries:
We talk about herself:
We talk about the godly figure was the Phœnix King. Last to be touched upon is the subject of Dejah’s ambitions of destroying the Iron Cartel (being mindful of the power vacuum would inevitably ensue), and how said ambitions could coincide with mine.
She asks me if I agree with her, that helping one another could prove most beneficial. I answer with the positive, and we shake on it. This follows:
And my lips to melt in the sweetness of hers. Sweetness made all the more delicious by what I readily recognise in her as uncontainable, almost rapacious hunger.
Good with me, I answer.
We thunder up the stairs, to my room. Our breathing quickens. She literally tears parts of my clothes off. No sooner do my pants drop to my ankles that Dejah drops to her knees, and again my lips meet hers, though in an arrangement different from before. Soldier-like in all aspects of her life, there is a quasi-mechanical quality to her exploring of my body. But if her skill does not in the least compare to that of a courtesan, her ardor overwhelms my senses all the same.
Uh. That artwork of Dejah from a different angle makes me realise that what I thought was a sort of neko ears headband, is in fact simply her hair carefully arranged to give the impression of neko ears when looking at her from the front.
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