Alas, How Ill You Fare (Storiwyr & Cutter)
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		<h2 id="linktree">Play-By-Post: Bondage, D/s, S&amp;M =&gt; Bondage: Human Solos =&gt; Topic started by: Storiwyr on 10-05-2008, 20:18:17</h2>
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				Title: <strong>Alas, How Ill You Fare (Storiwyr &amp; Cutter)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Storiwyr</strong> on <strong>10-05-2008, 20:18:17</strong>
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				The sun was setting in west--casting faint pink highlights through the sky--when the caravan crested the hill and came within sight of the castle gates. At front there was a large, fine stallion. He was all over the color of well-tanned deer hide, strange pink skin showing at nose and eyelids. A pure white mane was ruffled by the wind. His rider seemed to be having some trouble controlling him, and his dark green eyes were rolling, powerful hooves stomping irritably in the dust of the road. The woman on his back--for a woman it was--was dressed in a fine green gown with accents of lace and silver piping at the neckline. She wore a soft, white gauzy veil that trailed back over straw colored hair. Strangely, the dress did not seem to fit her as well as it should have, but perhaps it was just because she was bent out of shape by her own irritation. She turned in the saddle, clenching the reins in her hands and turning to her companion,<br><br>"Do something!" She hissed at her companion. The other woman, riding just behind her, clucked her tongue softly and urged her own horse forward. The other horse was a chestnut mare, a good deal shorter and more rotund than the stallion with a slightly bedraggled mane and tail. With the difference in height, the rider was a good deal shorter than the annoyed woman in finery. When she'd drawn astride the stallion, the woman reached up and caught the rein near the bit, gently pulling the stallion's proud head down to her level, <br><br>"Hush Falasa, hush." The woman on the mare said, tilting her head back. Waves of glossy hair the color of polished walnut slipped down her back, brushing the saddle behind her. Standing on the ground, she would have been slightly taller than her scowling companion, but she had a more delicate build, slender fingers now engaged in holding the bridle of the stallion with one hand, and caressing the soft fur of his nose with the other. She was wearing a rather dirty dress in homespun wool died blue, and it hung loosely on her slender frame. There were smudges of dirt on her cheeks from the dusty horse beneath her--the mare did not look to have been properly curried in weeks--and from the rider rubbing her face. She looked to have been crying, and as she communed with the stallion, resting her cheek against his as he nosed her shoulder, another few tears escaped.<br><br>"That's enough." The stallion's rider snapped, "He's calm now, get back where you belong, slave. See to the mules." There was something biting in the way she termed her companion, clearly her attendant on the voyage. The slave gave a soft kiss to Falasa's cheek and then turned her own steed. When she was facing with her horse turned opposite her mistress, she looked up, a beseeching look in her dark green eyes--so like those of the horse she'd been attending to.<br><br>"If you would not pull back so hard ..." She said softly, "Give him his mouth and he will ride better for you." <br><br>"If I wanted advice from a slave," The woman said coldly, "I'd have asked one of the mules." <br><br>The woman so carelessly termed slave flushed a little, biting back a cutting comment of her own, and nudged the mare into a plodding sort of trot, riding back to the mules, which were cross tied to each other, and then loosely to her own saddle. They likely would have followed without the rope as guide, and they kept following the stallion now, even as the lead went slack. She gave each a brief pat on the shoulder, her eyes checking to be sure that their packs were still properly tied before she turned and rode back up to follow just behind the stallion once more. The first rider seemed to be having less trouble with her steed, perhaps because her hands had indeed loosened on the reins. She was not, however, following her companion's advice, she was just distracted, her dark brown eyes rising to take in the castle that was now looming before them. They would arrive in minutes, and she turned in her saddle to address the woman behind her, <br><br>"You just remember," She said in a low voice, "Remember your oath, and the consequences of breaking it. Remember what you are now, and don't shame me. And stop crying."<br><br>For a moment the woman on the mare lifted her head in a rather haughty fashion, her chin rising and her green eyes blazing. She remained silent, and turned her eyes away from rider of the stallion, who gave a sudden prancing sidestep that nearly knocked his rider off balance and forced her to face forward a moment. The woman jerked the reins, and Falasa snorted and settled back into his high-hooved trot. Furious, she craned her neck yet again to glare at her companion, "You will address me properly, or you will be whipped for insolence, slave." <br><br>"Yes, Your Highness." Came the answer, in a voice too cultured to truly sound sullen, though there did seem to be a faint hint of rebellion in the tone. But the gate was reached before the royal woman could comment further, and there was a fanfare of trumpets from the gatehouse. Soon the heavy gates rolled inward with a rumble that sent the mare into a nervous sidestep of her own, which her rider effortlessly corrected. Falasa, for his part, was unmoved, standing proudly with his head high as the gate shook the ground beneath his hooves. <br><br>"Present me." The stallion's rider hissed at the slave, "And do it properly, or I'll see you tied and whipped like a dog."<br><br>With a tip of her chin, the mare's rider urged her horse forward, riding up in front of Falasa and turned the mare across his path. In a strong voice, that nevertheless could not hide a note of despair, she spoke.<br><br>"Presenting Princess Rhiannon of the Kingdom of Grym!"
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				Title: <strong>Re: Alas, How Ill You Fare (Storiwyr &amp; Cutter)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cutter</strong> on <strong>03-06-2008, 03:33:24</strong>
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				He gazed out of the north tower as the setting sun basked him in its burnished warmth, much like a lover’s touch. Fingers of delicate light caressed his features. His face&nbsp; was smooth, yet angular, as it was cast from the formidable rock of the Grimdour peaks. It gave his youthful countenance a masculine nuance that bespoke maturity and nobility. His gloved hand gripped the gilded hilt of his long-sword. The jeweled scabbard clinked against his thigh, the polished stones rubbing against the tight fabric of his leggings. It was the only sound in the sparsely furnished chamber of the tower. <br><br>Drasves Hroth, Prince of Stoughold grimaced. The fading light reflected his mood. Subdued and darkening. He often came to the North Tower to clear his mind. As of late, it had become his place to brood.<br><br><br>The rigidly formal courtesies and responsibilities of Royal Court had become increasingly wearisome. However, he admittedly enjoyed all the trappings of his station in this royal existence. <br><br>This philosophical dichotomy vexed him and he suddenly found himself in the tower when he should have been at Court, beneath the marbled, cathedral like ceilings of the Grand Hall.<br><br>There was a soft, almost inaudibly knock at the door.<br><br>Drasves sighed.<br><br>“Enter, Cull.”<br><br>The footman pushed open the heavy, iron branded oak door with both hands. He bowed stiffly; the high, starched collar of his tunic chaffed his crimson neck.<br><br>“Your Grace, your presence is urgently-”<br><br>Drasves raised his hand.<br><br>“Yes. Yes. Yes. I am well aware were my presence should be, Cull. I see the riders approach.&nbsp; Make sure all the preparation for our guests comfort are in order. I shall be along. Presently.”<br><br>&nbsp;Drasves dropped his hand back to the hilt of his sword.<br><br><br>The footman, taking the Prince’s cue of dismissal, grimaced as the collar dug into skin as he bowed and pulled the door closed behind him. The thud of the door echoed in the chamber, masking the prince’s sigh.<br><br><br><br><br>
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				Title: <strong>Re: Alas, How Ill You Fare (Storiwyr &amp; Cutter)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Storiwyr</strong> on <strong>18-06-2008, 17:31:21</strong>
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				The courtyard was a bustle of activity. Gatemen in fine livery lined both sides of the entryway, standing at stiff attention with shining horns in their hands. The two women rode into the square, and stable boys seemed to materialize from the crowd, stepping forward to take the leads of the mules. They ducked easily over and through the ropes, loosening knots with deft fingers and guiding the mules away to the stables while yet more servants began unloading them on the move. Strangely, it was the princess who turned her head and watched them go, though with the haughty expression on her face, perhaps she was watching because she thought their service would not be up to her standards. The woman on the mare--riding just to the side and slightly behind the great stallion--was looking straight ahead to the imposing castle.<br><br>The King of Stoughold stood towering over his court at the top of the steps, his own craggy face as imposing as the building before which he stood. He looked vaguely displeased, though that look faded into a reserved expression of hospitality. It was best to look welcoming, but not so welcoming that a new arrival would think they could walk all over the good graces of the kingdom. He looked a little confused at first when he saw the Princess in clothes that seemed so ill-suited to her frame. But, then again, it had been a long trip for two women traveling alone, and such a ride could make anyone look a bit frazzled. He spared a brief look at her lady in waiting, but without the clothing of high station he took little time to truly consider her. <br><br>And so the slave went largely unnoticed. Two well groomed and finely dressed servants stepped forward to offer the princess assistance in dismounting from her horse. But no assistance was given the slave, and she merely sat on the mare in confusion. Finally she slipped down on her own and stood there, looking lost until a stable boy approached her with a shy smile and duck of his head. He couldn't have been much older than twelve, and he spoke in a quiet voice like he was afraid of waking someone, "Beg your pardon, I can show you to the stables if you like. I'm taking her Majesty's stallion now." He ducked around the mare's neck and caught the bridle of the fine stallion, who balked at first. But the boy had a gentle touch and voice that soothed the proud animal, and with another quick smile over his shoulder to the slave, he moved away through the crowd. And the woman followed, grateful for the first time to be out of the bustle of the court.
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Alas, How Ill You Fare (Storiwyr &amp; Cutter)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cutter</strong> on <strong>02-08-2008, 18:14:12</strong>
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				His boots thudded dully on the polished stone steps. He moved at a brisk pace. His face a stony countenance, much like the Grimdour Peaks that loomed on the distant horizon. He cut through the Byzantine labyrinth that was the Grand Palace. Eschewing the most direct route. He did not wish to greet the sycophants of Court.<br><br>He arrived by his father's side and controlled his breathing. He did not wish it to be obviously labored. His father glanced sideways at him, his face neutral, but his eyes were a lit with irritability. <br><br>Drasves sighed inwardly.<br><br>He was also growing weary of being under that gimlet, constant glare.<br><br>Drasves remained a bastion of aloofness as his gaze settled on the Princess. His eyes narrowed slightly, her form was as ill-fitting as her dress.<br><br>Was the journey that arduous?<br><br>He resisted the urge to rub his eyes and looked away and the slave girl thus came into his line of sight. Though clad in something that remotely resembled a dress, her lithe fame and demeanor bespoke poise and grace even though she appeared somewhat bewidlered.<br><br>She was led away by a stable boy and Drasves's thoughts focused on the chore at hand.<br><br>Indeed,it was a chore. A soul-crushing one at that.<br><br>He almost winced when his Father's booming baritone voice filled the air like a crack of thunder.<br><br>'Welcome! Welcome to Stoughold. It is a much fair and brighter place with your presence!"
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				Title: <strong>Re: Alas, How Ill You Fare (Storiwyr &amp; Cutter)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Storiwyr</strong> on <strong>31-08-2008, 02:33:06</strong>
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				The Princess turned to face the King when he spoke. In fact, everyone who was anyone of station turned to face him. His voice was commanding and only the slaves and servants did not stop to take notice. After all, the King rarely deigned to speak to any of them, unless it was to shout. That was what his personal manservant was for, after all--a man of noble birth whose sole duty was to pass the orders of the King down to those who would actually carry them out. <br><br>But the slave of the Princess ... she did stop, her body drawing into the lithe lines of a startled deer, her dark hair falling across her cheek as she turned to look back. The stallion stopped as well, as though he were finally in tune to every nuance of the girl's emotions. The stable-boy--trying to lead the great animal and the slave--stumbled and nearly fell when both his companions stopped so suddenly. He looked utterly baffled for a moment, staring strangely at the new addition to the serving staff. Her eyes were fixed on the King, as though she were waiting to be personally addressed, but presently she realized her foolishness. She was nobody. Her face fell into a expression of unhappiness and confusion, and her gaze slipped from the King to the man next to him, who wore a bored expression. Her eyes met his for a split second before he looked away again. The prince, perhaps? But now the boy was tugging on her hand, and she jumped, surprised to be touched so easily by anyone. She let him lead her away.<br><br>At the bottom of the steps, Princess Rhiannon tugged at her finery as though she wasn't sure exactly how best to straighten it so it would fit her better. And her attempt did not work, only making her look more wrinkled and road-weary. She scooped up her skirt slightly so that she could ascend the stairs, at the top of which she stopped and gave a bow. There was something awkward and staged about the motion. Perhaps she was sore from so long on a horse?
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				Title: <strong>Re: Alas, How Ill You Fare (Storiwyr &amp; Cutter)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Cutter</strong> on <strong>04-09-2008, 04:51:34</strong>
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				Drasves caught her gaze as his father's voice boomed out. By merest chance. A whim of Fate he spied her. A servant girl. Of all things. He was to summarily dismiss on that account and his conscience niggled at him. The worm of a thousand teeth had returned.<br><br><em>Why should you not gaze upon a from of beauty,tho clad in the garb and class of a servant?</em><br><br>He grimaced as he warred internally. He was nobility. Undeniable and with that title&nbsp; not only came social rank but responsibility.<br><br>&nbsp;Duty.<br><br>No room for folly. Day dreams of shedding that yoke.<br><br>Or noose.<br><br>He looked away. His facade of stately indifference solidified his features.<br><br>Drasves turned his imperious gaze to the Princess. He held it upon her, giving her the full weight of it.<br><br>She seemed ill at ease. Her garb was equally ill-fitted. It were as if she were a burlap bag stuffed with leaves. No form. No feminine grace.<br><br>Perhaps she should be leading the horse to the stable?<br><br>His father coughed and that was enough of an impetus for Drasves to personally&nbsp; greet the Princess.<br><br>As he strode to her, his mind wandered to thoughts of concubines and rides in the dark of night to distant, illicit rendezvous.<br><br>He bowed stiffly and as he righted himself he waited for her hand and his world to cloud over.<br><br>
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			<dt class="postheader">
				Title: <strong>Re: Alas, How Ill You Fare (Storiwyr &amp; Cutter)</strong><br>
				Post by: <strong>Storiwyr</strong> on <strong>15-09-2008, 05:51:08</strong>
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				There was something comforting about the stables. The slave had spent significant time surrounded by the smell of horse and hay. Falasa was, after all, her dearest companion, and the one she felt herself best understood by. But today even those familiar scents were not enough to entirely soothe the girl's mind. The stable boy still held to her hand, and she gave him a gentle squeeze, just for the added companionship. He looked over his shoulder to find tears in her eyes, though none had yet escaped to trail down her pale cheeks. The boy was clearly alarmed, and he stopped them right in the middle of the hall before he'd even stabled the horse, <br><br>"Oi, what's wrong then?" he asked the girl, his brows quirked in a comical look of concern. <br><br>The girl ducked her head, lifting a graceful hand to her eyes as if to shield the tears, though she knew it was too late. She turned herself to the stallion and hid her face in his gleaming mane, "It is nothing. I pray you, please do not ask me. Show me where to stable Falasa."<br><br>The boy looked as though he wanted to press the issue, his brow rumpled in worry, but then he shrugged expansively and began to lead the horse again, bringing him into an empty stall already well stocked with hay and oats. He gave the stallion a pat on the nose as he undid the bridle and removed the bit from his mouth. The girl was already working on the stallion's saddle, swinging it down from his back gracefully and removing the blanket. There were a few places that looked a little raw on the lovely beast's back, and she touched them gently with her fingers, a look of regret on her face.<br><br>"My name is Will." The boy was standing right next to her, offering her a grubby hand and a grin, his voice soft. She took the hand uncertainly, as if she'd never shaken hands with anyone before, <br><br>"I am ..." She stopped, looking confused a moment, and then wincing as if it pained her to tell him, "My name is Anne."<br><div align="center">***</div><br>The Princess couldn't seem to bring herself to hold the weight of his gaze with her own. She dropped her eyes to her feet, and there was nothing of grace in the way her shoulders slumped slightly. If one didn't know any better, one might think she had never done this before. The cough rang out awkwardly into the silence, and the Prince was approaching and bowing. She returned an equally stiff curtsy ... still no sign of queenly graces whatsoever. She straightened, brown eyes darting side to side as she smoothed a stray strand of hair back into place and shifted her weight. Only then did she seem to realize that the Prince was waiting for something. She flushed and stuck out her hand hastily.<br><br>"Your highness." She said, awkward as his father's cough.
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