Charlotte Leashed (CyranoDeBergerac x Fetterette)

[Fetterette]

@CyranoDeBergerac



Plumes of smoke suddenly fill the air as the quartet of men let loose from their concealed positions on both sides of the road. The two men on horseback are caught completely off-guard by the sudden assault. Under other circumstances, they might have seen the attack coming. These riders are not your average soldiers. They are skilled and alert. But their training is no match for the blanket of concealment my magic has draped over the waiting attackers.

Jonathan has been firm in his belief that this obfuscation would be all that I was required to do today. He'd been so confident that his snipers would rid the world of these two men. He only needed me to buy his men the element of surprise. They would take care of the rest.

Almost as soon as the muskets fire, I can feel that things will not go as Jonathan expected. A ripple of magical energy passes over me. The iron balls seem to run into invisible barriers, slowing so as to be visible as they crawl through the air toward the two horsemen.

Despite his now obvious overconfidence, Jonathan's plan does not end with those four shots. Also cloaked by my magic, a second quartet rushes from the underbrush. With thick blades, they slash at the riders. Their targets are the horses instead of the men, seeking to tumble the riders to the ground. Witchfinders do not die easily. The most important step is to steal their ability to escape.

Even as their horses begin to cry and die beneath them, surrounded by a cloud of smoke, the riders work with deadly precision. Pistols are drawn with almost inhuman grace. Four more flares of gunpowder erupt in the night. These bullets, however, are not slowed in their deadly flight. With pained cries, four of Jonathan's men fall to the ground.

Nothing is proceeding any differently than I expected. I have seen witchfinders in action before. I watched them kill the woman who meant the world to me. But it does not matter in this moment. I do not need Jonathan's men to take care of this gristly business for me. I will have my vengeance.

The rider in the back lands awkwardly, part of his horse's weight coming down on his thigh despite his amazing agility. My focus, however, is on the one in front: the witchfinder in the black hat. This is the man who killed Helen. As I summon blazing fire to form in my hands, he rolls easily away from his falling mount. He comes up out of his roll, a pair of hatchets flying from his hands to bury themselves in the skulls of two of the musket-men.

I can feel the heat emanating from my empty hands as I step out onto the road. The air ripples with the energy of it. The two remaining of Jonathan's swordsmen have fallen on the witchfinder half-trapped beneath his horse. To his credit, the man kills one of his attackers with a knife before he is felled by them.

But my focus remains on the man in the black hat. He roars as a massive claymore is drawn free to slice through one of the remaining attacker of his comrade. The cry is not one of an angry man. It is not borne of emotion, but feels to be more of a physical manifestation of his directed fury. His victim is sliced easily into two pieces, an expression of confusion still etched in his features as those pieces fall to the ground.

"Kill him, witch!" Jonathan cries out as he steps out to join us on the road, a blade in each hand.

Jonathan's desperation is evident in his tone. He has lost eight men in the attempt to kill these witchfinders, but succeeded in ending one of them. We are so close to completing the task.
As though my employer's words have summoned the witchfinder's attention, the man in the black hat turns his gaze to find mine. I glare back at him with the burning hatred that fills my soul directed on the man who stole everything from me.

Jonathan lunges forward, trying to take advantage of the witchfinder's distracted moment. But the man in the black hat brings up his claymore to deflect the attack, making it look clumsy in the process.
In that moment, my mind realizes the truth that my eyes are desperately trying to pass on. The man in the black hat is not the man who killed Helen. This is not the face of her killer.

"It isn't him!" I cry out, the magic formed in my hands beginning to falter. "It's the wrong witchfinder!"

"It's a witchfinder!" Jonathan cries out as he swings his blades again. "They hunt your people! They killed your mentor! Take your vengeance!"

Watching Jonathan flail wildly at the man in the black hat is like watching a child earnestly try to take out his anger on a parent. While Jonathan's blades are sharp and the man in the black hat cannot simply ignore the attack, there is no question who will be victorious here.
I realize the truth in Jonathan's words. The man we face will offer me no mercy. I have attacked him and his partner. The power surging in my hands would be enough to kill the man. It would be enough to kill any man, regardless of his skill. I could end the witchfinder's life here and go on with mine.

"A witchfinder is a man as any other," Helen's voice comes unbidden to my mind. "Some are just and some are not. One is not guilty of the crimes of another."

"It isn't him. I can't." I say, letting the magic slowly flow away.

"Kill him! Kill the-" Jonathan begins, but the decapitated head that flies away from its body cannot be bothered to finish the thought.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

I wake with a start from the dream that has haunted me since the day of the event, the shocked expression on Jonathan's separated head etched into my mind.

"No, I can't!" I whimper softly before I realize that it was only a dream.

Instinctively, I reach for my magic in that moment. Despite the fact that I've been locked away from it for days now, it is no less disconcerting to discover myself unable to tap into it. The collar around my throat grows hot for a moment from my attempt.

The collar that I'd let the witchfinder close around my throat, I remind myself. It had been a simple choice: kill him or submit myself to his justice. It had been an easy choice to make. But, truly, if I had realized just how stringent the control of the collar would be, I might have decided differently.

I groan softly as I fully come back to the moment, leaving the choices of my past behind me. We're in a tavern on our way to London. I'm on the floor, the witchfinder sleeping on the bed up above me. My leash is connected to the foot of the bed, leaving me there like an animal beneath him.

The leash cannot be pulled away from where it presses into my throat. I know that. Even so, I would have tried to pull it away from my body if my hands weren't trapped behind my back, wrists bound together with a leather thong. That was an extra level of discomfort I'd earned for myself the night before, when I'd tried to take an opening to grab for his belt-knife.

The effort had been a stupid one. I could recognize that now, my body aching from the night of confinement. The leash was so much more than I had ever expected it to be. When I agreed to accept it as my punishment for that fateful night, I could not have conceived the level of control it offered the witchfinder over me.
Lying there on my side, I realize that knives and sneak attacks are not going to save me from this fate.

Squirming on my side, wrists tightly bound behind me, I let out a soft whimper as I lie there. I kick out art the floor, whimpering loud enough that I hope he can hear me. It is time to try another approach.

"Sir?" I ask meekly when I hear any sign of waking from the bed. "Please, my hands. My hands hurt, sir."

 

[CyranoDeBergerac]

Magnus Ransom was the scion of a tradition of witch hunters stretching back centuries to the time of the Danelaw. Tracing their ancestry to a family of Norse settlers who had made their home in the valleys of Northumbria. In their frosty homeland they had been jotun-slayers, protectors of the harvest, Beowulfings, and they had continued their traditions and hunting strategies in their new homeland, continuing to pass them along seperate from the English traditions that formed up over the years. They were notable for their long beards, long hair, and their many magical rings. Their magic was the greatest distinction between them and common witch hunters or even more professional Witchfinders. While all but the most inept of Witchfinders would develop a small talent for charms and minor prestidigitations, those of Ransom's tradition still remembered the power of runic magic and engaged in it to aid them in their hunt. Though none of them would ever claim the ancient title of rune master.

Years of training and experience were what seperated Witchfinder Ransom from his peers, and it also what made him such an effective hunter and killer of those things that prowled in the dark of the night at the edge of the fire. Devoutly Christian, the man lived his life guided by the Holy Scripture and the laws of Parliament and the King. He did not question the laws that were passed down for him to both obey and enforce, save when they contradicted Scripture, and he had no care for whether the king was Charles Stuart or Oliver Cromwell, so long as they laid down laws allowing him to ply his trade unmolested then he cared not for their games or their thrones. His time in the service of the Witchfinders Guild had taken him to many corners of the British Dominion that he had never expected to see before. And he counted the thanks of the common folk as a greater payment than the pound sterling in his belt pouch.

As a Witchfinder it was his duty to slay aberrations to God's law and to punish those creatures beyond human ken when they took leave of their senses and harmed the livelihood of their neighbors'. He was not a thief taker or anything else of the sort and was fairly adamant about it, but when word had reached him of a band of highwaymen that were pausibly using magic to abed in their brigandage he had ridden out to face them, accompanying an old friend and retired Witchfinder who served as a bailiff in Lincolnshire and who had asked the Witchfinder along as a personal favor.

What had begun as a simple day of riding had ended with half-a-score of graves dug on the side of the road, nine brigands and Robert. The sound of Robert's widow wailing rent his soul as they came to their village, less one horse and one bailiff, but plus nine severed heads and a maleficar on a leash. The heads had gone to a reeve, half of their bounty to the widow, a quarter to the local vicar to ensure the bodies were cared for, and more to a hostetler who found the prospect of trading a bleeding horse for a healthy one less than appealing until the Witchfinder fixed him with a level gaze. After which the good man had taken his earnings and set off in search of a new pair of trousers.

With no funds to purchase a horse for his parolee they had needed to move at a walking pace from Lincolnshire south towards Watling Street and eventually on to London. Ransom had every intention of travelling to London with as much haste as possible, to register Charlotte with the Guild, and then hand her leash over to be assigned to some other Witchfinder to deal with so that he could continue on his way. he understood the duty of holding her leash and the obligations it required, and while he would not shrink from them, he was not eager for them either. While he certainly would be either dead or gravely wounded if she had not stopped fighting, Robert would also be alive if she had not participated at all. He had also found that the two weeks of travel they had done together made it evident that they were not fit travelling companions for each other. For much of the first week he had kept her gagged with a chord of rope and had threatened, without following through yet, to switch or spank her if she continued to misbehave.

The second week he had given her more liberty and unbound her hands. She had proven last night why that was a problem.

Her foolish attempt for his belt knife was only one of the reasons that he awoke in an ill mood. They had spent the night in Dunstable, at an inn called the Saracen's Head, only thirty some miles from Londontown. Another day or two of hard walking and he would be well rid of the troublesome woman. Except, the long line of wealthy carriages, and not so wealthy walkers moving away from the city, had informed Magnus that there was an outbreak of the Plague in London, worse than had been seen in thirty years. Parliament had been out since April, nearly a month, and the King was holding court in Salisbury. No one had the slightest clue where the Witchfinder General or his clerks could be found. His whereabouts were not typically something that common folk troubled themselves with.

A groan escaped from his lips as he lifted himself from the bed, shocked awake by her sudden outburst and the mental warning that the leash brought to his mind. Even when not touching it he was aware of things like that when his parolee was bound. Like an itch in the back of his mind. Even two weeks on the wounds from their battle ached, bruises from the musketballs and falling from the horse primarily, as wel l as a cut to the left shoulder. His body felt stiff and unclean as well since he had taken to sleeping in his clothes since they had been travelling together.

Stepping over her he put her piteous plea from his mind for a moment as he kept his back to her and oppened his trousers, making water into the chamber pot in the corner of their small quarters. Upon finishing that bit of morning business he took the end of her leash tied to the bedpost and unbound it, rebounding it around his belt next to his crouch, only then did he crouch down and release her hands, still not having said a word.

"How much hurt have those hands caused?" He asked her rhetorically, his voice a deep bass that had an effect on many women that he could not quite comprehend. The leash around her neck was simple enough, chords of rope that were connected by magic knots, he could extend or shorten the length of the rope with a simple thought and a slight touch on the chord. Not so fancy as other Witchfinders preferred. At the moment the chord was just long enough that each of them could move about their room without impeding each other, but not so much that she could use it to trip him up or cause problems for him in other ways.

"If you try something foolish like that again, I will cane you until you can't sit for a fortnight." He promised her as he slipped on his coat and hat and boots, debating whether he wanted to break his fast before they took to the road.

 

[Fetterette]

I wait in silence as the Witchfinder takes his time rising from the bed. His groan of discomfort makes the anger flash up within me once more. Clenching my jaw, I plant my bound hands as best I can on the floor and then awkwardly use them to push myself up onto my knees. My body protests the effort. Pain flashes up in my shoulders from the sudden movement after their long, overnight confinement. He is uncomfortable? He should try sleeping on the floor with his hands bound.

He will, I tell myself bitterly. I will see to it that he does.

Kneeling there, I watch as he relieves himself into the chamberpot and then moves to the bed to untie the end of my leash from it. My eyes follow the end of the line as he slips it around his belt and ties it in place there. This has been his ritual every morning since my ordeal began. When first he'd tied it there, so close to his crotch, I had read something into that placement. I had braced myself for what had felt like it must be the inevitable purpose of that choice of anchoring place.

Ransom had been quite clear about how the leash worked before he tied it around my throat and weaved its magic into my soul. Even if he had not been, the power of it had made itself known to me as soon as it was fastened in place. My magic, anything beyond its most primitive uses, was his to control.

He had been equally as clear about the terms of my parole. I was required to follow any command he gave me. I was to do whatever he bade me do, with one exception. I was not required to, as he had so eloquently put it, satisfy any of his carnal desires. It had seemed such a formal way to describe it. Had I noticed a bit of discomfort in him when he had spoken the words?

Even with that limitation, however, there were stories told among witches about Witchfinders taking advantage of their paroled charges. And when I had first seen him tie the line in place there, it was those stories that had come to the forefront of my mind. To this point, at least, it seemed that there was no ulterior motive to the tying of the line. In truth, Witchfinder Ransom has given me no reason to believe that he actually possesses any carnal desires.

I turn on my knees as he crouches down, offering him my bound wrists as best I can. I let out a little moan of relief as the cord comes free. My shoulders begin to throb again as I bring my hands around in front of me to rub at my sore wrists.

"How much hurt these hands have caused?" I ask as I unsteadily rise to my feet, leaning on the bed for support. I turn to face him, eyes narrowing. "Do you think to know me so fully then? Perhaps you should ask the mother in Rochester whose daughter I saved from the Plague if she takes issue with these hands. Or speak with the good farmer's wife in King's Lynn. Query if she wishes these hands had been bound the night I ensured her husband would recover in time to finish the harvest."

Though I try to sound righteous, I do not truly feel so. Both of those accounts are real, just two of the countless number of people that Helen and I aided in our travels through the countryside. But that person is not who I have been in these years since Helen's death. I know that she would have hated who I became after she died. She would have begged me to turn aside from the course of vengeance I had set myself upon against those who had taken her from me.

Hate the man, if you must, she had so often told me, but do not hate the office. A man is not defined by the badge he wears, but rather by his actions.

When he threatens me with a caning, I am brought back from my thoughts and into the present. My attempt with the knife had been foolish, I now know in hindsight. This man is strong and fast, almost inhumanly so. While I am not some wilting and fragile noblewoman praised for her ability to feint on command, I am in no way a physical match for him. Without my magic, there will be no escaping this situation.

"You are right," I say softly, lowering my eyes to look at the floor. "It was foolish of me. But I am sure you can understand how daunting an experience this is. Had I known how it would feel to be leashed like this, to you," I gesture toward end of the line secured to his belt and my voice trails off for a moment. "If I had known, I do not think I would have been able to accept parole. Perhaps it would have been a more merciful fate to let you execute me on the spot."

My breathing quickens, chest rising and falling in rhythm with it through the top of my dress. My hands move up to where the rope wraps around my throat. I close my eyes, fingers tracing the shape of the rope but without making contact with it, as one is careful when warming their hands by a fire.

"It's maddening," I whisper, "to be paraded about as the hunter's trophy. Everything that made me who I am is now locked away from me."

I pause then, closing my eyes and taking a long shuddering breath.

"But I know that it is my own doing that brought me to this point. Do remember that before you think so ill of me. I submitted to this fate. I accepted the error of my ways."

 

[CyranoDeBergerac]

Never shall a Witchfinder take carnal knowledge with his parolee, for down that path lays damnation. Either in the corruption of the Witchfinder but the unrepentant parolee, or the parolee's salvation will be denied by misuse. The First Prohibition of the Witchfinder's Guild was impressed deeply upon those who would claim the title of Witchfinder. Still, there were many Witchfinders who did not meet the high standards of their order and instead of being pious and beyond reproach, had fallen into the temptations of the flesh with their maleficar. Magnus would not say that he had met many with these failings, but of the ones who had all but one had insisted that it was a true and romantic love that moved them and not seduction or temptation. The except had been a man more fitted to the title of amateur witch hunter than Witchfinder and who had also used his position to seek sexual favors and compensation from the peasantry. A violation of the Twelfth Prohibition.

That Witchfinder had chosen deportation over the noose and now plied his trade in the Colonies.

Never a verbose man, the Witchfinder let her indignant replies and accusations wash over him without blinking, continuing to casually button up his waistcoat and slip on his long jacket. A bag containing his kit and many of his weapons was thrown over his shoulder, and he gave a light tug on the leash to prompt her to move towards the door. Not dissimilar to how a kennelmaster might yank on a leash to pull a bitch in heat away from the kennel where the hounds would bay. Only, there was no contempt or derogatory intent in the simple tug. As if the Witchfinder was indifferent to the humiliating comparisons one might make between the parolee and other animals put on a leash. No cruelty, no disdain. Just simple, single-minded apathy.

The only answer he gave to her monologue was a simple quote, as he often did when acting in his most indifferently frustrating manner. "Repent ye therefore, and be converted, that your sins may be blotted out, when the times of refreshing shall come from the presence of the Lord;" It was not a judgemental quoting of the Book of Acts, as one might here from a Puritan street preacher or Quaker, but a simple offering of good advice. Like a peach farmer offer a ripe fruit from a tree whose limb overhangs the hedge.

So dispassionate was the Witchfinder's approach to his parolee that not even anger at her part in his friend's death had enterred into their discourse. Instead, he had seemed to only have two focuses: first that she be entered into the records in London as soon as possible, and second that while she was in his charge no further harm come to her immortal soul, but if possible he would bring her to the salvific love of Christ. In either case, he had taken one single, solitary glance at her decotellage, as impressive or unimpressive as it may be, and the only such humiliation he had subjected her to was searching her for weapons the evening after first putting the leash on her.

Having said his piece he exited the room, giving her little option but to follow or be dragged by his larger form out of the room and down the steps of the inn to the common room where breakfast was being shared. The room was more packed than one might expect, if Magnus had not possessed his own personal charisma and status as a Witchfinder they would have been sleeping in the stables due to the many people fleeing the capital. Magnus took a seat at a table in a corner, keeping his eyes on the crowd and taking no care that there was no chair for Charlotte as he patiently waited for one fo the serving women to bring him a stout and a bowl of chowder for breakfast. A second bowl would be provided for Charlotte, but no stout. All of these arrangments had been made with the publican before they had gone to bed the night before.

The Witchfinder took no heed of the men who leered at his parolee, and the snickered and under the breath comments about her figure and the possible lurid nature of having a 'bitch' (none of them called her a woman) on a leash. These were not things that concerned Magnus unless a hand wandered to a place it shouldn't.

 

[Fetterette]

Ransom's simple response to my outpouring of emotion hits me as hard as if he had chastised me. I feel a flash of anger rise up at the condescending tone of the worthless platitude. There was no place for one such a me in the eyes of his Lord, other than as a tamed animal on the end of a leash.

When a tug on that leash draws me out of the room and down toward the common room, I feel my heart begin to race. This is always one of the worst parts of my day since this ordeal had begun. As we move to the stairs, I find myself offering a silent prayer to whatever unnamed source had given me my powers, certainly not his Lord, that we would find the common room downstairs empty of patrons. But the soft leather soles of my buckskin boots had only reached the third step when the sounds of a busy tavern below told me I would be granted no such mercy.

On instinct, I briefly reach for my magic. Were it mine to control, it would be so easy to make myself unseen to the people who await us down there, to hide my humiliated presence from them. But I quickly draw the attempt back as soon as I feel that wall between me and my power.

I keep my eyes lowered as we enter the busy room. A crimson blush rises on my cheeks as my arrival evokes the expected comments from the rabble. Some of them had obviously seen us arrive the night before. I hear one of them pointing me out to his comrades at the table.

"See, I told you there was a Witchfinder an' 'is bitch staying here. Heading' to London wif' 'er, I betcha."

Others are clearly seeing me for the first time, and some likely seeing someone in my state for the first time too. Their words are no more kind. It is easy to find the common threads between all of their comments and gestures. I am the other, a base thing to be looked down upon with contempt. The Witchfinder is theirs, the symbol of their faith, and their righteousness is proved by the fact that I am brought low by him.

When my keeper takes his seat at the table, I move further into the corner of the room, wishing that I could simply blend into the shadows and disappear. There is no seat for me, of course. How ridiculous would it be for a man to provide a seat for his dog? And yet, I recognize that is only how the commoners in the tavern see the arrangement. While Ransom's treatment of me has not been kind, neither has it ever been cruel. I am simply his charge, and nothing more.

I close my eyes, taking a deep breath. I remember Helen's wisdom. It does not matter what these men and women think of me. The only opinion of myself that matters is my own. Unfortunately, that counsel gives me little solace. After my choices these last few years, I find I hold myself in little regard.

But I made one right choice in the end, even if it's what brought me here.

Swallowing, I take a step in closer to the fruits of that choice, the Witchfinder who lives because of it. I place my hands on his shoulders as two bowls of chowder and a tankard of something dark are delivered to our table. If he does not swat my hands away or move away from me, my fingers would begin to massage his shoulders through his tunic. Let the rabble think what they will of the act. If my life is to be bound to this man's, I can at least begin to make it a more pleasant one.

"Your muscles are tense," I say, leaning in so that he can hear me over the din of the crowd. "Tonight, you should let me see to them before you sleep."

 

[CyranoDeBergerac]

Ransom noted the slight itch in the back of his brain when his charge moved to access the well of power that she was so accustomed to wielding with simplicity and ease. It was only the briefest of transgressions and did not even warrant a change in his stride. There was a slight warmth on the leash, one of the reasons he kept his end of the leash on his belt and not wrapped around his wrist or against his skin, barely even a breath of steam in warmth, again only enough to be noticed and allow both of them to know what she had attempted to do. There would be times where she reached out for the magic, or did something small without permission, that would require punishment, and he was still waiting for that first time she asked him to do something simple with her magic to test their boundaries.

Every parolee did it, especially considering how a maleficar without power typically behaved like a drunkard without access to gin. Sooner or later what would come to be known as withdrawal set in to the point where they could not handle it any more. Some found that breaking point sooner rather than later, but there was a small part of Ransom that was impressed with how long she had managed without asking, or doing anything that would warrant him needing to thrash her. One of the reasons why he refused to take on parolees was that the time and resources it took to discipline them distracted from the time he could spend fulfilling his vocation and hunting beasts. Only once, as a coincidence, had he needed to face a maleficar while towing another on a leash, and it wasn't an experience he was particularly eager to have again.

Instincts and reflexes tuned for combat and threats, his body tensed as he perceived her moving towards him from behind. It wasn't that he heard her move, or even used any of the common senses to detect her action. It was something else without quite a word for it. In not too sudden of an act his hands moved just in case he needed to counter some attack from her, one grabbing the end of the leash closest to him, the other holding on to his belt knife. They returned to where they rested once her intentions became clear, though his breath caught slightly and his body remained tense as her soft hands worked his muscles through the fabric of his tunic. It had been a long time that he had been so intimate with a woman not since- well too long to say the least. Certainly longer than the last time she'd held a man between her thighs and brought him to le petit mort.

As her warm breath brushed against his ear with a promise of something more his body stifffened further in a reaction that could almost be called virginal. If she were to cock her head forward slightly and look down at his lap she would find more than a mouthful looking back up her, pressed against the skin of his thigh due to the fabric of his breaches. As she moved a light bit of breast rubbed against the back of his head and that was too much to bear.

"Eat your chowder." He snapped, in a deep, brusque, and most importantly subdued voice that wouldn't carry over the din of the crowd. No need to make a scene. Instead he simply yanked on her leash enough that it brought her to the side of the table, where he promptly pressed the bowl towards her and then took a long draught from his stout, foam slipping down into his beard.

As he ate he pointedly not look in her direction, and instead turned his attention to the crowd. Taking in details about those sharing the sunlit space with them. No matter how much they may respect him as a Witchfinder, or a man who had put a 'bitch' in her place, he was not one of them. His long hair and beard set him apart from typical English style, and the darkness of it marked him as no Scotsman or Irishman, let alone a goat fucking Welshman. No, they didn't need to look down at his knuckles, stained with the marks of ash-drawn runes or his large size to know that he was a remnant of those Norse conquerors that had once ruled this land before the Normans came. Those Nordics who kept to their queer traditions in the deep valleys of Northumbria. He would never be a proper Englishman.

Setting aside his stout, placing it on the lefthand side of his food away from her reach, he made a rune of protection over the chowder with his left hand before digging in with his right, not wiping the foam from his beard as it trailed down his chin.

 

[Fetterette]

It does not take long to realize that this man will get little benefit from my hands. He is far too tense to let them work. It almost seems he grows moreso the more I work. That is not especially rare. I've found many men to react similarly, particularly in a public place like this.

Even so, my efforts are not all for naught. It's been too long since I've touched a man. And this one, despite his dusty and gruff exterior, turns out to be a pleasure to touch. My fingers explore the shape of his strong shoulder muscles. Is that a scar there? I am sure there is story behind that one. I feel my breathing quicken as I shut out the common room around us and lose myself in the simple act of massaging his shoulders.

It occurs to me that it might do us both some good to continue this in private, back in the room. I am sure the innkeeper would defer to his need for a little extra time with it. I lean in close to him once more, about to whisper the suggestion.

A sudden tug on the leash around my throat yerks me away from him and to the side of the table. The bowl of chowder clatters noisily in place. My eyes are wide, nostrils flared as I look back at him. Focused on him, cheeks red, I choose not to hear whatever reaction the crowd might be having to his rough treatment of me.

Holding his gaze, I slowly sink to my knees at the table, struggling to get my emotions and breathing under control. When I feel in control of myself once more, I turn my attention to the bowl on the table.

"You will have to forgive me, good sir," I say, loud enough for him to hear. "I fear that after your disparagement of my hands, I thought I might show you that they are capable of more than the evil you see in them. Forgive me for trying to find a glint of moonbeam in the dark cave where you choose to reside."

Picking up the bowl from the table, I remain kneeling, trying to make my kneeling pose as like a penitent church-goer's as I can. Then I lift the bowl to my lips and take a sip.

 

[CyranoDeBergerac]

There was a comedy of errors in their mismatch in that moment. Her scolding him with her simple manners and poetic speech. Offering him no opportunity to give reproach. There was skillful in the way she managed his reaction, deflecting it to the side inside of taking on the force of it. If she would have reacted in kind he might have force fed her the chowder and spanked her bare ass for the whole crowd to see in response to any disrespect or rudeness that she presented. But none was there for him to punish, instead she was the picture of demurity, just like he liked his parolees. And his women. Not that he would ever admit to any such tastes, at least not to her.

A glower did come across his face though, and a dark look entered his eyes, but his ire was not directed in her direction. Instead, he swept the common area with his dark gaze and turned all of the fellow diners attentions to their bowls, the ceiling or anything else they could keep their eyes on save the parolee on her knees. Too many eyes had been drawn to her in her act of kneeling, particularly her ankles, ass, and mouth. That was too much attention to them at that moment, and the lust inspired by her actions was far different than the lust she inspired by merely existing. In his temper, he didn't know what he would be liable to do if someone made a suggestion that there was anything improprer between the two of them. To her or to the person who suggested it.

The chowder was good, not quite warm but not cold either. A solid mixture of vegetables and fish, certainly not fish from the Thames, and as an added treat his chowder had a bit of cheese melted in. Though there was no such luxury for the maleficar the serving woman had seemed particularly eager to look anywhere but in the witch's direction the entire time she moved about the dining room, even spending time near the incorrigible bottom pinchers instead of coming near the leashed woman. And she certainly hadn't inquired if the witch desired anything to drink. Perhaps there was something about seeing a fellow woman on a leash like a dog that perturbed the wench. Magnus did not know, and it didn't cross his mind for a moment or two.

Once his stout was nearly drained, and his chowder was near the bottom of the bowl, and his arousal had sucken down to his normal size, he turned his eyes back to her and admittedly a little reluctantly: "My apologizes for my temper, it was discourteous. Thank you for the massage, but it would perhaps be better enjoyed at a more approrpriate place and time." He was being as diplomatic as he could be, with his words coming haltingly. He was not accustomed to needing to apologize, and this was more than likely the first time he had ever had need to apologize to a maleficar.

 

[Fetterette]

My gaze remains locked on the curved bottom of my soup bowl as it slowly appears. It is certainly not the least appetizing thing that I have ever eaten. Years spent with the sort of men of the sort I traveled with of late do not lend themselves to fine cuisine. Despite the fact that it is better the moldy bread or half-rotten meat I have consumed in the past, it seems worse. That is because I can see the superior product being consumed by my dining companion. I am not accustomed to being served the lesser plate.

Burying my nose in the bowl prevents me from seeing and smelling that finer option. It hides the flush on my cheeks that simply will not go away from the Witchfinder. It also helps me to avoid any sort of interaction with the tavern's patrons. It does seem, however, that their interest in me has dwindled.

Why do I feel so scorned by his reproach? Well, that was a rather silly question to ask, in truth. It had been a pleasant moment. Those were few and far between of late. It had simply been nice to share that contact with him. It had been nice to enjoy the shape of him under my fingers. Of course, I had been foolish to think that he might enjoy it too, the prude.

I am setting my bowl back down on the table when he begins to speak. At once, I can sense the difference in his tone. His usual confidence and sureness of his words seems to have fled him. That difference in manner is as strange and unexpected as the words themselves. When he finishes, I offer him a nod of acceptance, meeting his gaze.

"I accept your apology, Witchfinder Ransom. And I am woman enough to recognize I am not untouched by blame in this matter. You are correct, of course. You have a reputation to uphold. I forgot my place for a moment. I will be more discreet in the future."

I cannot fully disguise the surprising warmth I feel in that moment, a little smile creeping up onto my lips. So, the gruff Witchfinder had enjoyed it after all. I will have to take him up on his request at the earliest opportunity.

 

[CyranoDeBergerac]

There were many ways for the Witchfinder to misinterpret the little smile creeping across his parolee's lips. Several more charitable than others, and while he did not leap to the least or most charitable option he settled into a unhappy middle. That smile said she was happy to see the man holding her leash humbled, to know that not only was he not perfect, but that he knew he wasn't perfect. And most importantly that she had been the one to bring that fact to his attention. They would always have that between them. Whether he handed her leash over to some other Witchfinder the day after tomorrow, or their travels together ended up stretching out until they found wherever in this blessed country the Clerk of the Witchfinder's Guild was she would always have that over him. That she was the one who made him apologize to a maleficar.

Nothing in his demeanor suggested that this was how he understood her smile, or that he would be thinking of that smile for the rest of their journey for the day. When they had both finished their food he reached over to his side of the table and lifted up his packs, including his highly visible claymore, and stood. The line connecting them was short at the moment, not even as long as he was tall, and with her still on her knees a more lascivious individual might think of other times that they might be in similar positions with each other. But the thought never crossed his mind. Instead he simply walked behind her and began to make his way to the door, fully expecting her to either rise and follow him, or be dragged simply by his greater weight and force of personality. It was up to her what kind of show she put on for these strangers as they made their way to the stables.

It was cool for a July morning, with the sun barely rising above the trees and still being dominated by the presence of grey-green clouds in the sky. The dew still decorated the grass of the yard that seperated the Saracen's Head from its stable, gripping his boots and the ends of her dress. Due to his height and gait it was difficult for most people to keep up with him. Long strides and a determined mind made for quick travel. If she fell behind he silently extended the chord around her neck, but only to ten feet at most, she would need to learn to keep up with whatever pace her Witchfinder set. Even though there were few Witchfinders of a like to Magnus Ransom, in any regards.

Enterring into the stable Magnus greeted his horse with a few oats and fondling his snout and ears. There were few horses that were of a size to properly fit the large Witchfinder, and he treated any such animal with a great deal of care and affection. Noticeably more so that he treated the maleficar. Taking his end of the leash he hung it on a hook and cinched it tight, pressing his thumb against the knot to make sure that it could not be loosened by anyone but him. Then he looked over at her and gave her a simple command. "Stay." He didn't need her moving or causing trouble as he patted down and watered their nameless horse and saddled the beautiful gelding. As he went through the simple tasks, checking both muskets in their sheaths, his bandolier of cartridges and pistols, his hatchets, his cutlass, and his claymore, he explained to her what they would be getting into. There were also other weapons and tools in his packs that she didn't need to see.

"There is Plague in London. Parliament has gone home, and the King is holding court in Salisbury. I don't know if the members of my Guild have gone with the King, or decamped to elsewhere. So we will be continuing on to Londontown. If they aren't there then we will travel to where they are. Either our arrangement will end in two days time, or it might be extended longer. In either case, I don't expect our terms will change greatly. However, we will need to stop by an acquaintance I know in order to get bills of health for ourselves. He'll likely need to examine you. Try not to embarrass me." Having finished his preparations he looked over at her to see how she reacted, but also said, "I want to make good time today. If you need to see any needs met, do it now. I'd rather not need to stop for long on the road." It wasn't as if it was the first time either of them had needed to see to such bodily needs since being leashed together.

 

[Fetterette]

When I see him gathering up his packs, I recognize that nothing more is going to be said between us. Our conversation, and the strange little moment upon which it concluded, has come to an end. I remain there on my knees while he prepares for travel, my mind running over the details of our exchange. I puzzle through the words of his apology. Had he been only apologizing for his tone? Did he only regret his brusqueness? Or was there more there? For what exactly did he apologize?

Lost in my thoughts, I am half-pulled to my feet by his move for the door. Curse the man's size and unnaturally long gait. At once, I hear that the tug of the leash finishing my rise has not gone unnoticed by the tavern's patrons. Their laughs and guffaws bring a new blush to my cheeks, which is itself intensified by the fact that I know they can see it. When one of them comments about how nice it is to see 'the bitch brought to heel' I react without thinking.

In my two weeks under the control of the vile leash, I have come to know well the extent of its control of my powers. Without its hold on me, I could bring this tavern down to the ground on the laughing men and women who so enjoy the sight of my subjugation. I could end the lot of them and be the only one left standing in the rubble, reveling as their cruel jibing is turned to terror. But while that magic is blocked from my use, the leash seems to take no interest in the more simple things my witchcraft can do.

I lock eyes with the man who called me bitch, letting Ransom's constant pull on the leash direct the travel of my feet. The pockmarked brute of a man returns my gaze with a look of righteous scorn. When he reaches for his mug of stout, it is a simple matter for me to make his mind believe the near-empty mug is full. He lifts it with too much strength, splashing his face with what remains in the tankard.

It would have been a satisfying moment had I not tripped and stumbled on the leg of a chair as I walked without looking where I was going. I nearly fall before catching myself on a table and thrusting myself forward to find a little slack in the leash. Ransom's swift pace forces me to trot along behind him, making me feel like a pony led by a larger horse. But I make the effort, willing to suffer the indignity of almost running behind him rather than put up with literally being pulled by the leash.

I am relieved when we finally reach the stables and I can come to a stop. I watch him tend to his horse so tenderly, at once dispelling any thought that I was some pony he was leading. A pony would have received far better care than he offers me. Leaning against a wall of the stable, I try to disguise that I am trying to catch my breath, though my chest is still rising and falling rapidly against the front of my dress. The thought of those same breasts brushing across his shoulder comes unbidden to my mind, but I push it away.

"I imagine there is little chance I will not embarrass you, Sir Witchfinder. It seems to be nearly all I do."

Despite my words, I set my mind to the task of not embarrassing him when this examination takes place. The thought of it is ridiculous, of course. I am not some potentially vermin-ridden and louse-infested criminal who needs a thorough inspection and cleaning. Before the leashing, it was a simple enough matter to keep myself pestilence-free with my magic.

My greater focus, however, is on his restatement of what has been his plan all along. He plans to rid himself of me in London. He will hand my leash off to the care of another Witchfinder and be done with me. Earlier, I had viewed that eventuality as a blessing. Better to be rid of this man. I had seen him in action. Even without the intervention of my magic, most of his brethren would have died under Jonathan's assault. I had believed I would be better served to be in the care of another. It was strange to discover that our little encounter in the tavern was beginning to change that thought in my mind.

Without any preamble, I move a couple feet and hike up my skirts to squat and relieve myself on some hay that has clearly been put to similar use by the stables' regulars. Traveling with rough men as I have been these past few years has dismissed any cares a younger me might have had about such things. I do find myself taking less care to conceal the bare flesh of my calf and thigh from him, however, as I set myself to the task.

"You know, since you are so desirous to rid yourself of my presence, we could make better time if you let me share the horse with you instead of being tugged along behind."

 

[CyranoDeBergerac]

The slight tickle of her use of magic had resonated in his mind, though her clumsiness had certainly served as a distraction as a result, Ransom did not react to it or decide to hold it against her. Perhaps it was a sign of him holding too much charity towards the maleficar that he did not scold her as he had every right to. But another part of him recognized that she was lashing out at the louts and lecher who had been commenting on her and fucking her with their eyes the entire time she had been in their presence. If he had known her temptation to do greater harm to them, known of just how much the power she could wield had corrupted her understanding of right and wrong, then he would have taken one of the horse whips hanging in the stable to her supple behind until the very idea of thinking about sitting in a saddle would make her weep and wish that her mother had never so much as smiled at her father.

He did not know though, and in exchange for that mercy he was reminded of the shamelessness that she had learned when living among brigands and savages. This was hardly the first time he had been reminded about her wanton and shameless nature, and he didn't need that slight glimpse of alabaster calf and thigh to remember that she had been willingly travelling with rapers, cuthroats, and robbers for several years now. They had never spoken about it, but he ahd no doubt in his mind that she had exchanged carnal knowledge with at least one of the brigands he had killed in that ambush in the glen. Perhaps it was the judgemental portion of his sinful and fallen nature, but Magnus could not help but form the impression of her that she was one of those many lost sluts who, when falling in with a bad crowd, eagerly lifted their skirts above their head and laid their backs on a comely stump to allow the whole gang to take her in turns.

He had never voiced his theory on her prior experiences, though the thought and image had only come to his mind once or twice in the time he had known the maleficar.

While she made water and did her business he made his way to where he had tied her to a hook and took his end of the leash from her and tied it back on his belt with casual ease. His back was to her when he heard her complaint and suggestion, and he breathed a sigh of exasperation that would rival any school master dealing with a particularly bothersome student. Not that he had ever deigned to teach anyone anything but some manners and the basics of the martial arts of his craft.

" I weigh nearly fifteen stone on my own. Not to mention my weapons and kit. I don't plan on riding this horse today, and we can both agree that you riding while I walk would simply look ridiculous." There was something in his voice that would bring out the memories of their first few days together. Her hands bound in front of her, a rope gag between her teeth, and her leash tied to the saddle of his horse so that she was walking less than ten feet behind his horse's ass. In those days he had road sparringly because he could not be certain that she did not have more compatriots stalking in the woods waiting to rescue her. Compatriots who would be discouraged by the image of her being drug across the road and scraped on stones and roots as he road the horse at full gallop in front of her.

"Are you finished?"

 

[Fetterette]

When he mentions my riding the horse while he walked, my mind flashes back to when the opposite had been the case. I swear I can still taste the damnable hemp in my mouth and feel it’s scratchy presence at the corners of my mouth.

It had been a long, dusty, series of days, which had. made me truly question the wisdom in my decision to accept parole. I do not know which hurt more, my aching legs and arms from the forced march or my dignity at being strung along so. I am fairly certain it was the latter, though both were sure to make their case.

“You must know it would be easy for me to make your horse up to the task. Just give me a little access and, with my aid, the beast will have us in Londontown by nightfall.”

I finish my business, rising and getting my dress back into place.

“And yes, I know, there would be risk to your precious horse. Such magic can be hard on the body.”

I walk toward him, slowly. Just the thought of wielding the magic again has goosebumps rising on my flesh and the hair standing up on the back of my neck. The little taste of it inside the tavern has me suddenly craving more.

“I can assure you that I am quite skilled in this particular craft. You have probably heard talk of witches driving horses past the point when their hearts burst. But with the right touch and guidance, there is little true risk to the beast. The men I have used such magic on, some perhaps little more than beasts themselves, have described no ill effects from the magic, but rather quite a pleasurable experience.”

I am surprised by how quickly the words begin to tumble from me, and by how desperate I find myself to sway him to this idea. As I walk closer to him, looking up, the line of the leash bows down between us.

I am also surprised to find myself imagining this Ransom under the effects of the magic as well. I’d used it to enhance my partners’ stamina and virility before. What sort of effect would it have on one already so naturally vital? My eyes wander down over his powerful form at the thought.

Dueling frustrations war in me when my eyes finally make their way back to his face.

 

[CyranoDeBergerac]

From ancient times when humans told stories around their campfires to keep thier minds off the horrors that lurked in the shadows there were legends of the 'evil eye'. Call mati by the Greeks, malocchio by the Latins, to the Musselmen it was the eye of envy or the hot eye, all over the world there were different names for the phenomenon and different ways to protect against it. Some wore charms around their necks, or painted counter-spells on their skin or clothes. Others required such abstract components as virgin's piss, goat blood, chewed root or countless other solutions that you could only learn from old spinster women who seemed to have nothing else to do with their days but sit about and distribute wisdom to those foolish youths who found themselves in need of it.

It was such an eye that Ransom fixed her with as she approached him, talking about using her magic on the horse that he had purchased. The horse that had been nothing but loyal to him and that he had needed to purchase only after her comrades had tried to cut his previous mount into horse steaks. Not only was she asking to use her powers in a way that would more likely than not harm the animal, and at the minium create a great amount of distress for the beast. All for her personal convenience. It was the exact type of magic that had gotten her into this position in the first place. Not that it was malignant or with blatant ill-intent, but that it was callous, counter to God, and created from a selfish need to be a master over all things that were in her surroundings. She simply could not fathom the value of humility and dedication to a purpose.

On top of it all she suggested it while approaching him with her hips swaying from side to side, clear lustful intent in her eyes and on her lips. Eyeing him up as if he were a piece of meat, fit to ride until he was worn down and then tossed aside. It was frustration at the difference between her and the demure image that she had put on at the table. There was no magic in his glare, but simply disappointment and anger. Wanting to cow her into obedience with a simple glare and grimace. But the look in her eyes as they came back to him set his temper ablaze.

With a bestial grunt his large hands reached out and gripped her firmly in two places. The first was in her hair, by the roots not the ends, and the second was at her hips, pulling at the fabric of her dress. With no effort he hefted her over his head and onto the saddle, perpendicular to the spine of the horse. With one hand still in her hair he grabbed one wrist and then the other, taking the chord of her leash and wrapping it around her wrists again and again, lashing them together tightly so that any attempt to move them would also pull at her leash. Taking his end of the chord he tied it to the saddle straps, criss-crossing over her back to keep her in place, her breasts hanging over one end of the saddle and her legs over the other. Satisfied that she was staying in place he removed his hand from her hair and reached into one of his pouches and withdrew the rope gag, with two loops to go around her ears to hold it in place. Stepping in front of her he lifted her head, so that she was looking at him.

"Open. Your. Mouth." He commanded holding up the gag, unaware of the way his breeches had tented to show that there was more than one horsce cock in the stables.

 

[Fetterette]

Throughout my life, relatively short as it has been in the grand scheme of things, I have always had a knack for reading people. It has always been easy for me to suss out the hidden meaning behind spoken words. By knowing and recognizing the desires of those around me, I have often been able to find the ways to join their interests to my own. Some might call it manipulation. I prefer to think of it as finding the most advantageous common ground.

This particular gift of mine, however, does come with a critical flaw that occasionally gets me into trouble. The problems that follow are never small ones. It had done so once with Jonathan. In that case, I had been too blinded by my arrogance and desire for vengeance to recognize that I was the one being manipulated. As I approach Ransom, so confident that I have read him, I do not know that I am walking into another of my failures.

Of course, I recognize my mistake, too late, when his strong hands are suddenly in my hair and on my dress. I cry out, both in pain and surprise, as he lifts me so easily into the air and upends me over the saddle of the horse. Had I been a thinking creature in this moment, I would have gone docile and allowed him to work. But, under the sudden assault, there is no thinking. I fight him like a wild animal, kicking at him and trying to yank my hands free of his iron grip. But he has the strength advantage, and I have no leverage.

As the rope begins to tightly encircle my trapped wrists behind me, my fighting begins to subside. The rational part of my mind is back in charge, and I know that struggling will only make what is to come worse. I close my eyes, panting for breath as my breasts heave against the smooth saddle. And still the line of my leash continues to make looks around my wrists behind me.

"What are you doing?" I ask as I feel the short length between my throat and hands grow taut, forcing me to keep my hands lifted up a little behind me. The question comes unbidden to my lips, and I hate the scared tenor to my voice as the words tumble out.

I squirm as I lie there, bent uncomfortably over the horse's back. I feel the rest of the line used across my back, an unseen web of robe that keeps me firmly in place. Twisting my hands just a little in their bonds behind me, I try to reach for any way to free them. The effort ends almost immediately, though, when I gasp as the knotted line around my throat squeezes tight. I swallow hard, beginning to feel a little panic well up in me at the thought of spending the day like this.

And then you come around in front of me and make matters that much worse with the promise of that damnable rope gag. It has been the worst part of a terrible ordeal, and I had thought to have put it behind us. I open my eyes, taking a deep breath through my nose, as I try to decide how to deal with this situation. Is there any path to mercy left open to me?

But then my eyes light on the state of the Witchfinder's trousers, and that promising press of flesh that is clearly straining to escape.

Poor thing, I think. It's trapped, just like me.

So, the Witchfinder is not devoid of carnal desires after all. Seeing his member there in its tight breech-y cocoon, my mind goes back to the pleasant thoughts of diversion I had been enjoying just a few moments earlier. I tear my eyes away from the spectacle and look up, as best I can, into my keeper's eyes.

I can think of no words to say. If I know the man at all, then simple obedience and acceptance will better serve me than any apology I could offer. Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth for him.

 

[CyranoDeBergerac]

Her judgement of the sitaution and her best way to move forward with it was far better than her judgement of the situation that had earned his this particular punishment and humiliation. His eyes were dark, not a killing dark like they had been in the ambush where he had fought like a rage-filled man with blood of ice; nor were they dark in a wolfish sense, like a hound about to rape a bitch in heat. Instead the darkness was of a different kind entirely. Not evil, not wicked, but simply absorbing the light that was within the stables and refusing to allow any of the goodness in the world escaping him. Through an adctive resistance to baser instincts, and Herculean willpower, Ransom strived to keep himself within the light of God and away from the shadows.

Shadows where women like her were waiting to tempt him in.

There was no unnecessary roughness in his fingers as he pressed the knotted chord back between her teeth. As he did so his rough and calloused fingers brushed against her lips, and against the soft skin of her cheeks. They were callouses from years of killing work., particularly prominent on the first joint of each trigger finger, across his palm, and between his littlest finger and the heels of his hands. Who knew how many lives had been snuffed out by the hands that now bordered in her face? Certainly he must have lost count after so many had fallen beneath his blade and bullet. Or perhaps he saw them in his dreams at night and needed something warm beside him to take away the memories? He did not talk of such things, and certainly not with her, leaving all of the time she would be spending in the saddle to speculate.

The braid had not been washed or run through water since the last time that she had been forced to wear it, and also like last time he did not take the time to stretch the chord to properly fit her mouth even though the knots were obviously there for him to do so. Instead he pushed the braid back far enough that it was resting on her molars so that her lips were pressed out and her drool would eventually slip down her skin. The errant bristles of chord brushing against her gums and cheeks. Taking the loops of the chord he wrapped them over her ears so that they held tight. If kept on too long they might rub against the backs of her ears and create blisters, but that wouldn't be too likely on their short ride.

Once he was satisfied she wouldn't be moving, he took the cutlass from hiw pack and strapped it to his belt. With her hanging over the saddle he wouldn't have the time needed to draw his muskets or his claymore if anything serious happened. Not that he expected trouble this close to the city. Or, he expected trouble less here than he did in other places he had been. With all things in order he flung the reins back onto the saddle, carrying not when they cracked against the backs of her thighs, and began to walk on their journey. He gave no care to the eyes of the people they passed, both outside of the inn and along the road. It would not be a long days travel, in fact they would hopefully reach the house of the doctor he knew well before dark, but the whole way he walked beside the horse and her, on the right side where her toes were hanging off, and did not stop until they were outside the walls of his friend's house.

 

[Fetterette]

The return of the rope gag between my lips is, somehow, even less pleasant than I had anticipated. In the blessed interlude in which the damnable thing was not attached to me, I had forgotten some of the finer points of its simplistic cruelty. The scratchy strands of hempen rope press back into the corners of my lips, forcing them into an uncomfortable grimace. Despite my best attempts at swallowing it back, I know that soon my saliva will be drooling out of my mouth. Pulled tight and knotted behind my head, that same rough material presses against my ears, abrading them. The wetness of my mouth serves to reawaken the many foul flavors that had been dried and imprisoned in the hemp. I gag on the dank taste of it as it fills my senses, body convulsing where I am bound firmly in place across the saddle.

They have not been walking long when I begin to feel light-headed, blood rushing to my head. Biting down on the rope knot, the action wringing a fresh burst of its flavor from it, I arch my back. The effort lifts my head enough to gradually let the blood rush back out of it. I look around, the world partially obscured by hair around my face that refuses to shake out of the way. There is no sign of Ransom. He must be on the other side of the horse.

Bound hands balled into tight fists behind me as I strain to keep my head aloft, my thoughts linger on the image of the Witchfinder's cock similarly straining against his breeches. I wonder what might have been the cause of it. In my days since my mentor's passing, I've known men who are stimulated by the act of controlling a woman. Could that be the case with Ransom? This would seem a fitting profession for a man with such inclinations.

I groan as I fall back forward to hang down once more, the muscles of my torso deciding that they are done with the effort. I breathe hard through flared nostrils, chest heaving from the exertion. Returning to the position seems to tighten the press of the rope around my throat as well, tethered as it is to my bound hands. Snorting with frustration, I force my pinned hands further up my back to lessen the pull on my throat. My shoulder muscles immediately protest the treatment.

If Ransom simply enjoyed tying girls up, however, it seems unlikely he would be planning to drop me into the care of another in London. Would not a man motivated by such desires look for any excuse he could find to keep such a charge? Could it be, then, that there is something about me that has spurred the Witchfinder's interest?

Before long, there is room for such thinking in my mind. The ride becomes a precarious balancing act as I shift my positioning to the little extent allowed by the restraining rope. I dance a cruel little number, each step becoming a shorter stop as my body grows so very weary of the efforts. By the time we've arrived at our destination, my face is covered in the sweat and drool of my exertions. I hang down limply in the saddle, the leash tight around my throat, and unable to find the strength to fight it any longer.

 

[CyranoDeBergerac]

Ransom ahd trussed plenty of parolees and others over the back of plenty of horses over the year. He was not a bounty hunter by trade, a fact that he had established often and repeatedly over the years, but that did not mean he would turn a blind eye to those who did injustice and wickedness upon his path. In his many travels and many trades he had found cause to tie just as many knots in as many ways as could be imagined. While there was technique and skill in knot-tying, any sailor could testify to this fact, but there had been no deliberate technique or cunning that had been put into the knots that tied her to his saddle. That his quick-tempered knots had left her in such a humiliating position of exertion had been a simple coincidence, one that had resulted in a bit of entertainment for those merchants and dregs who were making their way out of the city. At first her exertions had annoyed Ransom, who had simply desired a quiet day's walk, but after a time he came accustomed to the sound of the maleficar struggling against her bounds to find some form of comfort. It would also make her more pliable when they reached his acquintances mansion and she needed to submit to a medical examination.

It was well passed midday when they arrived at the mansion, a walled off park around a many roomed home just outside of the city. Close enough to Londontown to be involved in Londontown business, but far enough away to escape the hustle and bustle of politics and city life when the urge called on his sensibilities to tend to his horticulture and his estate. Bringing the horse to a stop, Magnus fed the horse oats and an apple from his hand, extending the time that Charlotte was bound in her predicament. Not out of any callous cruelty towards her, but a simple affection for the horse that had carried her and their supplies. The horse had done nothing but what God had created it for, and had served in its purpose well. The journey without rest was no punishment for the horse and he horse deserved to know that.

Once the horse was cared for he turned his attention to the parolee, and for the first time examined the way that he had trussed her up and realized the ingeniusness of the knots he had accidentally divised in his wroth. It took some work to unbind her in such a way that did not choke her or leave her falling to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Instead, he worked the ropes so that her body wiggled and squirmed, his hands getting too close to curves he did not want to touch before finally releasing her from the binds and gently lowering her to the ground.

"Here, take this. Rest a moment before we go to see the natural philosopher. He will examine us, give us our permits and perhaps lodge us for the night. He is a good man." There was a sternness in his voice in those last five words, as if admonishing her premptively for any attempts to take advantage of the man's hospitality and warm his bed. Despite that, he still withdrew a water skin from his bags, as well as a honk of bread, some cheese and a little jerky, placing it in her numb fingers.