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Sylvan Varain
Mortal-King
- Joined
- Dec 15, 2018
- Location
- Princehome.
Don't care about my partner's IRL gender or sex. Not relevant to me. Those interested would be playing the captured (Emperor/Prince/Empress/Queen/Princess) for a short-term, albeit high quality smut plot. Details can be discussed between us, but the presumed explanation is that they were taken prisoner amidst a battle several months ago by a slave rebellion leader. I do have a larger universe that this takes place in, but the importance of worldbuilding is tenuous at best. I'm happy to waffle on about it, but it isn't crucial to know anything in particular.
"Magnificent." Sylvan says matter-of-factly, eyes cast up from where he delicately cuts out ice from a solid block. His attentions are admirably divided between his diligent work at a mahogany sideboard emblazoned with at least twenty golden and silver eagles, each one taken from a Legion he'd defeated, and the object of his admiration crowning the back wall. To him the sideboard is nothing at all, nor the pair of crystal goblets he'd set atop it whose inscriptions date them back three centuries. God only knows what the immaculate tentroom they were in was worth, but Sylvan suspects he could buy all of Marlas with it. For him, all the gold in the world meant nothing now.
"She'll be alright," Sylvan says, distracted, sitting in fine composure on a velvet-lined recliner whose owner had retreated not five miles away, unaware of what company was occupying his throne. That thought pleased him to no end, as did what had lay between the two rivals draped haphazardly over the stately round table like a dining cloth. The actual dining cloth, priceless muslin, lay shredded in drifts around the freshly-scratched legs, along with broken porcelain and dropped table silver. Sylvan had cleared it all with the shuddering body of one of your handmaidens, Molly, who now served as the room's centerpiece. He smirked when he realized her ass was redder than the mahogany. "She's Thessian. They're sturdy, as you know."
It reminded you of a long weekend he'd put her through who-knows how many seasons ago, of the effect one wound-up, sadistic boy could have on a masochistic slave. In the case of Molly she really was a slave, at least until Sylvan had cracked her collar open as he used her on the table, and bade her cum as a free woman. Now it seemed he'd gone a touch too far, and left Molly tremoring in her sleep from the aftershocks of pleasure.
He'd fucked her so hard he'd cracked the table, and spanked her so deeply that thin lines of blood pooled along her well-tanned ass, and yet her stamina - and that look in her eyes when he'd let her cum - told him all he needed to know. He'd entered the room hiding his refined, wolven nature in plain northern wool dyed charcoal gray, making him look more like a mercenary or a roving druid than what he is. Not that anybody knew whatever he was. Nor does the Empress know what he's hiding behind her, though to look up and see would mean surrendering to his mind games. Now his clothes lay scattered across the floor, leaving him distractingly bear and looking no less for wear because of it.
Not even he can drink so much imperial vintage brandy straight, and, so, dashing it with coffee and apportioning ice, offers both of them a gauntlet.
"The Colosseums used to run on coffee, you know," he muses, almost sounding tender about his old profession. "They don't run on much of anything anymore. Shocking how little bloodsport there can be during a war. Except here."
The great tide of mercenaries and enlistees swirls outside as if a storm wracked the world, both distant and impossibly atop them, readying to be swept by her armies into the Rhine and liberate her- or execute her. It was impossible to say in these times.
And he was impossibly confident, unconcerned, sipping on aristocratic drink as he admires each of the beautiful things he's gathered in the room- he's too respectful to leer at the sleeping woman, so he chooses to admire you instead, revealing at least one of the things he was referring to when he said magnificent.
(Kinks? Nearly every single vanilla and lukewarm one there is. Limits? Non-con, tentacles, the usual fanfare.)
"Magnificent." Sylvan says matter-of-factly, eyes cast up from where he delicately cuts out ice from a solid block. His attentions are admirably divided between his diligent work at a mahogany sideboard emblazoned with at least twenty golden and silver eagles, each one taken from a Legion he'd defeated, and the object of his admiration crowning the back wall. To him the sideboard is nothing at all, nor the pair of crystal goblets he'd set atop it whose inscriptions date them back three centuries. God only knows what the immaculate tentroom they were in was worth, but Sylvan suspects he could buy all of Marlas with it. For him, all the gold in the world meant nothing now.
"She'll be alright," Sylvan says, distracted, sitting in fine composure on a velvet-lined recliner whose owner had retreated not five miles away, unaware of what company was occupying his throne. That thought pleased him to no end, as did what had lay between the two rivals draped haphazardly over the stately round table like a dining cloth. The actual dining cloth, priceless muslin, lay shredded in drifts around the freshly-scratched legs, along with broken porcelain and dropped table silver. Sylvan had cleared it all with the shuddering body of one of your handmaidens, Molly, who now served as the room's centerpiece. He smirked when he realized her ass was redder than the mahogany. "She's Thessian. They're sturdy, as you know."
It reminded you of a long weekend he'd put her through who-knows how many seasons ago, of the effect one wound-up, sadistic boy could have on a masochistic slave. In the case of Molly she really was a slave, at least until Sylvan had cracked her collar open as he used her on the table, and bade her cum as a free woman. Now it seemed he'd gone a touch too far, and left Molly tremoring in her sleep from the aftershocks of pleasure.
He'd fucked her so hard he'd cracked the table, and spanked her so deeply that thin lines of blood pooled along her well-tanned ass, and yet her stamina - and that look in her eyes when he'd let her cum - told him all he needed to know. He'd entered the room hiding his refined, wolven nature in plain northern wool dyed charcoal gray, making him look more like a mercenary or a roving druid than what he is. Not that anybody knew whatever he was. Nor does the Empress know what he's hiding behind her, though to look up and see would mean surrendering to his mind games. Now his clothes lay scattered across the floor, leaving him distractingly bear and looking no less for wear because of it.
Not even he can drink so much imperial vintage brandy straight, and, so, dashing it with coffee and apportioning ice, offers both of them a gauntlet.
"The Colosseums used to run on coffee, you know," he muses, almost sounding tender about his old profession. "They don't run on much of anything anymore. Shocking how little bloodsport there can be during a war. Except here."
The great tide of mercenaries and enlistees swirls outside as if a storm wracked the world, both distant and impossibly atop them, readying to be swept by her armies into the Rhine and liberate her- or execute her. It was impossible to say in these times.
And he was impossibly confident, unconcerned, sipping on aristocratic drink as he admires each of the beautiful things he's gathered in the room- he's too respectful to leer at the sleeping woman, so he chooses to admire you instead, revealing at least one of the things he was referring to when he said magnificent.
(Kinks? Nearly every single vanilla and lukewarm one there is. Limits? Non-con, tentacles, the usual fanfare.)