The Inquisitor (Imperator and Mercurial)
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Mercurial on 04-10-2010, 22:42:30</h2>
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				Title: <strong>The Inquisitor (Imperator and Mercurial)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Mercurial</strong> on <strong>04-10-2010, 22:42:30</strong>
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				Her stay in the Republic of Arcady was coming to an end. Out in these foreign lands to ensure the missionaries were following doctrinal standards, watching the faith adapt to a new culture, discussing it with local luminaries - priests and nobles both.<br><br>One, a wealthy merchant prince named Hafex, approaches her. He has been the source of...numerous late night discussions on philosophy, faith and doctrine over dinner. Of particular curiosity for him was the notion of the Vow of Chastity. It's clear - especially considering the harem he keeps - that it makes little sense to him. Especially he notes, for someone like her, out on the road so much without the comfort of a 'wife' - the Arcady term was more 'subordinant partner' than particularly female. Last night, in his eyes, it was genuine concern for one who has grown into a friend.<br><br>His hands held wide to draw her into an embrace, her is all smiles today, hugging her tightly. "Priest!", he never has properly managed to pronounce her name, and has long since given up trying "I hear you are leaving our beautiful shores for that dismal, rainy rock you call home. I have good news for you. I have found a solution to your problem." Problem. Only someone like him would refer to the Vow as 'your problem'.<br><br>He whistles, and one of his female companions emerges, leading a young man by a leash attached to a simple collar. He is handsome, dressed in a simple traveling tunic, his muscles lean from what looks like a life of physical work. <br><br>"A gift, for you. You see, your vow is you not take another to your bed. Slaves are..." he smiles at his own cleverness "...not technically people. He can be used for your pleasures without violating your vow." He nods and the woman tugs the boy forward, holding the leash out.
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				Title: <strong>Re: The Inquisitor (Imperator and Mercurial)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Imperator</strong> on <strong>05-10-2010, 08:58:50</strong>
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				"Father?" the prince asks the distracted priest. "Don't you like your gift?"<br><br>Father Seraphina Barbieri snaps back into reality. A priest, even an inquisitor and assassin such as herself, is expected to possess a certain amount of diplomacy. Social graces are taught in seminary alongside theology. In fact, Sera would have graduated at the top of her class had it not been for a ongoing struggle with her etiquette classes. She excelled at canon law, interrogation techniques, disbanding heretical cults, and an impressive gamut of covert operations, but diplomacy was always her weak spot. The last time she failed to exercise tact in a delicate situation, she nearly caused an international riot and even received a handwritten reprimand from the Pontifex himself. Because of that regrettable incident, she summoned every bit of self-control she had, suppressing the urge to kick her new benefactor in the groin.&nbsp; &nbsp; <br><br>"Pardon me, your lordship," she replies. "Quite naturally, I'm grateful for your generous gift. Thank you ever so much. Really, it means the world to me." It was uttered with all the enthusiasm of a prisoner facing immediate execution. <br><br><em>You jackass</em>, Sera silently brooded, staring at her new acquisition, and then back at the clown who had considered this an appropriate gift for a priest. <em>This constitutes a complete mockery of my vows.</em> <br><br>Not that she hadn't been mocking those vows a bit herself over the past few months. Normally, her vow of celibacy wasn't that much of an issue. She usually stayed too busy to give it much thought. Her endless travels in the service of the Church ensured that she scarcely had time to fix a decent cup of tea, much less ponder the finer points of human existence, such as sex and companionship. Still, there were those damnable urges of hers, and they grew worse every day. Spending time in Arcady hadn't helped. What a place. Sexual deviates everywhere. People all but screwed in the streets like dogs. They were sick, degenerate creatures, each and every one of them. Even the best of them, like the wealthy man standing before her, was still a pervert. Worse yet, she had begun dreaming about their filthy habits, and remembering the things they had done to each other right before her eyes. She had arrived in Arcady, just as she arrived everywhere else, wearing the collar, pendant, badge and clothing clearly identifying her as a cleric of the Universal Church of Hermes Christos, and they didn't even care. A bit of sacred flagellation, as per item #10498 in the Official Catechism, would do the whole lot of them good.&nbsp; <br><br>As for the Church, it had historically been formed from the merger of several massively influential sects, and soon emerged as the single most politically powerful religious organization in current existence. Sera knew very little of life outside the Church. She had been taken off the streets and raised in a Church orphanage. It was obvious early on that she was made for being a Church operative. Her career choice was sealed by the time she hit puberty; she was to be an inquisitor. She possessed a high degree of intelligence and an admirable ability to keep her mouth shut about classified matters. Better still, she could do jobs that would make strong men weep, if not lose their lunch. Despite her occasionally rough manners and even rougher speech, she was one of the Church's most valuable assets. She served as a cleric in one of the few remaining religions in which female priests were still considered a rarity. They were so rare, in fact, that there was no real title for them. She was formally addressed as "Father" and "Sir" simply because there are no church forms reading otherwise, and no immediate plans to have any printed. The good father didn't mind, save for the annoying nickname she had acquired in seminary: Father Barbie. It was a play on her last name, but also came from a centuries-old doll that had been nearly forgotten, but brought back into vogue due to its sheer absurdism. The doll had disproportionately long legs and large breasts, and smiled moronically. It was a cartoon of a woman. So was Father Barbie, according to her detractors. When she wasn't covered in the blood of heretics, she cleaned up nicely. She wasn't an unattractive woman by any means, although being somewhat petite, lacked the Barbie doll's height and ridiculously long legs. She had long hair like the doll, but it was auburn instead of blonde. Some people mistakenly underestimated her because of her looks, but she excelled in her work as a killer and a roving trashman for the Church, taking out heretics and other garbage.&nbsp; <br><br>And what kind of garbage lay at the end of that leash? What in the relentless fires of Hell was she supposed to do with <em>that?</em> <br><br>Still, unlike most of her colleagues, Sera possessed something unusual: the faint glimmering of a conscience. A fair amount of scratching had to be done to uncover it, but it was there. Unlike most other Church officials, she hadn't sailed in from a cozy, privileged life in the upper classes. Not that she wasn't of partial noble blood herself, but it's the "partial" factor that sealed her fate. Her father was a minor noble, but in the better homes, illegitimacy is an instant ticket to the streets. So Sera understood the struggles of street people a great deal more than the average coddled Chuch bureaucrat. As for the slave, most other priests would just shoot the damned thing and be done with it, or make a hasty resale to the nearest available slave trader. But not <em>this</em> priest. As much as it pained her to admit it, she realized that the slave would be better off in her care than if he were turned over to someone far more sadistic. She knew instinctively that she'd come to resent his presence and feel vexed by his status as a walking sex toy. Moreover, she honestly didn't know what she'd do with him if she had to engage in any serious combat, which, given her occupation, is always a possibility. Still, she deemed it her begrudged humanitarian duty to take him with her. <br><br>The merchant prince turns toward the slave and points. "Take it to Father Barbieri's vehicle," he orders a nearby servant.<br><br>"Sir, I didn't come here in a vehicle," Sera says. "I walked." <br><br>"You walked here?" Hafex sputters. "You <em>walked</em> all that way? Over that terrain? Surely, you're joking!"<br><br>"I assure you, I'm not." Sera took the leash in her right hand. "And now, if you'll excuse me, I--we--need to start walking back."
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Inquisitor (Imperator and Mercurial)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Mercurial</strong> on <strong>05-10-2010, 18:51:38</strong>
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				As the woman who he was to be given to - some sort of Church officiate if he understood correctly - turns to leave, the slave follows quietly, keeping a fair amont of slack on the leash, trailing slightly behind her and to the right.<br><br>Walking. She was intending to walk.<br><br>Jaron, his name, when his owners chose to recognize he had one, walked quietly behind her as they thread their way through the streets of the city, out toward the high mountain roads that would take her - them -&nbsp; out of Arcady. Her tone, the lack of enthusiasm, the hint of almost...distaste...in her voice, scared him. A slave's lifespan was defined by their value, and if he held little in her eyes, what would become of him if he was injured, or the opportunity arose to sell him on the road to ease her burdens?<br><br>Finally, as they approach the edge of town, the low wall that separates it from the outside coming into view, he speaks, his voice quiet and timid. "Do you not have luggage Mistress?"
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Inquisitor (Imperator and Mercurial)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Imperator</strong> on <strong>06-10-2010, 21:27:56</strong>
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				The priest freezes in her tracks. <br><br>It spoke. <em>He</em> spoke. The slave. <br><br>It's not always a given that a slave can speak. Some of them have their tongues cut out, their vocal cords severed, or are otherwise modified so they can't protest their ill treatment. He had been so quiet that she just assumed he was mute. And now he's asking about luggage. <br><br>"Priests don't have very many possessions," Sera explains. "In fact, technically, we don't have <em>any</em>. Everything I have here belongs to the Church, right down to the clothing issued to me. I don't even own my name; the Church gave me that, too." She was carrying a few items, though, mostly concealed weapons, identification papers, and some important Church documents. These weren't the kind of things she'd normally be willing to turn over to a third party. Then again, the stack of papers was getting heavy. Could this man be entrusted with them? If a single one of them were lost, there would be serious consequences.&nbsp; &nbsp; <br><br>She was still disturbed by the idea of having received a human being as a gift, particularly for the purpose Hafex intended. But she had to admit that the slave was attractive. Were she a layman, she might consider using him for more than carrying papers. The thought provoked immediate embarrassment. She was thinking like a layman, someone outside the clerical class. Laymen are essentially animals. They eat, sleep and breed. Mostly breed. The very thought of coupling with someone like the laymen do filled her with disgust. But when she lay down to sleep at night, various thoughts and urges would assault her mind despite her relative success in blocking them from her waking consciousness. Sometimes, in her dreams, she behaved like a layman. What if she had dreams like that while the slave was with her? What if she spoke aloud in her sleep and he heard her? As of late, she had been especially tormented by dreams about a colleague, Father Alexius Chrysola. For years, they had trained as inquisitors together and remained close friends, or as close as inquisitors ever get to anybody. At present, they only see each other a few times a year, but he's scheduled to visit again soon, a fact that fills her with a host of strange and conflicting thoughts. Sera reminds herself that Alex's prolonged absences, although it hurts her more every time he leaves, are probably a gift from above lest she enter into sin with him. The chemistry between them is intense but has never been spoken about, and certainly not acted upon. <br><br>The slave, on the other hand, isn't something from one of her dreams, nor some problem she'll have to cope with in the future. This is here and now. They will have to spend the night together. <br><br>Sera never did care for the way that slaves walk behind their masters. Still, she really didn't want to look at this man, so she allowed him to continue trailing behind. The very sight of him filled her with a sense of inexplicable shame and emotional confusion. They'd soon be traversing a mountain range with steep, hazardous cliffs. Falling over the edge of one of those cliffs would mean instant death. One deftly placed kick to the rear, and all of her problems--and his--would be over. She sighed, realizing that she wouldn't really do it. She killed on Church orders only. There were no orders to kill this unfortunate creature. She also realized that it was now her duty as an inquisitor to convert him to her religion if he weren't already a devotee of Hermes Christos, which, given his general ignorance about her functions as a priest, seemed to be the case. If she killed him prior to his conversion, his soul would be on her hands. She would have to convert him either by good preaching or old-fashioned coercion, but he must be converted. <br><br>Sera turns to him. "I want you to carry this." She extracts a frayed, ancient, leather-bound satchel from an inside coat pocket. The leather is lovingly hand-crafted from the skin of a heretic, and is heavy with papers. Stuffed inside it are crucial forms from the Inquisitor's Office, some blank and others already filled out and waiting to be delivered via courier to Pontifex City. It would be a while before she'd reach the next courier's office. If even a single one of the completed papers were lost, she would be forced to trudge all the way back to an outpost she'd already visited and collect more signatures and official verification that she had completed her task. She had no intent of that happening. The places she visited were very far apart, and the journeys perilous. She had walked to many of them. Arcady, with all its urban splendor, was the exception instead of the rule. A pig would be offended to live in some the towns Sera had seen. All she wanted to do was return to Pontifex City, the place where she was born, raised and educated. The quicker she fulfilled her duties, the quicker she could get back home.&nbsp; <br><br>For now, she had to be content with her base on the outskirts of a small city called, generically enough, Dwelling. No sane person wanted to dwell in Dwelling. There were frequent dust storms that resulted in entire months when sunlight scarcely filtered though. It was a dirty, gritty place inhabited by dirty, gritty people. Dwelling was one of the final stops before the beginning of the wilderness separating it from commercial centers like Arcady. Sera and her slave were trudging through that wilderness now. The mountains were tough to climb and could get bitterly cold at night. After the mountain ranges came rocky, nearly uninhabitable flatlands with their endless dust storms and cyclones. A few towns, like Dwelling, managed to survive despite feeling like outposts of Hell itself.&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;<br><br>The priest pondered her accommodations in Arcady, the soft beds and luxurious pillows. A person could get spoiled in a place like that. Spoiled and soft. Tonight's accommodations would be quite different. She'd be lucky to find a level place to lie down among the jagged rocks and sharp mountainous cliffs. She wouldn't be able to bathe unless she found a icy mountain pool, or stripped her garments and stood out in the middle of a thunderstorm. She couldn't possibly bathe with this slave nearby, but also didn't want to offend his sensibilities by <em>not</em> bathing. Surely, even a slave likes to have clean traveling companions. What a bother.&nbsp; <br><br>Sera whips out a battered pocket watch and, upon seeing the time, immediately stops walking. Prayers must be said at certain times of the day. The prayers of an inquisitor are considered especially strong, and the people count upon the prayers being said at just the right time. The prayers are delivered while lying prostrate face down on the floor. Or in Sera's case, face down in the cold dirt.&nbsp; <br><br>The slave draws near. "Madam, may I assist you in any way?"<br><br>"No!" Sera snaps. "Can't you see I'm praying? Get the fuck out of my face!" Inquisitors spend a lot of time on the streets. There's a reason that they're not often invited to fancy affairs back at Pontifex City. Their language and manners can get a bit coarse after years on the road. They're the workhorses of the Church, often ending up insane or dead before they hit retirement. Once they do retire, they're sequestered in a little retirement community all to themselves. They're safe within the confines of Pontifex City, but shielded from the delicate eyes of their more refined colleagues who never left that city's gates. Most retired inquisitors are just happy to have an actual bed to sleep on and a few warm meals. They spend their remaining days trying to forget all the people they killed and tortured. They fight and kill for the Church, only to be rewarded by their own colleagues crossing the street to avoid eye contact with them. They're feared to the point of paranoia. They're respected in the same way that one respects venomous snakes. People realize they're powerful, but nobody wants to cuddle up to one.&nbsp; <br><br>The slave steps back silently, and the priest resumes her prayers. Because of the flat-on-the-ground position, inquisitors at their most vulnerable while praying. The only reprieve an inquisitor gets from praying is if he or she is under direct attack. Otherwise, the prayers are to be performed regardless of circumstances. It doesn't matter if a whirlwind is coming; the prayers must be offered at the proper time. She prays for a while, chants a psalm, and sings a brief hymn. Then she stand up, dusting off her sleeves. <br><br>She turns to the slave. "Don't <em>ever</em> interrupt me when I'm at prayer." After pausing a moment, she adds, "Unless someone's coming up behind me to kill me. Then it might be nice if you said something." <br><br>"Yes, my lady." <br><br>It dawned on her that, at least in that capacity, the slave might actually be useful. Prayer was dangerous business. She had to keep one ear open to God and the other open to approaching danger. Several inquisitors have been killed by being ambushed during prayer. She turned around and looked at the slave. She looked him over more carefully than she had before. He had the same expression on his face that some of the Church orphanage kids have upon their initial arrival. Lost and unsure. He also appeared to be afraid of her.&nbsp; <br><br>"I'm not a monster, you know." The slave doesn't say anything, because he's unsure of what to say. She doesn't bother waiting for a response. "Come on, we'll have to make camp in a few hours." He doesn't move, and she notices that he's gazing at the sky while clutching the leather satchel carefully against his chest.<br><br>"What are you looking at, Jaron?" she asks, using the name he had seemed so reluctant to tell her.<br><br>"Storm clouds, ma'am. In the northwest."<br><br>The entire region is prone to frequent and sudden storms, but the cloud formation the slave had just spotted looked particularly dangerous. She could see the beginnings of cyclonic rotation. Sometimes storms in this area could last for days, even weeks. "Let's move," Sera commands. This time, the slave starts walking. The two of them begin the uphill trek toward Pinion Pass, the safest place nearby. There are a few caves there, and they can sleep in one of them if they have to. But "nearby" is a relative term. They turn their attention toward scaling the mountain ahead of them. Hours roll by as they become silently lost in their own private thoughts. 
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: The Inquisitor (Imperator and Mercurial)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Mercurial</strong> on <strong>06-10-2010, 22:27:33</strong>
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			<dd class="postbody">
				The walk out of the city was an enlightening one in some ways, small scraps of information helping fill in the details of his new owner.<br><br>The first was clear. <em>Never</em> interrupt her while praying. He was half-convinced he would die, right then and there. He supposed, soon enough, her attention would turn to teaching him those prayers. While his former owners were content to allow slaves to retain whatever faith they had held before losing their freedom, something told him she would be much less content.<br><br>The second was that she was half surprised he spoke. He had been present for the discussion regarding the decision not to take his voice from him, as many slaves were. 'Yes, but she is a woman, she has use of a slave's tongue'. 'I have heard what happens to the Inquisitors...subjects. Perhaps she will enjoy screaming in her bed-slave as well, no?'. <br><br>Third was the notion that she had few possessions - and that technically none of it was hers. He asks in a quiet, timid voice. "What does that mean for me Mistress?" It was always wise for a slave to know who really owned them.<br><br>Shouldering the burden of her heavy satchel without protest, keeping a careful hand over the flap to ensure it remained closed. Their pace sped as he brought the building storms to her attention, the young man struggling at times to keep up with her pace as the trail becomes rougher, breathing heavily as they scramble up the rocky heights of the mountain. Eventually, the rumbling of the thunderstorm drives the two of them into one of the shallow cave along the side of the trail, slipping inside. The slave places her satchel between him and the entry, in effect putting himself between it and the oncoming rain, leaving a place deeper in the cave for the woman. He draws his knees up to his chest, looking out at the storm quietly.
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