Not a Competition  (Atroxa & Delirium147)
<h1 id="title">Elliquiy Role Playing Forums</h1>
		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Exotic Solos =&gt; Topic started by: LtRipley on 15-10-2013, 14:34:21</h2>
		<dl id="posts">
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Not a Competition  (Atroxa &amp; Delirium147)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>LtRipley</strong> on <strong>15-10-2013, 14:34:21</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Alexandra stood like most of her peers, in a circle of friends, but also a part, for several reasons. The most noticeable immediately was her clothing. The masquerade ball in the palace in Denerim was full of resplendent colors, every hue imaginable, vibrant reds, greens, yellows, blues, purples, trimmed in silver or gold. The only daughter of the Maddox family, from Amaranthine, Alexandra stood not in some rainbow hue but black, though it revealed traces of blue and purple in the color depending on the light she stood in, it was most certainly black. It was striking, to say the least, and matched her own long blue-black hair perfectly, contrasting sharply against her pale skin. The dress was of no extraordinary cut to balance out the unusual choice in color, a tight bodice, swooping neckline that revealed enough cleavage to be eye catching, but not so much as to be distasteful, and long full sleeves that hung past her hips. Her face was obviously beautiful even with the mask (http://www.bestmasqueradedresses.com/wp-content/uploads/Masquerade-Mask-Art.jpg) that kept a fair portion of it hidden, framing dark blue eyes, beads brushing her cheeks whenever she moved her head.<br><br>She'd convinced her mother and father to let her pick the unusual color with the argument that it would be different from the rest, that it would stand out, and that was true enough, but really she disliked feeling as if she were wearing some bright gaudy thing in celebration. Not here, and not now. Standing with her friends her eyes moved through the people in the crowd. Most of them were Fereldens, but here and there were Orlesians, mostly Chevaliers who had been sent here to help maintain the grip that the Emperor and his cruel pawn had over the land. All of the Fereldens in the room had claimed fealty to the Emperor and Orlais, turning their back on Ferelden and their countrymen. That included her father, Gregor, much to her disgust. To be fair, it had been his father who had sworn fealty originally when the Orlesians had first come and taken over, but her father had carried on the tradition. He could have said no, but he hadn't.<br><br>So now here she was, put on display like some animal for sale like the other women in the room, all of them playing and pretending to be happy and joyful under the Emperor's rule. Really though, they were all terrified. Meghren the Mad, people called him behind his back, had been sent by the Emperor to rule over Ferelden as king, but under him, not even those who had betrayed their own country were safe. Everyone lived in fear, and Alexandra wondered if she was the only one who felt the edge of anxiety over the ball. They were all afraid of doing something to displease their 'king', as he sat in his throne on his dais, not even participating, just watching them all with a thinly veiled look of boredom and disgust. He hated them, and they all knew it. <br><br>Alexandra found herself staring at the Mad King, but let her eyes drift away, not so quickly as to give away her apprehension, but deciding it was unwise to look at him for too long lest it draw attention. She feigned a smile and laughed softly at something the woman to her left, dressed in a bright green gown, said about some other woman's yellow dress (likening it to a certain bodily fluid), the other women all twittering their own amusement. Alexandra fought the urge to scream. She hated these sort of functions, they only made her want to run screaming from the room and out into the wilds, to find her Uncle Aidan, wherever he might be she was sure he was doing something far more productive with his time. Unlike her father, her uncle had refused to swear fealty to the Emperor, and so had become an outlaw. From time to time she heard news of him fighting with the Rebel Queen, Moira, and when Alexandra managed to find some way into the practice wing, she would pretend she was fighting with them. Her mother had always told her she had an overactive imagination. <br><br>At the moment though, she was doing nothing so enjoyable. And she was rather sure she was the only one among her friends who wasn't secretly dying for some noble or chevalier to ask her to dance. Actually, she would rather avoid it. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Not a Competition  (Atroxa &amp; Delirium147)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Delirium147</strong> on <strong>16-10-2013, 15:15:31</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				<div align="center"><em>8:54 the year 54 of the Blessed Age<br><br>The occupation is a dark blot on Ferelden's history. Our people, who from time immemorial valued their freedom over all else, are forced to bow to Orlesian rule. The Empire declared our elves property and sells them like cattle. Chevaliers routinely plunder freeholds of coin, food, and even women and children, and excuse it as "taxation." And from now on, no more landsmeets will be held, for the Imperial throne has declared our ancient laws a form of treason.<br><br>A tyrant sits upon the Theirin-throne; his reign iron and blood, has reduced Ferelden to a land of savages while our nobility are dogs fighting for the scraps the usurper throws at them. They are afraid to forfeit their lands and titles in favour of the Orlesian wolves which Meghren keeps at his side, ready to strike. Dark clouds are gathering over the land as our once great nation is plunged into grim darkness, our lands and women stripped, our dreams shattered, the flower of our youth trampled in the filth...<br><br>- Taken from the scriptures of brother Argelle, burned a traitor in 8:55 </em></div><br><br><div align="center">(http://www.venicemaskedball.co.uk/ekmps/shops/maskedball/resources/Design/promo-image.png)</div><br>Not even past midnight and already the alcoves and dark corners of the Palace in Denerim were filled with lovers eager to spill their lust, and other things, into and onto one another. In ten years time the new king of Ferelden, King Meghren I, had turned the otherwise so reserved Fereldans into lecherous debauchees. A fine example of Orlesian influence, though it must be said that most of the exuberance hailed from Orlesian nobles and newly created gentry out of families that supported Orlesian rule. It did not help to close the gap between Meghren and his new people though.<br><br>Though it could have been suspected that the Court would already find itself in this state of promiscuity, after all tonight was the celebration of Meghren’s coronation. A position he thanked to the fact he was the Emperor’s cousin, and lover... Though that last part was supposed to be a secret it was just a public secret. Orlesian politics consisted largely of apprehending and spreading secrets until the truth wasn’t discernible from the rumours anymore. Compared to Orlais, Ferelden was nice and simple, in spite of Meghren’s efforts...<br><br>A man in his early thirties was making his way through the hallways filled with little whispers and grunts and panting. The air seemed to be laced in magic and fornicatory lust. The fact nobody was really recognisable added to the thrill of it all, for tonight it was a ball-masque. Not even the King himself could be easily discovered and the man making his way back to the main room suspected Meghren I to be firmly entwined with some young man or woman. Probably both or more.<br><br>The main room was only half full anymore, the residents happy to nip of wine and listen to the music of Orlesian troubadours and bards. It was a merry tune that filled the room with a pleasant rhythm. The man saw all kinds of masks, ranging from crescent moons to cats, complete with cat-ears, wolves, butterflies were popular, radiant suns after Orlesian fashion and many, many more. He himself was wearing a tightly fitting tunic of blue damask and a flamboyant gold mask that only covered his upper face, shaped in the features of a lion, the manes extending like the rays of the sun.<br><br>He had come on the original invasion of Ferelden and was one of the attendants to Meghren’s arrival and coronation. He knew what sort of man the King was, and he knew he did not like that sort of man. Luckily, his direct master was someone else. The commander under whom he had served fighting the Fereldans had been granted the lands of the previous Arl of Amaranthine, north of the capital. And in return for his exemplary service as a young aspiring Chevalier, Ghalain Roland de Guiscard had been elevated through the ranks of the Orlesian aristocracy and given several freeholds to govern. Most of the profits went to his vassal lord, the new Amaranthinean Arl, but he held enough funds for himself and his to lead comfortable lives.<br><br>Ghalain had been the third son of an old but impoverished noble line from the Orlesian Heartlands, his family barely able to afford his horse, armour and weapons to go with it to become a Chevalier. However, he had grown up at Jader, close to the Fereldan border which explained for his lack of a true accent. Fortunately he had his skill as a lancer and swordsman to make up for what he lacked in wealth. With no prospects to ever inherit the meagre family fortune, if one dared call it that, he had the option to devote his life to the Chantry or the Chevaliers. The choice was quickly made, and now sixteen years further into the Blessed Age that choice had paid off.<br><br>The scent of cosmetics, perfume and wine brought him back to the current state of affairs; the bal-masqué. Lords and ladies were gathering on the central floor to commence the basse-dance, one of the oldest but still most popular dances of Orlais. Feeling a little adventurous he downed the small goblet of wine he had procured from one of the horde of grooms. Ghalain threw the empty container to a passing servant and grabbed the nearest woman he could find to drag her onto the dancing floor. After all, he was a man of great appetite and lust for life and tonight was supposed to be a celebration.<br><br>It was clear by the way he composed and carried himself in the room that his ‘victim’ would not be given the opportunity to escape his clutches, not that Ghalain would ever imagine she would want to. He was tall and possessed a certain handsomeness and attraction. In the greater scheme of things, if he were not Lion-mask, but Ghalain Roland de Guiscard, he was also as of yet unmarried. Being a well-established bachelor with great influence had seemed to attract females in the past, but Ghalain was a hunter at heart; he would not fall to any woman who threw herself at his feet. Nothing in life worth having came free of charge.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Not a Competition  (Atroxa &amp; Delirium147)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>LtRipley</strong> on <strong>16-10-2013, 22:45:08</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Alexandra was the middle child of her family, with an older brother as well as a younger one. With her family being an old line, in good standing, and with a fair portion of wealth thanks to their bann having fertile land for farming, there was a strange mixture of pressure and yet none on her finding a husband. Her mother was demanding about it, and much to Alexandra's dismay, was beginning to look into prospective suitors more seriously the last year. Her father, however, seemed in no real rush, but she suspected that was mostly out of his fatherly stubbornness that his little girl not grow up just yet, even if she was of age. Alexandra thought her father too prone to babying her, it grated her nerves, but what could she do about it?<br><br>Currently she was still standing with her friends, only half paying attention to the conversation, when she felt some one grab her by the hand and she was suddenly being pulled onto the dance floor. Alexandra let out a slightly started noise, her free hand coming up instinctively to push a little against the shoulder of the man who was pulling her with him onto the dancer floor, and it took her a moment to reorient herself. Her feet, though, caught on quicker than her mind, moving into the steps of the dance with practiced familiarity, her long black dress swishing about her legs. The man was tall, possessing several inches of height on her even with her feet in the heeled shoes that were currently in fashion, but of course she didn't recognize him with the mask on his face. She safely assumed he was some form of Orlesian, judging by the brashness of his behavior. They were all such a cocky sort of people.<br><br>Alexandra's full lips turned down into a bit of a frown, and behind her mask the dark blue eyes narrowed slightly at the stranger. She had half a mind to pull free from his grasp, but she hesitated. She didn't know who this was, and though she didn't approve of her father's decision to swear fealty to these invaders, she knew better than to go trying to cause trouble. And she didn't want to draw the ire of some Orlesian noble that would result in hardship for her family, she stayed put, though she looked none too happy about it. “I suppose you Orlesians think you can just take whatever you want, why should a dance be any different?” She asked him, then felt a cold stab of anxiety. She'd stayed in the dance to avoid trouble, but she'd just said something that could be even more insulting than walking out on him. Her mother was always saying that Alexandra's father had spoiled her too badly, and perhaps she was right. Outwardly though, she showed no hint of regret, the worst thing to do would be to speak in such a way and then go grovelling for forgiveness, her pride wouldn't allow it.
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Not a Competition  (Atroxa &amp; Delirium147)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Delirium147</strong> on <strong>23-10-2013, 15:10:24</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				The woman in his arms seemed to be the epitome of an unskilled dancer, so far even that Ghalain half suspected she was doing it on purpose. The steps of the basse-dance weren't too difficult to follow, after all. Something which couldn't be said about other Orlesian dances, or Orlesian things in general. Fortunately the Game wasn't as pronounced or profound in Ferelden. In fact, the entire Kingdom was considered to be nothing more than a backwater province, especially with the tensions brewing on the northern Orlesian border with Nevarra. Ghalain de Guiscard had heard of several Chevaliers being called back to the Empire to reinforce assembling armies there. Luckily, since he owned land here, that service wasn't required of him.<br><br>However how ungraceful his partner was, at the moment it did not irk him in the slightest for he had received some good news from home. Apparently his sister had married a Free Marcher while she was visiting distant relatives in Kirkwall. A former Templar who had turned away from pursuing that lifestyle. It pleased Ghalain, because she had married out of love and this had irked his parents. Being the youngest son it had been hard to please them for they might not have possessed much, but they were still proud and haughty. The first time he had seen some of that pride come over him, was when he had paraded through the capital after joining the Chevaliers; lance with pennant held high.<br><br>Three months later he had been trudging through Fereldan mud, trying to stay alive...<br><br>Ghalain pushed the memories to the back of his head, to savour the moment. His dancing partner spoke lightly enough, but the undertone was bitter and spiteful. Over the years he had grown accustomed to those two emotions. They twirled right and he bend forward, bringing the masked woman down a little, keeping her hover in his arms. She felt light, lighter than a pillow and he began to wonder only now who she was. "Evening my fair Lady," he mumbled a greeting, his voice pleasantly low and lathered. The Chevalier brought her back up again, his hand resting on her hip, the other one entwined with her slender, delicate counterpart. She stepped on his foot.<br><br>"Ah." He simply said, it hadn't even hurt, maybe just a little, before chuckling and giving her a playful squeeze on her backside. Surely that had been on purpose, it was one thing to not be able to dance, but it took a fool to step on other people's toes. Such a way to get back to the awful Orlesians, he thought.<br><br>"We Orlesians think a great many things, it is something we are good at, but, my Lady, I hold no contempt for any Ferelden-born." Ghalain had lived almost as long in Ferelden as he had in Orlais, and he knew many Fereldans from his time in the border-town of Jader. Yes, they had lost the war, but that did not make them inferior. Ghalain was not a stereotype, he didn't even speak with the real Orlesian accent, not that much anyway. The nobleman proceeded to twirl his dancing partner as the pace picked up, careful to evade her stomping feet to preserve his toes. She was surprisingly light-footed to be an unskilled dancer. The dance was nearing its apex and masked couples accelerated their movements as they hopped and fluttered across the ballroom like butterflies.<br><br>"Who are you?" He asked as the final stage of the basse-dance commenced; some lighty tunes allowing the dancers to catch their breaths, though some had engaged in passionate kissing sessions... still dancing. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Not a Competition  (Atroxa &amp; Delirium147)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>LtRipley</strong> on <strong>23-10-2013, 23:14:37</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Alexandra was actually a rather skilled dancer, whether she was on a dance floor or the practice ring she was a coordinated and graceful young woman. However, this man with the audacity to just pull her onto the floor without asking inspired no motivation to dance like she was enjoying herself. She knew some of the more complicated Orlesian dances, but in general, dancing interested her very little. Alexandra's mother lamented that her daughter had far too practical of a mind for a noblewoman her age. She wasn't prone to flights of fancy or romanticism, unless it involved dashing off to join her uncle on the battlefield. That was something she knew to keep to herself, only her parents knew of Alexandra's opinion on the Rebels, that she supported them. And Alexandra knew that it wasn't a stance she should advertise, unless she wanted her family to come to harm.<br><br>Dark blue eyes narrowed slightly at the Orlesian as he bent forward, leaning down a little, perhaps a little more than the dance officially called for, making her lean back as well, having to rely on his hands for support. He gave her a murmured greeting, voice smooth and pleasant, she didn't return the gesture, instead, when he righted them, she stepped on his foot. Her face showed no outward sign of intent, but when she finally purred back to him, “Good evening,” there was a touch of satisfaction to her voice. Her slender jaw tightened though when he chuckled and then squeezed her backside, and she fought the urge to slap the mask off his face.<br><br>Alexandra's upper lip twitched in a restrained sneer when he spoke again, his arrogance begged to differ that he didn't think himself above a Fereldan, but she didn't have the chance to really argue before the pace of the dance accelerated and she was forced to put some effort into her steps to keep herself from tripping and falling on her face. Her movements were sure and fine, but it was obviously that she was far from ecstatic or passionate about the dance. And far less passionate about her partner. Unlike many of the others. The pace changed again, and Alexandra gave her partner a fleeting look of surprise, though she gave him a cold smile just after. <br><br>“The whole point of a mask, my lord, is to hide one's identity,” she told him. She would admit some curiosity to who he was as well, but not so much as to ask him, she could end this dance and never know who he was and never feel a smidgen of regret regarding it. 
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Not a Competition  (Atroxa &amp; Delirium147)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Delirium147</strong> on <strong>25-10-2013, 11:46:30</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				Ghalain swirled across the dance floor, dragging his recalcitrant partner with him in strong and smooth movements. As an Orlesian, he had been educated in the ways of nobility, which included a vast array of dance moves and decorum. Back home he would likely not have dared to just commandeer a non-suspecting woman as his dance partner, but things were different in Ferelden. The chivalrous code conflicted with his own in that regard, for he considered himself to be first and foremost a soldier, a Chevalier, the best Orlais had to offer.<br><br>Women were illogical creatures, whimsical, demanding and hurtful. They could thrive on strife. One could fight a man, Ghalain mused, and beat him to a bloody pulp, but once forgiveness had been extended there was no coming back to the argument. It was forgotten. Women never forgave, never forgot. A lesson Ghalain had learned over and over. The Orlesian’s lips curled up in amusement as his memories meshed with the present, his current female companion retorting him in a mildly annoyed fashion, though with less of the open hostility from before.<br><br>She stepped on his foot, again, but this time a bit harder. “You do know the chivalric code condemns violence against defenceless persons, do you not?” He asked her, some frustration slipping into his voice as he tried a different tactic. “Hence men cannot hit women, for that would be an unfair fight. However, due to that technicality, they, the men, themselves turn into defenceless individuals.” He checked to see if the young noblewoman pivoting with him around the dance floor was still with him, following his logic. “Therefore, it is extremely un-chivalrous of yourself, My Lady, to keep harassing my poor defenceless feet with your sharp heels.”<br><br>Fortunately the pace changed again, allowing him a reprieve. After the quicker rhythm which dragged out, making the men twist and twirl their women as if they were colourful butterflies, the tempo subsided again, slowing down considerable. As Ghalain de Guiscard focussed his attention again on his partner, he was greeted by a cool and challenging smile, which struck a chord inside him. Once listened to her supposedly witty denial of her name, Ghalain, still driven by the frustration of her stepping on his toes literally a few times, came down as a hammer. The Orlesian knight leaned in, pulling her face closer so his mouth came next to her ear, some of the feathery ornaments of her mask tickled his cheek.<br><br>When he spoke his voice was low, for he hissed his piece. “The purpose of this mask is to give pleasure to that perverse degenerate occupying your precious Fereldan throne by the graces of his faggot-cousin.” As he finished, the white-hot sensation that had fuelled his lèse-majesté evaporated instantly, leaving him with a block of searing ice in his stomach. What had he done, he asked himself. This woman might very well be a spy or tattletale, and then his life could be over for Meghren’s reign was growing increasingly bloody. “My apologies, my Lady, I had not intended to be so forthright,” he started, attempting to mend the situation. Should he threaten her? Perhaps that way she would keep her mouth shut. Then again, he was wearing a mask as well and so supposedly safe regarding his identity. It did not appear that she had recognised him.<br>
			</dd>
			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Not a Competition  (Atroxa &amp; Delirium147)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>LtRipley</strong> on <strong>28-10-2013, 05:01:29</strong>
			</dt>
			<dd class="postbody">
				That he found it acceptable to commandeer woman here in Ferelden but not back in Orlais wouldn't surprise Alexandra in the slightest. Every Orlesian, no matter what he claimed, thought himself better than any Fereldan. And while she would agree with him that most women tended to be illogical creatures, too prone to rash action and too willing to hold onto hurt feelings, she thought her disapproval of him perfectly valid. He'd grabbed her without consent and pulled her into a dance, and while many women might find such a thing romantic, she certainly did not. <br><br>When he brought up her subtle assault on his feet, and implied that men were defenseless against women due to chivalry, she scowled at him. “A lecture on chivalry from a man who does not think he has to ask a woman's permission to dance with her?” She asked him, “That, monsieur, is called being a hypocrite.” Not that that surprised her. Her dance partner was proving himself to be a man of hypocrisies. He claimed not to look down upon Fereldans, but he thought himself too important to have to ask permission to dance, and then complained when the woman he'd forced onto the dance floor stepped on his toes and cried foul in the name of chivalry. It would be funny, if it weren't so frustrating. <br><br>His response to her denial of giving him her named surprised Alexandra, though initially she was just more surprised by the sudden proximity of his mouth to her ear. His words though surprised her more, and while a part of her was perhaps a little taken a back by how blunt his words were, and than an Orlesian would speak so of Meghren, she felt a flash of white hot anger, and when he pulled back and apologized, she gave him a searing glare and snatched herself from his hands. “I think I'm done with this dance,” she hissed at him, and then added in a mocking tone, “I wish your feet a swift recovery.” Before she gave him a ghost of a curtsy, keeping her hold on her skirts when she straightened so she could walk away from him quickly.<br><br>Alexandra walked off the dance floor and past her group of friends, out of the ball room all together, and down one of the grand halls, ignoring the couples tucked into the nooks and crannies. She felt an indignant anger boiling in her stomach, and had a need for fresh air to calm herself. She didn't stop until she came out onto one of the terraces, fairly long, but not overly wide, with a stone wall built around it, allowing one to overlook the southern side of Denerim. The night air was still chilled, this early in the Spring, and her fair skin tightened with goose bumps. Overhead, only patches of stars revealed themselves in the gaps of clouds passing by, the mood currently obscured, though every so often the fat crescent managed to escape the spotted curtain, occasionally bathing the landscape in pale muted light.<br><br>The young woman leaned against the stone wall, frowning and pulling her mask off, holding it in her hands and looking down at it. It seemed to mock her some how and she flung it away with a soft scoff. She'd called the Orlesian a hypocrite, well she supposed she was one as well. She hated the Orlesians, Meghren most of all, she called her father a coward for bending his knee to them, and her uncle a hero for fighting back, but here she was, at Meghren's inauguration ball, and even though she was dressed as if in mourning, she still danced and drank with the rest of them. 
			</dd>
		</dl>
		<div id="footer" class="smalltext">
			
			<span class="smalltext" style="display: inline; visibility: visible; font-family: Verdana, Arial, sans-serif;"><a href="https://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?action=credits" title="Simple Machines Forum" target="_blank" class="new_win">SMF 2.0.19</a> |
 <a href="https://www.simplemachines.org/about/smf/license.php" title="License" target="_blank" class="new_win">SMF © 2021</a>, <a href="https://www.simplemachines.org" title="Simple Machines" target="_blank" class="new_win">Simple Machines</a>
			</span>
		</div>