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OctopusPrince
Super-Earth
- Joined
- Mar 24, 2018
- Location
- Phoenix, AZ
Flora Tavitoria, the first daughter of the trade lord Cavas Tavitoria, had not expected to greet her new husband with such opulence. Her father had insisted, as though she was not a gift enough to the new king, that she take with her an enormous caravan of goods, servants, and trades from far off that he had held onto for what she was sure was decades. She had been certain he'd never part with his silks from the far east, or the treasures he had discovered marooned on obscure, uninhabited islands-- but she watched the servants pack them into wagons as gifts to the king. His gratitude was based almost entirely on the fact that without the new king and his lethal, unstoppable leagues of vampiric warriors, their nation and all he had done with his life would have been reduced to ash.
Flora had been lead with the servants she had brought with her into one of the great, towering halls of Stryka, a place that appeared to be a mead hall-- rustic, sturdy, and surely one of the few that had withstood the war. She understood immediately with distaste why her father had selected the specific mass of female servants to accompany her-- the soldiers that lined the long tables eyed her entourage with interest, and she knew that her father was thinking in the basest way a man could, to have her bring them as offerings to the war-like nation. These men had fought for nearly a decade at the forefront of the war against Vicalos-- Flora could at least vaguely imagine the loneliness and lustful desire that had pent up for them in this time. There wasn't any harm to it she supposed, so her disapproval of her father's subversive choice did not show on her face as she moved down the hall at the head of the lines of women. Perhaps they would take good husbands, and feel welcomed into their new nation.
At the head of the hall was a dais that at a glance to someone who knew how to build such things, had seemed to be constructed specifically for this event and nothing more, and there upon it were several chairs filled by men Flora assumed to be of renown. The chairs were evenly spaced, equal in size and all of the men were lumbering and handsome-- it was anyone's guess which one she had been given to as a wife. She stopped at a reasonable distance, and there was a hush, a curiosity that was palpable in the air. Her women bowed first and then she gave a graceful incline of her head, the long, deeply red braid of her hair tipping, gold threads and a golden cuff around the head glittering in the light of the hall.
Her father had been more obvious in his intentions in how he dressed her. She hadn't minded that so much either-- the goal of this arrangement was to please the king, and so, despite her preferences for trousers, for loose shirts, for work gloves, she allowed her father to have her fitted in a dress that would compliment the very nature of the asset that she was.
The chiton was a deep green that seemed to change to gold depending on how the light hit it, draped across her chest with the opening loose to the point that it nearly exposed her navel, the fabric slipping to reveal almost too much of her breasts as she bowed. The fabric was cinched with a gold and bronze sigil of her household at the left hip, and fell open, showing off a single, powerfully built leg, and with no sleeves to speak of, she felt like she had more skin exposed than not. A beautiful broach, a gift from her father for her sacrifice, had been fastened to the right side of her dress at the shoulder, a glass made silk moth, one of her favorites.
She was certainly a pleasing bride upon sight, but she had brought another gift with her that would unmistakably express her value as a spouse. She had, in her arms, a basket full to the brim with pomegranates. They were incredibly difficult to grow during the war time, and impossible in the season, and yet, she had dozens in the basket that seemed inappropriately heavy for a woman to carry, all of them ripe and deliciously red. She had grown them herself, as a gift to her husband to be. Her touch with all things that grew of the earth was the attribute she wished to show case most of all-- she had no intention of being a simple bed mate. These men had sacrificed much, in fact, their humanity to push back the waves of onslaught from Vicalos, and without resources to feed those who fed them, their nation would parish. With this basket of pomegranates, Flora said two things together- there would be harvests, and with them, there would be blood, and all would be sustained.
" I am Flora Tavitoria, the bride of Tirrek Ovarson. I give thanks, for your invitation into the glorious nation of Stryka, and bare gifts to celebrate our union." She spoke it out to the hall, because still, even up close she could not guess who of the men upon the dais would be hers, she looked at all of them, and there was intrigue, amusement, delight, and stoicism from each man in varying degrees.
Flora had been lead with the servants she had brought with her into one of the great, towering halls of Stryka, a place that appeared to be a mead hall-- rustic, sturdy, and surely one of the few that had withstood the war. She understood immediately with distaste why her father had selected the specific mass of female servants to accompany her-- the soldiers that lined the long tables eyed her entourage with interest, and she knew that her father was thinking in the basest way a man could, to have her bring them as offerings to the war-like nation. These men had fought for nearly a decade at the forefront of the war against Vicalos-- Flora could at least vaguely imagine the loneliness and lustful desire that had pent up for them in this time. There wasn't any harm to it she supposed, so her disapproval of her father's subversive choice did not show on her face as she moved down the hall at the head of the lines of women. Perhaps they would take good husbands, and feel welcomed into their new nation.
At the head of the hall was a dais that at a glance to someone who knew how to build such things, had seemed to be constructed specifically for this event and nothing more, and there upon it were several chairs filled by men Flora assumed to be of renown. The chairs were evenly spaced, equal in size and all of the men were lumbering and handsome-- it was anyone's guess which one she had been given to as a wife. She stopped at a reasonable distance, and there was a hush, a curiosity that was palpable in the air. Her women bowed first and then she gave a graceful incline of her head, the long, deeply red braid of her hair tipping, gold threads and a golden cuff around the head glittering in the light of the hall.
Her father had been more obvious in his intentions in how he dressed her. She hadn't minded that so much either-- the goal of this arrangement was to please the king, and so, despite her preferences for trousers, for loose shirts, for work gloves, she allowed her father to have her fitted in a dress that would compliment the very nature of the asset that she was.
The chiton was a deep green that seemed to change to gold depending on how the light hit it, draped across her chest with the opening loose to the point that it nearly exposed her navel, the fabric slipping to reveal almost too much of her breasts as she bowed. The fabric was cinched with a gold and bronze sigil of her household at the left hip, and fell open, showing off a single, powerfully built leg, and with no sleeves to speak of, she felt like she had more skin exposed than not. A beautiful broach, a gift from her father for her sacrifice, had been fastened to the right side of her dress at the shoulder, a glass made silk moth, one of her favorites.
She was certainly a pleasing bride upon sight, but she had brought another gift with her that would unmistakably express her value as a spouse. She had, in her arms, a basket full to the brim with pomegranates. They were incredibly difficult to grow during the war time, and impossible in the season, and yet, she had dozens in the basket that seemed inappropriately heavy for a woman to carry, all of them ripe and deliciously red. She had grown them herself, as a gift to her husband to be. Her touch with all things that grew of the earth was the attribute she wished to show case most of all-- she had no intention of being a simple bed mate. These men had sacrificed much, in fact, their humanity to push back the waves of onslaught from Vicalos, and without resources to feed those who fed them, their nation would parish. With this basket of pomegranates, Flora said two things together- there would be harvests, and with them, there would be blood, and all would be sustained.
" I am Flora Tavitoria, the bride of Tirrek Ovarson. I give thanks, for your invitation into the glorious nation of Stryka, and bare gifts to celebrate our union." She spoke it out to the hall, because still, even up close she could not guess who of the men upon the dais would be hers, she looked at all of them, and there was intrigue, amusement, delight, and stoicism from each man in varying degrees.