Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
littlelovelost
so bad at being good
- Joined
- Jan 10, 2024
- Location
- shiúl leis na sióga
Status :: Selectively Considering || Time Zone :: IST (GMT 0) || RP Locations :: PMs || Style :: 3rd Person
·.¸¸.· W E L C O M E ·.¸¸.·
~≛~
Hi! I'm littlelovelost, but you can call me Love or just 'L' for short if you'd like.
I am a literate roleplayer who loves to build and plot.
This thread contains some of the lost, lonely, ghosted or denied starters I've written in the last year or so. Some of them never got a response, other partners ghosted, sometimes the partnership did not align. I would like to find them a new home. I am happy to change elements of every character and each setting to fit our shared vision.
When you reach out, please come with your own ideas for YC and an RP sample.
Before you reach out, please make sure you read my main RT — A Little Love. I go into greater details about me, what I offer, my expectations and my boundaries and limits. You'll also find more information on my kinks.
***NOTE!: I am looking to build an RP off these starters. I'm not open to pitches at this time.***
~≛~
1. UNNAMED
SCI-FI / HORROR / SURVIVAL
Notes: Colonists journeying to a new system are pulled prematurely from cryostasis by their ship's AI.
STASIS CHAMBER 12A // COLONY SHIP COLUMBUS // DATE: UNKNOWN // TIME: UNKNOWN // STATUS: UNKNOWN
"Emergency. Emergency. Stasis interrupted. Emergency resuscitation procedure, initiated."
"Emergency. Emergency. Stasis interrupted. Emergency resuscitation procedure, initiated."
The unfathomable vastness of the cosmos spread out before her, like a weighted blanket with millions of tiny crystals intricately sewn into its fabric. This was where she floated; cocooned in the space between wake and sleep, content to watch and just be.
Of course, this thing could not last forever, and Fiadh was teetering on the precipice of awareness, though she wanted to fight it. No good things came from rude awakenings. Unless the person doing the awakening was warm and gentle and insistent on her attention. Alas, this was certainly not that kind of rousing. No, this was cold. Harsh. This hurt her ears.
She was ripped from the inky spacescape and dumped into living.
Fiadh's hazel eyes fluttered open and then widened as the cocktail of reanimation drugs began to course through her system like dozens of bats out of hell. Her jaw clenched, her hand shot out, palm pressed against the semiopaque portion of her pod's door. With frightening speed - much like dozens of band-aids being ripped from her too-sensitive skin - attachments detached with compressed-air spits and the breathing tube was yanked from her throat. She groaned and fought against the onslaught of nausea for as long as she could, until she finally admitted defeat, bent over a little, and spat the almost non-existent contents of her stomach out on the floor, where it got vacuumed away with the rest of the gross goop she'd been bathed in. But at least with that unpleasant purge, her mind was beginning to clear.
"CHRIS," she said, her voice hoarse and the word prompting a short coughing fit. Once she'd recovered, she tried again. "CHRIS. Report. Why am I undergoing emergency resus?"
Silence. The ship's failsafes had been triggered and the pods were expelling people automatically, but the ship's AI was non-responsive.
Better keep your distance from this whale...
"CHRIS. Respond!"
...Better keep your boat from going astray.
Two useful nuggets of information there in the terrifying peace of her stasis pod. The first, they were being awakened. The second, they were apparently awakening to an emergency.
And as tide must ebb and flow...
Fiadh's hand was shaking as she reached out, fingertips brushing off the internal panel. But the door did not budge. There was no telltale hiss of the hydraulics, nor the click of the unsealing mechanism. She tried again, this time harder. Nothing. Starting to panic, Fiadh slapped the panel, and then started banging on the door of the stasis pod. She knew that it was a wasted exercise; she was sealed inside and nobody would be able to hear her.
I am dragged down under.
HOLOLECTURE ROOM 2 // ETH Zürich // DATE: 03.03.2210 // TIME: 11:08 // STATUS: VERY MUCH ALIVE, THANKS
Dr. Fiadh Connolly had not attended a classroom lecture in person for some time, but the Initiative insisted that in-person classes encouraged team-building and bonding. She could see the rationale, if she was honest with herself, but she wasn't going on this one-way journey to bond with people.
"Welcome to the Advanced Emergency Response extension course, doctors. Taking into account your qualifications, your relevant experience and availability, you are all uniquely placed to provide some much needed assistance to the medical professionals assigned to Columbus. We will focus on emergency medicine, field triage, environmental assessment and threats..."
So you dream of Columbus, with your maps and your beautiful charts.
Jesus, but that song had been stuck in Fiadh's head for months. Ever since she'd been accepted; ever since she'd pledged her life to a ship, to an unknown destination, to a fucking feeling she had in her gut that just kept saying she had to go, she hadn't been able to stop singing it. The scientist had found herself questioning the significance of it. She'd tried to escape the idea that it was a sign; that the ship sharing a name with the beautiful folk song her mother used to sing to her when she'd awakened from nightmares was a fated thing.
So you dream of Columbus, every time that the panic starts.
Fiadh was not a woman of gods and portents; Fiadh was a woman of science. She believed in what she could see, even if her chosen field of study was predominantly theoretical...
"That's a mighty pretty name." Her neighbour was leaning over, his curious gaze darting across her chest before it rested on the little nametag. "How do I say it, if you don't mind my askin', ma'am?"
"How do you know it's pretty if you can't pronounce it?"
Their accents duelled in the air for attention. Hers held the unmistakable lilt of Ireland; she'd never been able to fully escape it, no matter how far she'd travelled; his was all elongated vowels and distinctive southern American drawl.
Not to be deterred, her Cowboy made a decent stab at it. "Fee-ya?"
"Close enough." The shrug was delicate, though her tiny frame was otherwise still. She hadn't even looked in his direction.
"... You will all add unique perspectives to the surveys," the automated lecturer carried on, unbothered by the chatting attendees. "With expertise in the fields of biochemistry, engineering, exobiology-" Pictures flickered on each student's panel, showing a string of faces and their associated CVs. Fiadh's image stared back at her.
"Finally gettin' the chance to put that degree to use, huh? Well, ain't that somethin'. Y'know, there's this place, in Weinplatz—"
"Nope."
"It's got the best damn bourbon I've had since leavin' the States—"
"Nah."
"I could show you later—"
"Niet." With one very quick swipe of her wrist, Fiadh plunged her learning pod into blessed noise cancellation mode. The glass barrier between her and her Cowboy neighbour darkened to a deep, slate grey, hiding her from view. Fiadh Connolly had stuff to learn.
"We will start with common complications of the resuscitation process."
You dream of Columbus, with an ache in your travelling heart.
STASIS CHAMBER 12A // COLONY SHIP COLUMBUS // DATE: UNKNOWN // TIME: UNKNOWN // STATUS: UNKNOWN
Maybe she should have gone for that drink with him. It was the first thought she had when Dr. Cowboy appeared in front of her stasis pod, his mouth moving with unusual quickness as he chattered uselessly at her. Fiadh raised her hand and tapped her ear, her eyes wide with urgency, and he stared back at her, his body floating at a strange angle, his... manly appendage at an even stranger one.
Fiadh pointed toward the panel on the outside pane, her index finger pressing. After a few moments, Dr. Cowboy caught on. Beyond, the world looked fucked.
She took a deep, desperate breath when she was finally loosed from her cryo cage. Cowboy offered his arm, which she took, needing to steady herself in the sudden shift to microgravity. The chamber next to hers was shorting; making snapping sounds in the cold corridor. Further down the row, a woman was shouting.
"Hey, I need some help here, this asshole is trying to die again!"
Fiadh and Dr. Cowboy looked at each other. "You take that one," she said, chin lifting to indicate the sparking pod. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, but then he just nodded and released her. Using her own pod, Fiadh pulled herself toward the bright yellow box underneath it. With trembling fingers, she input the code and when it snapped open, she began to pull out its contents. Then she was gliding with an ease she did not feel toward the beautiful, screeching banshee.
It had felt like she'd completed her training only weeks before. Fiadh had no idea how long it really had been. But one thing at a time. One person at a time. That was all she could do.
"Adrenaline?" she asked, eyes on the depressed and discarded adiaptus. She hooked her foot around one of the transport rails and pulled herself down. Her knees crashed into the grated metal, but she let the jarring pain pass with just a grimace. "Okay, big lad." Fiadh's own heart was racing as she looked over the very large, very naked man, fresh from cryostasis and clearly having a terrible day about it. Her voice was low, soft, but somehow still audible above the panicked din of the pod chamber. "Okay, we've got ya." She leaned forward, her eyes meeting his as she smiled and nodded at him, prompting him to respond to her. She pressed her fingers to the side of his neck.
"Keep him down," she told the Banshee next to her. With renewed vigour, Fiadh pulled back and began to tug several items from the messenger bag she'd looped around her neck. Taking the Big Lad's hand, she pushed it through a circular device and then up over his wrist until it found a suitable position on his forearm. Once it did, it tightened around him and the AUTODOC sensors came to life immediately. With no hesitation, Fiadh activated the mobile electrocardiogram. A small holographic display shone in the space between them and almost immediately, the AUTODOC wailed like it was dying, its tinny alarms echoing off the walls. Fiadh tapped mute.
"Cardiac arrhythmia." A series of compartments opened along the side of the device and Fiadh reached in and began to pull. She tore at a sterile packet with her teeth, pulling several small electrodes from within. "Your heart, Big Lad, is going like the clappers right now. Too much, too fast, no rhythm. Like my first boyfriend." She continued to chatter while she placed several of the sticky pads on the man's chest. "We're going to do cardioversion. I know, I know, it hurts. The AUTODOC is going to administer a few shocks to get your heart rhythm back to normal. Okay? Three, two—"
Fiadh went before she got to one. The medical device attached to his forearm did the rest; matching the low-grade shocks with the rhythm of the man's heart until everything stabilised.
Only then could Fiadh take a moment to look up. To look around. To see the blood and the panicked faces, many white with shock, to hear the shouts and the pleas.
"We have to get out of micro-g," she said to nobody.
2. PRINCESS PROMISED
FANTASY / ROMANCE / PRINCESSxBODYGUARD
Notes: I have had the worst luck with stories like this one. The premise is simple! Princess is promised to a beastly tyrant and on the way to his castle she'll encounter bandits, monsters, assassins and love.
The incessant knocking on the door was an intrusion. Even from beneath the surface of the lukewarm bath, within which Princess Bianca Solaris of Vashala was submerged and warm, she could hear the infernal noise. It was impatient at best, impertinent at worst. It could only be of Petra's making. The queen consort had already been dressed and ready for the grand ball when Bianca had fallen into her suite of rooms, hair askew from the rush, ink smeared across her cheek. Both Petra and her lady's maid, horrified by Bianca's tardiness, had stripped her and bundled her immediately into the claw-footed tub.
She'd ordered them from the bathing rooms, not wishing for an audience or the harsh scrubbing of her lady's maid's hardened hands, promising to be expedient. Of course, Bianca had no such intention. Instead, she'd stretched out her shapely legs and basked in the heat that enveloped her; lemon verbena-scented water lapping against her sun-kissed skin. Inch by warm inch, she'd sank into the water, releasing sighs and clenched muscles, longing for relaxation as the tub eagerly consumed her body.
Tendrils of long, loose auburn curls spread out around her head, moving lazily in the gentle waves of displacement. Under the water, she was alone. She had heard none but her own ideas, her wandering thoughts, and the steady th-thump of her curious heart.
Until the knocking. Until Petra's raised voice.
"Hurry, you fop of a girl! Or I will send all of your maids to you!"
Bianca balked at such a threat. She loosed a groan, the action causing a stream of bubbles to slip free of her mouth and pop on the surface. Without the slow grace of her initial submergence, she pushed herself up violently, sloshing water over the sides of her tub and onto the marble tiled floor. "You would not dare, Petra!" She called, a warning in her voice that echoed around the bathing rooms.
"I would, Princess. I assure you that the King's wrath is a powerful motivator, and I deem that your father would be most displeased with me should his daughter be unpunctual for this special feast."
Petra, as free as she was with her tongue, spoke truth with it. So, with a put-upon sigh, Bianca rose from the rub and stepped out of it, her foot hitting the warmed floor in what might have been a stomp had she been wearing boots. Rivulets of cooling water streamed down her naked body, over the peaks of her breasts, hardened from the sudden onslaught of cool air against warm skin. Suppressing a shudder, Bianca paused for long enough to wrap a fluffy towel around herself before stepping outside into the chaos that had transformed her rooms.
"There you are, mistress!" Exclaimed Cora, her dutiful lady's maid, as she descended upon her. Within mere seconds, she'd whipped the protection of the towel from her and she, along with two other maids that looked vaguely familiar to Bianca, began to roughly pat her dry. With significant effort, Bianca kept her mouth shut. She stood on the spot, her spine straight and shoulders back, just as she'd been taught to. They fussed over her hands and feet and applied creams and oils to her arms and bust. It was when Cora stepped forward with a bottle of perfume, ready to spray Bianca liberally, that she finally reacted. "No, not this time." She held up her hand and shook her head, still-wet hair gliding over her bare back.
"But, Princess! It is the latest parfum from Estel! All the ladies are wearing it!"
"If I wanted to smell like sickly sweet flowers I would go and roll about in my aunt's rosebushes." The scents from Estel were lauded as the most elegant and desirable by the ladies at court, but they made Bianca's skin itch and overpowered the subtle citrus of her favoured soaps from her body.
"Very well," Cora said, though her expression suggested things were far from well. She put the glass bottle down, nonetheless. In moments, she'd replaced it with undergarments. She knelt before the princess and waited for her to step into the linen contraptions. Once Bianca took the dutiful step forward, the other maids once again fell upon her, this time pushing and pulling her body into layers of trappings that a noble lady must abide.
Bianca watched in the mirror. The garters moved up her supple legs, snapping into place around her thighs. The silky slips fell down over her head, shoulders and breasts, before resting just a kiss above her hips. For perhaps a little longer than usual, Bianca's gaze faltered on her chest. Fashion of the day demanded a generous bust, and the display of same, and this evening would be no exception to that expectation.
She disliked the feeling of being so-trussed intensely. She had always enjoyed her body. It always moved exactly how she bid it to. Bianca was a child of the palace, underfoot and sometimes precocious, but now, even though she had become a woman of grace, she wondered if her shapely, dancer's form would always be dressed in such a manner. What would it be like to wear other things? Breeches like the men, or loose, cinched overshirts she had seen the ladies in the taverns wear? And boots... Oh, her kingdom not to have to wear these stupid shoes again.
She had heard other maids remark that men would stick their thingies in anything. Indeed, Bianca had gotten that very same impression from the tavern lads, too. Petra had assured her that above all else, suitors valued the exotic. With Bianca's unusual red locks and skin dusted with a light bronze, she did stick out somewhat in the Sol Court. While her father and older siblings were all of fair of tone, Bianca knew her mother, who had been warmer complexion, had been a novelty amongst the Vashalan Capitol's social set.
Finally, she stepped into the most important phase of her dressing: the ball gown itself. It was a wonder of sheer cream and gold; the tint of the material matching her eyes perfectly. The bodice was fitted with a modest V-neck and glittered with inset citrine jewels as they caught the light. It cinched at her tight waist and then flowed down over the curve of her hips. The skirt was long, sweeping and had a slit sewn into one side to facilitate ease of movement on the dancefloor. Suddenly a little self-conscious, Bianca reached up to finger the dainty straps.
Then she was manhandled into a chair, where people started alternating between pulling at her hair and wringing their hands.
"It is too wet to style in the fashion we had decided upon!"
"Quick, bring more towels!"
"No, it is no use. I know the Princess's hair and it will not dry as we expect it to. It is… unruly by nature."
The corners of Bianca's mouth twitched upward with amusement, but she quickly clamped down on it, pressing her lips together.
"We have no choice but to leave it loose." The maid said that last word like she was whispering a curse, but this time, Bianca's smile broke free. It was almost as though she'd planned not to have her hair tugged and wrestled into some torture contraption that no doubt some man had invented.
Petra was at her shoulder then. "Nobody will be looking at you for long, anyway, Princess," she said, and then began to pull a handful of curls on each side of her temples back. She twisted them into the beginnings of an intricate plait, starting at the nape of her neck. "Like this, ladies. You can add embellishments and more of the citrine as you go. But not too much, the Princess will also be wearing her tiara."
Clucking happily and remarking on how clever the Lady Petra was, they got to work on her hair. Another appeared - as if from nowhere, summoned by Bianca's lack of presentability - to brush some powder across her cheeks and lips. Bianca stared at herself in the mirror, delicate nose wrinkling as the freckles on her cheekbones all but disappeared beneath the magical make-up.
"His Royal Highness, Prince Leopold!" A distinctly masculine voice announced, causing all of the women in the room to straighten and glare at the interruption. They were not cross at their Prince, rather they beheld this space as sacred. Feminine. No place for a man. The herald was ushered out with a scolding, while the raven-haired, broad and handsome Prince made himself comfortable on one of the many chaise longues the room boasted.
"Sister, you are not ready."
"Sharp as a dagger, as always, dear Leo."
Leopold smiled languidly at Bianca, before summoning a servant over to pour him some wine. "What inappropriate activity held you this time? Learning to ride a horse in the masculine style? Teaching the gardeners more Apachian words of profanity? Reciting bawdy limericks at the nearest tavern?"
Bianca's gaze, suddenly sharp, speared the image of her brother in the mirror before her. She watched him closely for a few moments, trying to determine the intention behind his words - if there was one to be found. It was Petra who saved her, providing the true answer. "Her Highness was attending a lecture with the Royal Healer."
Leopold could not know that she had been sneaking out of the palace in the evenings, disguised as another, to patronise several taverns. It had been one of the few things that Bianca had to look forward to in this past year, what with the kingdom in such turmoil. It would be the thing that would have to stop soon. She would be expected to marry. But not now, no, surely not yet, she had some time before…
"Father will be announcing plans tonight." Leopold had met her stare in the mirror. His expression was not recriminating, nor did it hold that sly note of cunning that she would expect it to had he been apprised of her gross misbehaviour. No, her half-brother looked almost sympathetic. The corners of his eyes tightened and he took a long draft from his goblet.
"Father has promised that he would consult with me before responding to any offers or proposals," Bianca told him, her own expression carefully blank.
"Father has promised many things. To many people, and to his kingdom. You know what turning nine-and-ten years means, Bee." Then Leo's eyes fell away, fixing on a point in the corner of the room. For a moment, he looked as though he would speak further, but then remembered that they were not alone. The Prince, much like the King, often forgot that their servants were present.
"It means celebrations," Petra put in, sensing the mood and attempting to redirect it. "Are you here to escort the guest of honour to the ball, my Prince?"
"Why else, my Lady?" Leopold shot back, going along with the subject change with ease. He smiled at Petra; a one-sided, crooked affair that made him look positively rakish. "It was hardly to see you."
"How you wound!" Petra gasped, feigning offense.
Leo's gaze flickered over the queen consort, his father's wife, stopping a little overlong on her bust. "You must allow me to make it up to you."
"Oh, enough, you two," Bianca said as she stood, pushing away the ladies with their arms outstretched, intent on far too many finishing touches. "I know of an inn that charges by the hour for rooms, if you are interested?"
"Do not tempt me," muttered Leo, who was finally dragging his eyes away from Petra long enough to offer his elbow to his sister. "As a lady, you should not know of such things, let alone speak of them. And as a gentleman, I shall pretend not to hear them." Petra fell into step behind them, giggling prettily.
The evening was balmy, and the restrictive nature of her dress only served to heighten her discomfort as Bianca waited with her brother in the wings to be announced. But despite that, she had noted the reactions of some of the staff, and indeed, most of the guards on duty, to her appearance. Eyes had widened and some had blushed, but none told her she looked nice. That would have been inappropriate.
"PRRRRESENTING!"
Began the Herald, who rolled that 'R' like it was trying to run away from him. At the bottom of the grand staircase, standing atop the shining, inky-black marble of the grand foyer, which opened into the grand ballroom, each guest stopped and turned.
They waited with bated breath for the grand entrance. Some had expectancy or excitement in their eyes. Others, boredom. More still, cold, detached judgment. Bianca was unsure which discomfited her most.
"His Royal Highness, Firstborn Son of King Crux, Prince of Vashala and Heir to the Vashalan Crown, Prince Leopold Solaris, first of his name!" He paused for applause. "And INTRRRRRODUCING! Her Royal Highness, Daughter of King Crux, Princess of Vashala and Delight of all the Star Realms, Princess Bianca Solaris!"
With a completely benign smile plastered on her face, Bianca descended the first flight of stairs, moving alongside her brother until they had reached the first landing. From there, the grand staircase swept downward, giving everyone a perfect view of the guests of honour. There, her brother kissed her hand and stepped to the side, allowing her the spotlight.
With practiced ease, the princess bent a knee slightly and dropped into formal half-curtsey. She bowed her head to the congregated; her would-be subjects, tiara remaining in place with the subtle tilt and drop of chin. The hundreds of tiny amber crystals and citrine stones caught the light cast by the candelabras and sparkled, drawing eyes and gasps from everywhere. After a few moments of twinkling, Bianca straightened and smiled as the guests broke into an appreciative applause. Then her brother was at her side once more, ushering her down the rest of the stairs and into the throng.
Thank fuck that's over.
She hadn't fallen. The tiara hadn't slid off her unruly head of curls. She was yet to be truly challenged in some ways, but so far she hadn't forgotten any important names. Most of those important names had taken her dance book immediately, which was tied to her wrist with a golden silk ribbon, and had added their names for her. She was going to be dancing a lot.
But Bianca did not mind that. In fact, it was the one thing about this whole charade that she had been looking forward to. She stepped into the grand ballroom proper, on the arm of some toff, and her eyes glittered at the sight of countless couples engaged in a Sun Waltz. With a light step she was swept across the floor, her worries about her father and his deals right out of her mind... Until the man himself stood in the center of the royal dais, and with a wave of his hand, silenced the entire throng.
"Noble ladies and gentleman. Heads of our grand city's hallowed households. Citizens of Vashala, esteemed visitors and treasured guests, welcome." The grand King inclined his head ever so slightly to the amassed in the grand banquet hall, while most present raised their hands in polite applause. It died down quickly, and the King ploughed on with his overly verbose speech. "I have thrown this event with the hope that I can share some long-awaited, much-anticipated news. For too long, we have suffered at the hands of our aggressors to the east. For too long, we have been victims to their barbarism, to their filthy savagery and their demands. They have taken much from us, but we have fought valiantly. So valiantly, in fact, that they have agreed to come to the negotiating table."
Murmurs of surprise were abound, but Bianca frowned, staring up at her father from her spot on the dancefloor, some confusion evident in her expression. This was the first she had heard of any current negotiations, and certainly they were not a result of the valiance of the Vashalan. They'd been losing on many fronts for a while now.
"As a gesture of my generosity and good will, I have entered into these talks offering a boon for the Crinta and their royal family." He turned a wide smile out on the crowd, but his sharp eyes were scanning. Once they alighted on Bianca, he gestured toward her. The crowd parted and turned, all eager to see what the King was about to do. "My youngest daughter, the apple of my eye, the jewel of my brood, the beautiful Bianca... is to marry Riyil'na of Crinta, the Crintan Prince."
All colour drained from Bianca's face. Had she her wits about her, she might have noticed the expressions on the faces of the guests. Some held horror, others, particularly the men, looked almost excited. But the ones she knew and loved - Leopold's in particular - held heartbreak.
But all she could see, all she could think about, was her future. It would be short. It would be bleak. She might want to end it before it began. Riyil'na the Rapist, that's what the soldiers called him. Bianca took several steps back and then swiftly turned, her eyes on the exit. "Guards!" Called King Crux from the dais. "Escort the Princess to the stables. She is to leave at once. It is important to our future peace that the Princess is delivered to the Crinta safely."
She'd ordered them from the bathing rooms, not wishing for an audience or the harsh scrubbing of her lady's maid's hardened hands, promising to be expedient. Of course, Bianca had no such intention. Instead, she'd stretched out her shapely legs and basked in the heat that enveloped her; lemon verbena-scented water lapping against her sun-kissed skin. Inch by warm inch, she'd sank into the water, releasing sighs and clenched muscles, longing for relaxation as the tub eagerly consumed her body.
Tendrils of long, loose auburn curls spread out around her head, moving lazily in the gentle waves of displacement. Under the water, she was alone. She had heard none but her own ideas, her wandering thoughts, and the steady th-thump of her curious heart.
Until the knocking. Until Petra's raised voice.
"Hurry, you fop of a girl! Or I will send all of your maids to you!"
Bianca balked at such a threat. She loosed a groan, the action causing a stream of bubbles to slip free of her mouth and pop on the surface. Without the slow grace of her initial submergence, she pushed herself up violently, sloshing water over the sides of her tub and onto the marble tiled floor. "You would not dare, Petra!" She called, a warning in her voice that echoed around the bathing rooms.
"I would, Princess. I assure you that the King's wrath is a powerful motivator, and I deem that your father would be most displeased with me should his daughter be unpunctual for this special feast."
Petra, as free as she was with her tongue, spoke truth with it. So, with a put-upon sigh, Bianca rose from the rub and stepped out of it, her foot hitting the warmed floor in what might have been a stomp had she been wearing boots. Rivulets of cooling water streamed down her naked body, over the peaks of her breasts, hardened from the sudden onslaught of cool air against warm skin. Suppressing a shudder, Bianca paused for long enough to wrap a fluffy towel around herself before stepping outside into the chaos that had transformed her rooms.
"There you are, mistress!" Exclaimed Cora, her dutiful lady's maid, as she descended upon her. Within mere seconds, she'd whipped the protection of the towel from her and she, along with two other maids that looked vaguely familiar to Bianca, began to roughly pat her dry. With significant effort, Bianca kept her mouth shut. She stood on the spot, her spine straight and shoulders back, just as she'd been taught to. They fussed over her hands and feet and applied creams and oils to her arms and bust. It was when Cora stepped forward with a bottle of perfume, ready to spray Bianca liberally, that she finally reacted. "No, not this time." She held up her hand and shook her head, still-wet hair gliding over her bare back.
"But, Princess! It is the latest parfum from Estel! All the ladies are wearing it!"
"If I wanted to smell like sickly sweet flowers I would go and roll about in my aunt's rosebushes." The scents from Estel were lauded as the most elegant and desirable by the ladies at court, but they made Bianca's skin itch and overpowered the subtle citrus of her favoured soaps from her body.
"Very well," Cora said, though her expression suggested things were far from well. She put the glass bottle down, nonetheless. In moments, she'd replaced it with undergarments. She knelt before the princess and waited for her to step into the linen contraptions. Once Bianca took the dutiful step forward, the other maids once again fell upon her, this time pushing and pulling her body into layers of trappings that a noble lady must abide.
Bianca watched in the mirror. The garters moved up her supple legs, snapping into place around her thighs. The silky slips fell down over her head, shoulders and breasts, before resting just a kiss above her hips. For perhaps a little longer than usual, Bianca's gaze faltered on her chest. Fashion of the day demanded a generous bust, and the display of same, and this evening would be no exception to that expectation.
She disliked the feeling of being so-trussed intensely. She had always enjoyed her body. It always moved exactly how she bid it to. Bianca was a child of the palace, underfoot and sometimes precocious, but now, even though she had become a woman of grace, she wondered if her shapely, dancer's form would always be dressed in such a manner. What would it be like to wear other things? Breeches like the men, or loose, cinched overshirts she had seen the ladies in the taverns wear? And boots... Oh, her kingdom not to have to wear these stupid shoes again.
She had heard other maids remark that men would stick their thingies in anything. Indeed, Bianca had gotten that very same impression from the tavern lads, too. Petra had assured her that above all else, suitors valued the exotic. With Bianca's unusual red locks and skin dusted with a light bronze, she did stick out somewhat in the Sol Court. While her father and older siblings were all of fair of tone, Bianca knew her mother, who had been warmer complexion, had been a novelty amongst the Vashalan Capitol's social set.
Finally, she stepped into the most important phase of her dressing: the ball gown itself. It was a wonder of sheer cream and gold; the tint of the material matching her eyes perfectly. The bodice was fitted with a modest V-neck and glittered with inset citrine jewels as they caught the light. It cinched at her tight waist and then flowed down over the curve of her hips. The skirt was long, sweeping and had a slit sewn into one side to facilitate ease of movement on the dancefloor. Suddenly a little self-conscious, Bianca reached up to finger the dainty straps.
Then she was manhandled into a chair, where people started alternating between pulling at her hair and wringing their hands.
"It is too wet to style in the fashion we had decided upon!"
"Quick, bring more towels!"
"No, it is no use. I know the Princess's hair and it will not dry as we expect it to. It is… unruly by nature."
The corners of Bianca's mouth twitched upward with amusement, but she quickly clamped down on it, pressing her lips together.
"We have no choice but to leave it loose." The maid said that last word like she was whispering a curse, but this time, Bianca's smile broke free. It was almost as though she'd planned not to have her hair tugged and wrestled into some torture contraption that no doubt some man had invented.
Petra was at her shoulder then. "Nobody will be looking at you for long, anyway, Princess," she said, and then began to pull a handful of curls on each side of her temples back. She twisted them into the beginnings of an intricate plait, starting at the nape of her neck. "Like this, ladies. You can add embellishments and more of the citrine as you go. But not too much, the Princess will also be wearing her tiara."
Clucking happily and remarking on how clever the Lady Petra was, they got to work on her hair. Another appeared - as if from nowhere, summoned by Bianca's lack of presentability - to brush some powder across her cheeks and lips. Bianca stared at herself in the mirror, delicate nose wrinkling as the freckles on her cheekbones all but disappeared beneath the magical make-up.
"His Royal Highness, Prince Leopold!" A distinctly masculine voice announced, causing all of the women in the room to straighten and glare at the interruption. They were not cross at their Prince, rather they beheld this space as sacred. Feminine. No place for a man. The herald was ushered out with a scolding, while the raven-haired, broad and handsome Prince made himself comfortable on one of the many chaise longues the room boasted.
"Sister, you are not ready."
"Sharp as a dagger, as always, dear Leo."
Leopold smiled languidly at Bianca, before summoning a servant over to pour him some wine. "What inappropriate activity held you this time? Learning to ride a horse in the masculine style? Teaching the gardeners more Apachian words of profanity? Reciting bawdy limericks at the nearest tavern?"
Bianca's gaze, suddenly sharp, speared the image of her brother in the mirror before her. She watched him closely for a few moments, trying to determine the intention behind his words - if there was one to be found. It was Petra who saved her, providing the true answer. "Her Highness was attending a lecture with the Royal Healer."
Leopold could not know that she had been sneaking out of the palace in the evenings, disguised as another, to patronise several taverns. It had been one of the few things that Bianca had to look forward to in this past year, what with the kingdom in such turmoil. It would be the thing that would have to stop soon. She would be expected to marry. But not now, no, surely not yet, she had some time before…
"Father will be announcing plans tonight." Leopold had met her stare in the mirror. His expression was not recriminating, nor did it hold that sly note of cunning that she would expect it to had he been apprised of her gross misbehaviour. No, her half-brother looked almost sympathetic. The corners of his eyes tightened and he took a long draft from his goblet.
"Father has promised that he would consult with me before responding to any offers or proposals," Bianca told him, her own expression carefully blank.
"Father has promised many things. To many people, and to his kingdom. You know what turning nine-and-ten years means, Bee." Then Leo's eyes fell away, fixing on a point in the corner of the room. For a moment, he looked as though he would speak further, but then remembered that they were not alone. The Prince, much like the King, often forgot that their servants were present.
"It means celebrations," Petra put in, sensing the mood and attempting to redirect it. "Are you here to escort the guest of honour to the ball, my Prince?"
"Why else, my Lady?" Leopold shot back, going along with the subject change with ease. He smiled at Petra; a one-sided, crooked affair that made him look positively rakish. "It was hardly to see you."
"How you wound!" Petra gasped, feigning offense.
Leo's gaze flickered over the queen consort, his father's wife, stopping a little overlong on her bust. "You must allow me to make it up to you."
"Oh, enough, you two," Bianca said as she stood, pushing away the ladies with their arms outstretched, intent on far too many finishing touches. "I know of an inn that charges by the hour for rooms, if you are interested?"
"Do not tempt me," muttered Leo, who was finally dragging his eyes away from Petra long enough to offer his elbow to his sister. "As a lady, you should not know of such things, let alone speak of them. And as a gentleman, I shall pretend not to hear them." Petra fell into step behind them, giggling prettily.
The evening was balmy, and the restrictive nature of her dress only served to heighten her discomfort as Bianca waited with her brother in the wings to be announced. But despite that, she had noted the reactions of some of the staff, and indeed, most of the guards on duty, to her appearance. Eyes had widened and some had blushed, but none told her she looked nice. That would have been inappropriate.
"PRRRRESENTING!"
Began the Herald, who rolled that 'R' like it was trying to run away from him. At the bottom of the grand staircase, standing atop the shining, inky-black marble of the grand foyer, which opened into the grand ballroom, each guest stopped and turned.
They waited with bated breath for the grand entrance. Some had expectancy or excitement in their eyes. Others, boredom. More still, cold, detached judgment. Bianca was unsure which discomfited her most.
"His Royal Highness, Firstborn Son of King Crux, Prince of Vashala and Heir to the Vashalan Crown, Prince Leopold Solaris, first of his name!" He paused for applause. "And INTRRRRRODUCING! Her Royal Highness, Daughter of King Crux, Princess of Vashala and Delight of all the Star Realms, Princess Bianca Solaris!"
With a completely benign smile plastered on her face, Bianca descended the first flight of stairs, moving alongside her brother until they had reached the first landing. From there, the grand staircase swept downward, giving everyone a perfect view of the guests of honour. There, her brother kissed her hand and stepped to the side, allowing her the spotlight.
With practiced ease, the princess bent a knee slightly and dropped into formal half-curtsey. She bowed her head to the congregated; her would-be subjects, tiara remaining in place with the subtle tilt and drop of chin. The hundreds of tiny amber crystals and citrine stones caught the light cast by the candelabras and sparkled, drawing eyes and gasps from everywhere. After a few moments of twinkling, Bianca straightened and smiled as the guests broke into an appreciative applause. Then her brother was at her side once more, ushering her down the rest of the stairs and into the throng.
Thank fuck that's over.
She hadn't fallen. The tiara hadn't slid off her unruly head of curls. She was yet to be truly challenged in some ways, but so far she hadn't forgotten any important names. Most of those important names had taken her dance book immediately, which was tied to her wrist with a golden silk ribbon, and had added their names for her. She was going to be dancing a lot.
But Bianca did not mind that. In fact, it was the one thing about this whole charade that she had been looking forward to. She stepped into the grand ballroom proper, on the arm of some toff, and her eyes glittered at the sight of countless couples engaged in a Sun Waltz. With a light step she was swept across the floor, her worries about her father and his deals right out of her mind... Until the man himself stood in the center of the royal dais, and with a wave of his hand, silenced the entire throng.
"Noble ladies and gentleman. Heads of our grand city's hallowed households. Citizens of Vashala, esteemed visitors and treasured guests, welcome." The grand King inclined his head ever so slightly to the amassed in the grand banquet hall, while most present raised their hands in polite applause. It died down quickly, and the King ploughed on with his overly verbose speech. "I have thrown this event with the hope that I can share some long-awaited, much-anticipated news. For too long, we have suffered at the hands of our aggressors to the east. For too long, we have been victims to their barbarism, to their filthy savagery and their demands. They have taken much from us, but we have fought valiantly. So valiantly, in fact, that they have agreed to come to the negotiating table."
Murmurs of surprise were abound, but Bianca frowned, staring up at her father from her spot on the dancefloor, some confusion evident in her expression. This was the first she had heard of any current negotiations, and certainly they were not a result of the valiance of the Vashalan. They'd been losing on many fronts for a while now.
"As a gesture of my generosity and good will, I have entered into these talks offering a boon for the Crinta and their royal family." He turned a wide smile out on the crowd, but his sharp eyes were scanning. Once they alighted on Bianca, he gestured toward her. The crowd parted and turned, all eager to see what the King was about to do. "My youngest daughter, the apple of my eye, the jewel of my brood, the beautiful Bianca... is to marry Riyil'na of Crinta, the Crintan Prince."
All colour drained from Bianca's face. Had she her wits about her, she might have noticed the expressions on the faces of the guests. Some held horror, others, particularly the men, looked almost excited. But the ones she knew and loved - Leopold's in particular - held heartbreak.
But all she could see, all she could think about, was her future. It would be short. It would be bleak. She might want to end it before it began. Riyil'na the Rapist, that's what the soldiers called him. Bianca took several steps back and then swiftly turned, her eyes on the exit. "Guards!" Called King Crux from the dais. "Escort the Princess to the stables. She is to leave at once. It is important to our future peace that the Princess is delivered to the Crinta safely."
3. SPOILS OF WAR
FANTASY / D/s / WARLORD
Notes: Conquering barbarian meets clever but innocent subject.
"I am ready, Father," the girl said, smoothing out the skirts of her most expensive dress, carefully not meeting anyone's eye. The girl was not ready, but she did not yet know that. How could she possibly know what lay ahead of her? If she had that ability, surely she would turn on her heel and flee in that moment, fearful of what her future would hold.
It held many things: many of note, none foretold.
They were summoned, finally, and she moved from the antechamber into the grand hall, where the gathered masses awaited and watched the show. She kept her eyes downcast, always on the floor, never inviting exchange from others. She was dressed conservatively in comparison to many other visiting dignitaries, who all seemed keen to preen or pose. Her neckline was higher than the court fashions strictly suggested, the cut of her gown loose enough to allow her breath of movement - but nothing ever truly hid the shape of her. Her frame was slight, delicate, her waist tiny in the cinched corsetry. Walking across the grand throne room, it would be the girl's figure that would draw the faintly curious glances from others - men - who let their eyes linger overlong on her chest. Her breasts were full and so shapely, and they oft looked as though they would attempt freedom with every step she took.
The girl's dainty stature was almost fairy-like, and her long, golden hair, worn loose in the style of the unwed, bounced lightly down her back in waves of natural curls. She stopped next to her father and bowed low alongside him. She stayed in this position while he spoke, her expression and features hidden from the barbarian king on the dais while she inclined her body in obeisance.
She was presented for approval.
For the approval of a man all knew only by reputation. Of a beast who had slain many and had brought a devastating end to the line of great and noble Ardonian kings, who had taken his predecessor's daughter to bed and wed, who sat on an usurped throne and demanded the kind of riches and fealty that would feed the city for years.
She looked up. Slowly, eyes the same colour as the deep, forest green of her gown, moving tiny inch by inch, until she beheld him. "Mér esh hður, mo Rí, að tala á kranna ashí," she said, her voice clear but soft with honeyed delivery of such respectful words in this barbarian King's own native language.
The eyes on her in the great hall either widened or narrowed, but the whispered reactions all held the same note of intrigue.
"I am honoured, my King, to speak in your presence," she had said, stare finally finding its mark. She raised her chin a little, showing a softly rounded, almost cherubic face, with lips that seemed they'd look just as pretty turned downward in a pout as they would curving upward in a smile, and creamy skin, glowing with the unblemished charm of youth. Unlike the other beauties at court, she would not be lauded for striking features or willowy elegance; but for some, she would hold a different kind of allure.
When she finally introduced herself, when her name was finally spoken aloud, it was in this terrifying man's tongue.
"I am Aibha."
It held many things: many of note, none foretold.
They were summoned, finally, and she moved from the antechamber into the grand hall, where the gathered masses awaited and watched the show. She kept her eyes downcast, always on the floor, never inviting exchange from others. She was dressed conservatively in comparison to many other visiting dignitaries, who all seemed keen to preen or pose. Her neckline was higher than the court fashions strictly suggested, the cut of her gown loose enough to allow her breath of movement - but nothing ever truly hid the shape of her. Her frame was slight, delicate, her waist tiny in the cinched corsetry. Walking across the grand throne room, it would be the girl's figure that would draw the faintly curious glances from others - men - who let their eyes linger overlong on her chest. Her breasts were full and so shapely, and they oft looked as though they would attempt freedom with every step she took.
The girl's dainty stature was almost fairy-like, and her long, golden hair, worn loose in the style of the unwed, bounced lightly down her back in waves of natural curls. She stopped next to her father and bowed low alongside him. She stayed in this position while he spoke, her expression and features hidden from the barbarian king on the dais while she inclined her body in obeisance.
She was presented for approval.
For the approval of a man all knew only by reputation. Of a beast who had slain many and had brought a devastating end to the line of great and noble Ardonian kings, who had taken his predecessor's daughter to bed and wed, who sat on an usurped throne and demanded the kind of riches and fealty that would feed the city for years.
She looked up. Slowly, eyes the same colour as the deep, forest green of her gown, moving tiny inch by inch, until she beheld him. "Mér esh hður, mo Rí, að tala á kranna ashí," she said, her voice clear but soft with honeyed delivery of such respectful words in this barbarian King's own native language.
The eyes on her in the great hall either widened or narrowed, but the whispered reactions all held the same note of intrigue.
"I am honoured, my King, to speak in your presence," she had said, stare finally finding its mark. She raised her chin a little, showing a softly rounded, almost cherubic face, with lips that seemed they'd look just as pretty turned downward in a pout as they would curving upward in a smile, and creamy skin, glowing with the unblemished charm of youth. Unlike the other beauties at court, she would not be lauded for striking features or willowy elegance; but for some, she would hold a different kind of allure.
When she finally introduced herself, when her name was finally spoken aloud, it was in this terrifying man's tongue.
"I am Aibha."
4. ELEMENTS
HAREM / FANTASY / MAGIC
Notes: Over the course of this story, the hero (YC) will encounter four women who embody each element of the land. In order to fulfil the prophecy, he must master each woman and element. As the story progresses, the magical ladies get more difficult to convince. Whether YC manages to recruit all four to his harem will depend on his prowess, character and charms.
I'm only interested in doing this if these relationships are written realistically and with intention. My characters are always unique and flawed, with high expectations and really they have no time for delusion. YC will have to be up to this task, so if what you're looking for is mindless bimbos fighting over YC's averageness, or if you want to reduce my characters to their kinks, then I am not for you. Fair warning! That aside, I am absolutely happy to incorporate some of your aesthetic preferences for each of them.
The trees whispered the name of their princess. It had been many seasons since Ἀνθεία had been able to speak it herself. But while the treatment of one of the most beloved, most joyous and kind of the hamadryad could be considered cruel and incommensurate, the nature of Antheia remained one of benediction. She gave of herself, always.
Eldergrove was her home. She had not been born of it, but she could not remember a time when it was not a part of her. Emerging from a white lily that bloomed beneath the light of the moon at its zenith, Antheia’s rebirth had given life to the aetherial copse of oak and leaf.
Time meant very little in the Eldergrove. She marked it by the changing of the seasons and by the different souls appearing, eager or desperate, to leave offerings at her altar. Antheia danced and she slept, she tended the gardens of the forest and she blessed the fruit of the māter from the nearby village. She watched the stars and she cried for what she had lost. Most of all, Antheia waited. She waited for the sign.
That day, when the great Oak that was Hers shifted; ancient and huge and obnoxiously loud, she awakened and rose. Head cocked to one side she listened to the susurrations of the leaves, that shivered and rustled their news. Men approached. Many men—too many for the forest to count. Well, that could mean anywhere between three and three thousand, and with an amused smile curving Antheia’s luscious lips, she stepped out into the light beneath the Eldergrove canopy, ready to greet these curious visitors.
Branches of the great tree shifted, moving toward her, lifting her beneath her arms. She sailed through the air and landed before the gathered men.
She was a verdant wonder. She was lush with green; her impossibly smooth skin covered in the impossible shade, revealing her deep connection to her natural milieu. Beneath it, lithe muscles shifted and legs extended gracefully as she was deposited upon the ground. Her hair hung like a chestnut waterfall around her, messed with delightful blooms that hid and blossomed with the rhythm of her heart. Second, perhaps, to draw the eye, might be her bountiful curves. Antheia was the entity credited with bestowing fertility upon the village, thus it should be expected that she be the very image of potency herself.
Her hips were wide and strong, curving out from a slim waist. Her breasts were full and free, nipples on display and hard, as though always ready for use. Vines from her honeysuckle, the plant that gifted her body its nectarous scent, began to crawl up and over her behind, cinching and pulling one of her ass cheeks to the side so that it could access her in the manner it pleased. Another vine snaked up Antheia’s body, bound for a heavy breast. It wrapped around the soft, pliable skin and looped, making a noose. Though unquestionably other, everything about her was designed to pull attention, created to reflect the majesty and beauty of the nature in which she resided.
If you were to come upon her in the forest, would you not worship her?
Eyes the colour of honey beheld the men. They had brought her nothing. As they began to move, some shifting behind her to encircle her, so too did Antheia. Beneath the ground, the roots of her Oaks spread, hearing her request and ready to respond to her entreaty, should she make one.
“That’s it. That’s the thing responsible!”
Her body spun, breaking the soft caresses of the vines. Glaring a challenge at the man who spoke, she beckoned him forward with her hand. This one was breaking with tradition. This one did not come before her with gifts and pleas. He did not ask for her help.
“You’re supposed to bless us with fertility! But you’re a fuckin’ curse!” He said, his voice growing with fervour. The others had moved into place.
“It’s your fault!” came another, and then more, as the rest of the men joined in. “It’s your fault our women ail and our seed perishes in wamb!”
Antheia’s hand went to her chest, silent shock written across her features. How could this be? How could the people of the village come to her with blame, when all she wanted was to help them be fruitful?
“We have come to end you and your unholy influence.” The first man lowered his sword for long enough to unbuckle his belt. The sound of it echoed off and around her trees. “But first, we will all have you.”
“We will take your magic!”
“We will fuck it out of you!”
Antheia closed her fist and the rhizome of her Oak shot through the earth of the Eldergrove. It knocked several of her attackers over, its roots like unrepentant whips. Their cries were fearful, but their swords were sharp. They began to hack at her beloved tree’s roots, keen to free themselves and be upon her.
Again and again she summoned assistance, but it was not enough. Several had grabbed her, their dirty fingers digging into her emerald skin. One rough hand slapped around a breast, another against her cunt, and she was driven to the ground.
Antheia did not see the new man arrive; what use would another man be to her? But she did catch a whiff of Fate on that Wind.
Eldergrove was her home. She had not been born of it, but she could not remember a time when it was not a part of her. Emerging from a white lily that bloomed beneath the light of the moon at its zenith, Antheia’s rebirth had given life to the aetherial copse of oak and leaf.
Time meant very little in the Eldergrove. She marked it by the changing of the seasons and by the different souls appearing, eager or desperate, to leave offerings at her altar. Antheia danced and she slept, she tended the gardens of the forest and she blessed the fruit of the māter from the nearby village. She watched the stars and she cried for what she had lost. Most of all, Antheia waited. She waited for the sign.
That day, when the great Oak that was Hers shifted; ancient and huge and obnoxiously loud, she awakened and rose. Head cocked to one side she listened to the susurrations of the leaves, that shivered and rustled their news. Men approached. Many men—too many for the forest to count. Well, that could mean anywhere between three and three thousand, and with an amused smile curving Antheia’s luscious lips, she stepped out into the light beneath the Eldergrove canopy, ready to greet these curious visitors.
Branches of the great tree shifted, moving toward her, lifting her beneath her arms. She sailed through the air and landed before the gathered men.
She was a verdant wonder. She was lush with green; her impossibly smooth skin covered in the impossible shade, revealing her deep connection to her natural milieu. Beneath it, lithe muscles shifted and legs extended gracefully as she was deposited upon the ground. Her hair hung like a chestnut waterfall around her, messed with delightful blooms that hid and blossomed with the rhythm of her heart. Second, perhaps, to draw the eye, might be her bountiful curves. Antheia was the entity credited with bestowing fertility upon the village, thus it should be expected that she be the very image of potency herself.
Her hips were wide and strong, curving out from a slim waist. Her breasts were full and free, nipples on display and hard, as though always ready for use. Vines from her honeysuckle, the plant that gifted her body its nectarous scent, began to crawl up and over her behind, cinching and pulling one of her ass cheeks to the side so that it could access her in the manner it pleased. Another vine snaked up Antheia’s body, bound for a heavy breast. It wrapped around the soft, pliable skin and looped, making a noose. Though unquestionably other, everything about her was designed to pull attention, created to reflect the majesty and beauty of the nature in which she resided.
If you were to come upon her in the forest, would you not worship her?
Eyes the colour of honey beheld the men. They had brought her nothing. As they began to move, some shifting behind her to encircle her, so too did Antheia. Beneath the ground, the roots of her Oaks spread, hearing her request and ready to respond to her entreaty, should she make one.
“That’s it. That’s the thing responsible!”
Her body spun, breaking the soft caresses of the vines. Glaring a challenge at the man who spoke, she beckoned him forward with her hand. This one was breaking with tradition. This one did not come before her with gifts and pleas. He did not ask for her help.
“You’re supposed to bless us with fertility! But you’re a fuckin’ curse!” He said, his voice growing with fervour. The others had moved into place.
“It’s your fault!” came another, and then more, as the rest of the men joined in. “It’s your fault our women ail and our seed perishes in wamb!”
Antheia’s hand went to her chest, silent shock written across her features. How could this be? How could the people of the village come to her with blame, when all she wanted was to help them be fruitful?
“We have come to end you and your unholy influence.” The first man lowered his sword for long enough to unbuckle his belt. The sound of it echoed off and around her trees. “But first, we will all have you.”
“We will take your magic!”
“We will fuck it out of you!”
Antheia closed her fist and the rhizome of her Oak shot through the earth of the Eldergrove. It knocked several of her attackers over, its roots like unrepentant whips. Their cries were fearful, but their swords were sharp. They began to hack at her beloved tree’s roots, keen to free themselves and be upon her.
Again and again she summoned assistance, but it was not enough. Several had grabbed her, their dirty fingers digging into her emerald skin. One rough hand slapped around a breast, another against her cunt, and she was driven to the ground.
Antheia did not see the new man arrive; what use would another man be to her? But she did catch a whiff of Fate on that Wind.
Last edited: