I am obsessed with things chivalrous and medieval and romantic and this sideblog is a way to explore such things without making a fool of myself in more public spaces. Expect images I like, interactions with princesses and queens who find me worthy company, and general perspectives from an older, loyal knight whose heart still burns.
Follows come from my main that has Etienne in the name. You can use that name here, if you want. I just have meatspace moots over there who don't need to see my hornyposting so be cool.
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No, Jalon wasn't ignorant to the hardships and woes of the world at large. The dangers that some people posed had to be dealt with when they decided to actively be a problem. It was a harsh truth that to protect, some had to be cut down.
War, however, was not ideal. The fights of men with titles who thought the lives of lesser-born were worth sacrificing for their pride and greed. It was a waste of life...
"Bah! Not that old. Geoffrey is much, much older. I'm certain he's older than Father Time. You have many years left in you," she teased.
Her face warmed and she dipped her head, "I am the youngest. Most are in their forties and older, another reason I travel the most. I'm still spry. But um, thank you. I appreciate the compliment, sir."
The engagement lasted a few months before Artouros slaughtered most of the village, then got himself killed...Jalon didn't stay there much longer. Her family made up some of the victims, and the shame of being tied to him made living there unbearable. She couldn't care for her father's farm on her own either. No, leaving was best.
He smiled wryly at the word spry. “I speak truly by my halidom!”, he teased. Clearly, your path has run you across too many idle flatterers and not enough honest gentlemen.”
He laughed.
“Indeed, calling yourself ‘spry,’ makes me feel…well preserved.”
He raised the cup in a toast, “Jalon, I owe you my life, and…” he looked to the foot of the bed. A set of clean bedclothes. I fear I soiled these with my boots. I suppose I owe the fact I didn’t do worse to them by your quick work.”
He tried to sit up and undo the buckles and failed miserably.
She let out a very unladylike snort and quickly covered her mouth, "Flattery from an honest soul is welcome. I will not deny that, sir...I like that term. Well preserved...I'll need to remember that."
"Oh! You asked about guards. I'm sure that would be received well by the others."
Jalon waved away the concern. "And I've had much worse on those sheets in the past; a bit of dirt or sweat is preferable to blood and bile. Do you need help in changing into something more comfortable? We have spare clothes you can borrow that might be better for you while you recover."
She stood and went to the foot of the bed, untucking him long enough to deftly undo the troublesome buckles, and then gently removed them from his feet. "Are you warm enough now, or do you need another blanket?"
Her laugh was real, a bit earthy, but honest. He chuckled, “You are welcome to use it, so long as you never apply it to me, within earshot.”
He considered. Working to guard a cult of healers wasn’t a grand emprise, but he had little left to prove now, and Urbino would never guess Capitano Monteacudo would do such a thing. And knights should protect the weak. Though calling this woman weak was a fool’s errand. Food for thought.
He smiled at her, “If you have some clean linens I could sleep in, and a basin for me to wash, it would be a blessing. We’ll see if I can’t undress myself. Once that’s done, we’ll see if I’m still cold.
No, Jalon wasn't ignorant to the hardships and woes of the world at large. The dangers that some people posed had to be dealt with when they decided to actively be a problem. It was a harsh truth that to protect, some had to be cut down.
War, however, was not ideal. The fights of men with titles who thought the lives of lesser-born were worth sacrificing for their pride and greed. It was a waste of life...
"Bah! Not that old. Geoffrey is much, much older. I'm certain he's older than Father Time. You have many years left in you," she teased.
Her face warmed and she dipped her head, "I am the youngest. Most are in their forties and older, another reason I travel the most. I'm still spry. But um, thank you. I appreciate the compliment, sir."
The engagement lasted a few months before Artouros slaughtered most of the village, then got himself killed...Jalon didn't stay there much longer. Her family made up some of the victims, and the shame of being tied to him made living there unbearable. She couldn't care for her father's farm on her own either. No, leaving was best.
He smiled wryly at the word spry. “I speak truly by my halidom!”, he teased. Clearly, your path has run you across too many idle flatterers and not enough honest gentlemen.”
He laughed.
“Indeed, calling yourself ‘spry,’ makes me feel…well preserved.”
He raised the cup in a toast, “Jalon, I owe you my life, and…” he looked to the foot of the bed. A set of clean bedclothes. I fear I soiled these with my boots. I suppose I owe the fact I didn’t do worse to them by your quick work.”
He tried to sit up and undo the buckles and failed miserably.
She waved a hand with a soft laugh, "Do not feel obligated to do so. I don't want you to feel like you must linger for a year for such a thing."
A saint was...not quite correct. An aspect of Hazlia, not a saint; they were more of a lesser god, but she didn't correct him. Perhaps later, if he showed enough interest.
"Not a bore or disturbing at all, I've had my share of skirmishes on the road." It didn't bother her much now that she'd had to defend herself a few times. She did wonder what happened to create such an enemy that he'd be put on a list like this, but given how he tried to push past it, she let it go for now.
"We go where the Victim tells us that we are needed. They really enjoy sending me southward, however..." It was a curious pattern. Everyone else was sent everywhere else, but it felt like she was always going in the same direction.
It meant that she'd made connections with people along the way and had haunts at inns and towns; it made it a little less of a lonely life. "I've met quite a few people, of all walks of life. Being sent to help in the south means I've met the same people frequently enough to have built relationships with them. Knights, travelers, innkeepers...it's rewarding."
He considered her. She did have something of an adventuress in her...spirit. Bloodhaven was a strange land and in the past few days, he'd seen things that he couldn't wholly reconcile. Was she another such wonder?
"Skirmishes? I believe I mistook you for a nun, milady. Clearly, there is more too you than that. Isn't your life dangerous?"
"Priestess of the Victim, not a Christian nun. We have far more freedoms. For example, I was engaged once upon a time, and one of the others is married. We do not have as many restrictions on dress, or separating ourselves based on sex...we are not barred from living our lives, so long as we continue to serve faithfully."
"And we can all defend ourselves. We have to if we're to travel and provide aid...the roads are dangerous, especially if we're alone." She shrugged, "I can use my quarterstaff and a hand crossbow when needed."
Then there were spells, but they rarely advertised their magic to outsiders. It was an open secret in town, but not elsewhere.
"I'm sure your travels are also fraut with danger. Do you go alone as well, sir?"
He may have blinked, taking it all in. So, a wonder indeed! But a wonder who might understand the pains of a life in harness. She had a kind ear and lovely freckles, he thought. Charming.
I am, as you can see, an old man who succeeds in a job that sadly kills young men. If you serve one called the Victim, then you are no stranger to the hardships of a man-at-arms. Normally, at this point in my life, I would travel only in the company of my armed banda. But my lord send me here alone last week. I think it was to get me to safety. Now, I know not my road. Tell me, does your temple hire guards for these expeditions? I do know something of the lands south of here."
Lightly, he added, "Engaged you say? No more? Forgive an old warhorse, but that seems a pity to my eyes. Are all of your priestesses so lovely and charming?"
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Messer Etienne, the senior knight stood on the periphery of the proceedings and took in the scene. Bright costumes and garish masks. It reminded him of nothing so much as the carnevale in the Veneto, where it was said the Fair Folk of the Lagoon came forth to dance.
This had more of a hint of madness to it, in keeping with this odd bastion.
He’d considered wearing the same austere black as he’d done for the feast, but reconsidered at the last moment, opting for a scandalously short, snow-white houppeland with hanging sleeves, beaded to look as if they’d been spattered with blood. His hose were of crimson Florentine wool, tightly tailored, revealing the tightly muscled legs below, a second skin. His low boots were died to match.
On his head, as at the feast, he wore a bicocket hat with a sculpted and feathered swan rising from the crown. Unlike Monday’s, this one’s wings were tipped in blood red feathers, the chest speckled with matching beads. A bloody swan, the beads dripping down to cover his emerald eyes.
Upon his hands, fine red leather gloves, at his waist, a scarlet belt.
He wondered what he’d find tonight. The feast had ended in an unexpectedly pleasant fashion and he craved more. More of her, more of another. More.
He recognized at least half the people in the room now. Or he would, if not for the masks. That wasn’t done. Not in Venezia, not here.
"Sir Etienne..." greets the princess who seems to have almost materialized out of thin air next to the knight.
She is wearing an almost identical dress to the one she wore for the feast but with inverted colors. The fabric is heavy and almost blindingly white with the black accents matching the princesses hair. The chainmaile mask is hiding her whole face but it matches the silver corset and the other silver jewelery that is decorating the princess.
He turns at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, forgets himself, drinking her in with his eyes like a dying man. It is only a momentary lapse, but it's a look she's already seen.
"Your Highness," he drops to one knee, ready to take a hand if offered. "I know your fondness for swans and thought the red would compliment you . I hope I was correct.
I had not seen you for the past few days and hoped you had not tired of Bloodhaven already."
He takes her hand, the long nails, adorned with silver, the pale skin and odd coldness, lowers his head, and brushes it lightly with his lips.
His mind whirls. She is truly a vision, every inch the pen to his cob. He pushes his memories down, knowing what lies within this confection of fabric and silver. He keeps his knee and gazes upward, a look of honest devotion on his face.
"One must make the necessary social appearances, I understand. If the atmosphere becomes too close this evening and you tire of your obligations, you need only say the word and I'll be happy to find you a quieter diversion. After all, you will soon be heading home, and we can't have you ill on the road.
I am, in truth, a poor dancer. But if you wish to do so, I am at your service.
Or," he grinned conspiratorially, "we can simply take in the proceedings until you bore of them."
She can still feel the warmth of the knights lips on her hand when she speaks up again.
"We shall dance. At least for a short time. Rise." she motions for him to stand up.
The princess isn´t a well versed dancer as well but the music is still slow enough for her to manage. All kinds of odd pairings are occupying the dance floor and the princess enjoys seeing all the guests having such a good time.
"How did you spend your days while I was resting, Sir Etienne?" she asks while approaching the dance floor.
"I was unhorsed by a young knight errant in the tournament. Gallant lad rode brilliantly and stole my crest," he grinned at the thought.
A shadow then crossed his face. "And then I learned some truly awful news, that my lord of Rimini is gone. A brief illness. He sent word with two orphans I look after with instructions that Italia is no longer safe for me. And, God be good, a considerable amount of coin on deposit with his bankers. But, honestly, Your Highness, I've spent my days feeling cast adrift. He wished me to enjoy myself, and I have tried. But I do not know where life will lead me now."
He pause, then led her the rest of the way to the floor as the previous dance end. He took his place across from her, and waited for the dance-master to cry, "Dancers, are we met?"
The music started and he mentally began to count the steps.
"These are indeed horrible news. I will order my maids to pray for your lords soul tonight." she tries her best to sound empathetic while curtseying as the dance requires.
"Our courts physician once said to me `with every loss and hardship, we are growing more into the person the gods intend for us to be´. I hope it brings you some condolance."
Her steps are a bit unsure in the beginning but years of practice are coming back to her as they dance together.
The dance is a pavane, simple enough, and he counts his blessings. their hands brush on the reverance, and as he turns, he not only feels but sees the daggers stared his way by the younger knights. He can practically hear them, "Whatever does that old peacock think he's doing?"
Let them jape.
"Your physician is indeed wise. I fear I am, perhaps, too grown, but I have not come this far without being open to new things. Perhaps my road will lead to your court some day and I can provide a spot of color."
The dance ends.
"Another? Or refreshment?" He leaned in conspiratorially, "I'm fairly certain there's a cohort of young bravos plotting my murder as we speak." He offered his arm, "If you would pray grant me your protection," he grinned, "I would be ever so grateful."
She smiles at the knight before her, even though it is hidden by her mask. Her gaze wanders to the young knights that have their eyes fixed on her and Sir Etienne.
-plain and uninteresting- she judges them quietly.
"My court is always open for you, Sir Etienne. But beware. The silver castle is a rather dark and eerie place. A lot of brave knights came and fled, without ever looking back." She explains in a serious tone.
More people have entered the hall and the music is getting louder and faster.
He looks her in the eyes, matter of factly, "I have been to many dark and eerie places, Your Highness. If I knew you were within said keep, I'd daresay, I would not flee."
But I am all for quieter quarters. He looked up. "There seem to be alcoves, up on the floor above looking down and curtained off. Would those be quiet enough, do you suppose? Or should we seek our solitude elsewhere?
She waved a hand with a soft laugh, "Do not feel obligated to do so. I don't want you to feel like you must linger for a year for such a thing."
A saint was...not quite correct. An aspect of Hazlia, not a saint; they were more of a lesser god, but she didn't correct him. Perhaps later, if he showed enough interest.
"Not a bore or disturbing at all, I've had my share of skirmishes on the road." It didn't bother her much now that she'd had to defend herself a few times. She did wonder what happened to create such an enemy that he'd be put on a list like this, but given how he tried to push past it, she let it go for now.
"We go where the Victim tells us that we are needed. They really enjoy sending me southward, however..." It was a curious pattern. Everyone else was sent everywhere else, but it felt like she was always going in the same direction.
It meant that she'd made connections with people along the way and had haunts at inns and towns; it made it a little less of a lonely life. "I've met quite a few people, of all walks of life. Being sent to help in the south means I've met the same people frequently enough to have built relationships with them. Knights, travelers, innkeepers...it's rewarding."
He considered her. She did have something of an adventuress in her...spirit. Bloodhaven was a strange land and in the past few days, he'd seen things that he couldn't wholly reconcile. Was she another such wonder?
"Skirmishes? I believe I mistook you for a nun, milady. Clearly, there is more too you than that. Isn't your life dangerous?"
Messer Etienne, the senior knight stood on the periphery of the proceedings and took in the scene. Bright costumes and garish masks. It reminded him of nothing so much as the carnevale in the Veneto, where it was said the Fair Folk of the Lagoon came forth to dance.
This had more of a hint of madness to it, in keeping with this odd bastion.
He’d considered wearing the same austere black as he’d done for the feast, but reconsidered at the last moment, opting for a scandalously short, snow-white houppeland with hanging sleeves, beaded to look as if they’d been spattered with blood. His hose were of crimson Florentine wool, tightly tailored, revealing the tightly muscled legs below, a second skin. His low boots were died to match.
On his head, as at the feast, he wore a bicocket hat with a sculpted and feathered swan rising from the crown. Unlike Monday’s, this one’s wings were tipped in blood red feathers, the chest speckled with matching beads. A bloody swan, the beads dripping down to cover his emerald eyes.
Upon his hands, fine red leather gloves, at his waist, a scarlet belt.
He wondered what he’d find tonight. The feast had ended in an unexpectedly pleasant fashion and he craved more. More of her, more of another. More.
He recognized at least half the people in the room now. Or he would, if not for the masks. That wasn’t done. Not in Venezia, not here.
"Sir Etienne..." greets the princess who seems to have almost materialized out of thin air next to the knight.
She is wearing an almost identical dress to the one she wore for the feast but with inverted colors. The fabric is heavy and almost blindingly white with the black accents matching the princesses hair. The chainmaile mask is hiding her whole face but it matches the silver corset and the other silver jewelery that is decorating the princess.
He turns at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, forgets himself, drinking her in with his eyes like a dying man. It is only a momentary lapse, but it's a look she's already seen.
"Your Highness," he drops to one knee, ready to take a hand if offered. "I know your fondness for swans and thought the red would compliment you . I hope I was correct.
I had not seen you for the past few days and hoped you had not tired of Bloodhaven already."
He takes her hand, the long nails, adorned with silver, the pale skin and odd coldness, lowers his head, and brushes it lightly with his lips.
His mind whirls. She is truly a vision, every inch the pen to his cob. He pushes his memories down, knowing what lies within this confection of fabric and silver. He keeps his knee and gazes upward, a look of honest devotion on his face.
"One must make the necessary social appearances, I understand. If the atmosphere becomes too close this evening and you tire of your obligations, you need only say the word and I'll be happy to find you a quieter diversion. After all, you will soon be heading home, and we can't have you ill on the road.
I am, in truth, a poor dancer. But if you wish to do so, I am at your service.
Or," he grinned conspiratorially, "we can simply take in the proceedings until you bore of them."
She can still feel the warmth of the knights lips on her hand when she speaks up again.
"We shall dance. At least for a short time. Rise." she motions for him to stand up.
The princess isn´t a well versed dancer as well but the music is still slow enough for her to manage. All kinds of odd pairings are occupying the dance floor and the princess enjoys seeing all the guests having such a good time.
"How did you spend your days while I was resting, Sir Etienne?" she asks while approaching the dance floor.
"I was unhorsed by a young knight errant in the tournament. Gallant lad rode brilliantly and stole my crest," he grinned at the thought.
A shadow then crossed his face. "And then I learned some truly awful news, that my lord of Rimini is gone. A brief illness. He sent word with two orphans I look after with instructions that Italia is no longer safe for me. And, God be good, a considerable amount of coin on deposit with his bankers. But, honestly, Your Highness, I've spent my days feeling cast adrift. He wished me to enjoy myself, and I have tried. But I do not know where life will lead me now."
He pause, then led her the rest of the way to the floor as the previous dance end. He took his place across from her, and waited for the dance-master to cry, "Dancers, are we met?"
The music started and he mentally began to count the steps.
"These are indeed horrible news. I will order my maids to pray for your lords soul tonight." she tries her best to sound empathetic while curtseying as the dance requires.
"Our courts physician once said to me `with every loss and hardship, we are growing more into the person the gods intend for us to be´. I hope it brings you some condolance."
Her steps are a bit unsure in the beginning but years of practice are coming back to her as they dance together.
The dance is a pavane, simple enough, and he counts his blessings. their hands brush on the reverance, and as he turns, he not only feels but sees the daggers stared his way by the younger knights. He can practically hear them, "Whatever does that old peacock think he's doing?"
Let them jape.
"Your physician is indeed wise. I fear I am, perhaps, too grown, but I have not come this far without being open to new things. Perhaps my road will lead to your court some day and I can provide a spot of color."
The dance ends.
"Another? Or refreshment?" He leaned in conspiratorially, "I'm fairly certain there's a cohort of young bravos plotting my murder as we speak." He offered his arm, "If you would pray grant me your protection," he grinned, "I would be ever so grateful."
She felt some of the tension leave her as she gently laid him back down on the bed and set the bottle down on the night stand. Jalon pulled out a blanket and covered him with it to ease some of the chills. The young woman breathed easier and silently sent a prayer of thanks to the Victim.
His eyes still struggled to focus. "Where…are you the priestess? An angel? Seems too small for heaven but too cold for hell."
He tries to rise, immediately thinks the better of it. "You have me at several disadvantages, my lady but I am discourteous. I am Ser Etienne...", he trails off, spent again.
"Hell should be a place of misery. If the chill is that source, could it not be still?" she teased, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket as she smiled. "I am indeed one of the clergy of this church. Jalon Miller."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Etienne. Would you like some tea to warm you up? I can help you drink, if you find yourself in need of assistance." Most importantly, he should rest; the poor dear needed his strength.
"True enough, ma souer, true enough. Tea? Oh, a tisanne. Yes, please if it's not too much trouble. And if I could beg you for an explanation of what happened to me."
Why are the pretty ones always nuns? he wondered with a bit of chagrin.
She squeezed his shoulder through the blanket. "The food was not the problem, unfortunately. I gave you an antidote and that seems to have helped. I hope no one else ate what you did, or there may be more falling ill soon."
Did she have enough potions for that? She really hoped there were not more victims...
"One moment and I'll bring you some ginger tea. That particular potion can cause stomach upset." Another squeeze and she left the room to go brew some in their small kitchen. She returned a few minutes later and set it on the side table, helping him sit up to lean against the headboard.
He allows her to guide him on to the headboard. Strong, but soft hands, he thought. He tries to recall...
"I took food in the taverna down near the knight's camp," he said. I took the friendly voice of the Italian cook as a bright spot on a difficult week...", he trailed off. I should have been more vigilant. I'm sure if you go there now, you won't find him. It appears my late lamented lord was correct, and Urbino has long arms and no scruples, damn the man."
He takes of the tea. Hot, something more. He felt the warmth in his belly and his limbs. Reviving a bit. He took in his surroundings, sparse with religious trappings to some saint he'd not prayed to before, "Good heavens, I'm not in your bed, am I Sister?"
"I apologize for my ignorance, but I do not recognize that name." Urbino didn't sound familiar to her.
She pulled up a chair to sit beside him, watching him for any sign of distress if the illness returned. Jalon was not usually a worrier but it was always a little stressful to have another's life relying on you. The danger had passed, but the concern remained.
"And no, no we have spare beds for when someone comes seeking shelter or aid. Our quarters are next to this one. There are usually three here, sometimes more when we're not traveling. I think Larson is in town at the moment picking up supplies, but I'm not sure where Marnie is." She was one that didn't stay at the church for long periods of time; Jalon did better on the road helping who she could. "I prefer to travel. I can do more good that way."
"I am grateful you are here and indebted to you and your Order. I will make an endowment and burn a candle to your saint for a year in your name." His voice strengthened. He felt like he'd been thrown from a charger without armor. Nothing broken, but everything amiss.
Urbino is an enemy from far away. Not mine directly, I'm no one. He probably sought to clean up a loose end. His poisoner will be miles away by now and after the Masquerade, well my lord did say Italia was no longer safe for me.
But I shouldn't bore a lady of the cloth with bloody handed talk. I fear to sleep right now. If it won't take you from your duties, I pray you'd sit by me and tell me of your travels."
She felt some of the tension leave her as she gently laid him back down on the bed and set the bottle down on the night stand. Jalon pulled out a blanket and covered him with it to ease some of the chills. The young woman breathed easier and silently sent a prayer of thanks to the Victim.
His eyes still struggled to focus. "Where…are you the priestess? An angel? Seems too small for heaven but too cold for hell."
He tries to rise, immediately thinks the better of it. "You have me at several disadvantages, my lady but I am discourteous. I am Ser Etienne...", he trails off, spent again.
"Hell should be a place of misery. If the chill is that source, could it not be still?" she teased, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket as she smiled. "I am indeed one of the clergy of this church. Jalon Miller."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Etienne. Would you like some tea to warm you up? I can help you drink, if you find yourself in need of assistance." Most importantly, he should rest; the poor dear needed his strength.
"True enough, ma souer, true enough. Tea? Oh, a tisanne. Yes, please if it's not too much trouble. And if I could beg you for an explanation of what happened to me."
Why are the pretty ones always nuns? he wondered with a bit of chagrin.
She squeezed his shoulder through the blanket. "The food was not the problem, unfortunately. I gave you an antidote and that seems to have helped. I hope no one else ate what you did, or there may be more falling ill soon."
Did she have enough potions for that? She really hoped there were not more victims...
"One moment and I'll bring you some ginger tea. That particular potion can cause stomach upset." Another squeeze and she left the room to go brew some in their small kitchen. She returned a few minutes later and set it on the side table, helping him sit up to lean against the headboard.
He allows her to guide him on to the headboard. Strong, but soft hands, he thought. He tries to recall...
"I took food in the taverna down near the knight's camp," he said. I took the friendly voice of the Italian cook as a bright spot on a difficult week...", he trailed off. I should have been more vigilant. I'm sure if you go there now, you won't find him. It appears my late lamented lord was correct, and Urbino has long arms and no scruples, damn the man."
He takes of the tea. Hot, something more. He felt the warmth in his belly and his limbs. Reviving a bit. He took in his surroundings, sparse with religious trappings to some saint he'd not prayed to before, "Good heavens, I'm not in your bed, am I Sister?"
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Messer Etienne, the senior knight stood on the periphery of the proceedings and took in the scene. Bright costumes and garish masks. It reminded him of nothing so much as the carnevale in the Veneto, where it was said the Fair Folk of the Lagoon came forth to dance.
This had more of a hint of madness to it, in keeping with this odd bastion.
He’d considered wearing the same austere black as he’d done for the feast, but reconsidered at the last moment, opting for a scandalously short, snow-white houppeland with hanging sleeves, beaded to look as if they’d been spattered with blood. His hose were of crimson Florentine wool, tightly tailored, revealing the tightly muscled legs below, a second skin. His low boots were died to match.
On his head, as at the feast, he wore a bicocket hat with a sculpted and feathered swan rising from the crown. Unlike Monday’s, this one’s wings were tipped in blood red feathers, the chest speckled with matching beads. A bloody swan, the beads dripping down to cover his emerald eyes.
Upon his hands, fine red leather gloves, at his waist, a scarlet belt.
He wondered what he’d find tonight. The feast had ended in an unexpectedly pleasant fashion and he craved more. More of her, more of another. More.
He recognized at least half the people in the room now. Or he would, if not for the masks. That wasn’t done. Not in Venezia, not here.
"Sir Etienne..." greets the princess who seems to have almost materialized out of thin air next to the knight.
She is wearing an almost identical dress to the one she wore for the feast but with inverted colors. The fabric is heavy and almost blindingly white with the black accents matching the princesses hair. The chainmaile mask is hiding her whole face but it matches the silver corset and the other silver jewelery that is decorating the princess.
He turns at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, forgets himself, drinking her in with his eyes like a dying man. It is only a momentary lapse, but it's a look she's already seen.
"Your Highness," he drops to one knee, ready to take a hand if offered. "I know your fondness for swans and thought the red would compliment you . I hope I was correct.
I had not seen you for the past few days and hoped you had not tired of Bloodhaven already."
He takes her hand, the long nails, adorned with silver, the pale skin and odd coldness, lowers his head, and brushes it lightly with his lips.
His mind whirls. She is truly a vision, every inch the pen to his cob. He pushes his memories down, knowing what lies within this confection of fabric and silver. He keeps his knee and gazes upward, a look of honest devotion on his face.
"One must make the necessary social appearances, I understand. If the atmosphere becomes too close this evening and you tire of your obligations, you need only say the word and I'll be happy to find you a quieter diversion. After all, you will soon be heading home, and we can't have you ill on the road.
I am, in truth, a poor dancer. But if you wish to do so, I am at your service.
Or," he grinned conspiratorially, "we can simply take in the proceedings until you bore of them."
She can still feel the warmth of the knights lips on her hand when she speaks up again.
"We shall dance. At least for a short time. Rise." she motions for him to stand up.
The princess isn´t a well versed dancer as well but the music is still slow enough for her to manage. All kinds of odd pairings are occupying the dance floor and the princess enjoys seeing all the guests having such a good time.
"How did you spend your days while I was resting, Sir Etienne?" she asks while approaching the dance floor.
"I was unhorsed by a young knight errant in the tournament. Gallant lad rode brilliantly and stole my crest," he grinned at the thought.
A shadow then crossed his face. "And then I learned some truly awful news, that my lord of Rimini is gone. A brief illness. He sent word with two orphans I look after with instructions that Italia is no longer safe for me. And, God be good, a considerable amount of coin on deposit with his bankers. But, honestly, Your Highness, I've spent my days feeling cast adrift. He wished me to enjoy myself, and I have tried. But I do not know where life will lead me now."
He pause, then led her the rest of the way to the floor as the previous dance end. He took his place across from her, and waited for the dance-master to cry, "Dancers, are we met?"
The music started and he mentally began to count the steps.
Presently, overstimulated. Thanks to the miracle of SSRIs, edging is the vast majority of my sex life, whether I want it or not. I'd like to be sane AND come please.
missionary or doggy?
Must I choose? I love them both dearly. The former because I am better suited for it, being tall and…um, shaped for the terrain. The latter, because I want to look you in the eyes and make out while you come for me.
lace or latex?
Lace. I can feel you through lace. Latex is too much standing between us.
She felt some of the tension leave her as she gently laid him back down on the bed and set the bottle down on the night stand. Jalon pulled out a blanket and covered him with it to ease some of the chills. The young woman breathed easier and silently sent a prayer of thanks to the Victim.
His eyes still struggled to focus. "Where…are you the priestess? An angel? Seems too small for heaven but too cold for hell."
He tries to rise, immediately thinks the better of it. "You have me at several disadvantages, my lady but I am discourteous. I am Ser Etienne...", he trails off, spent again.
"Hell should be a place of misery. If the chill is that source, could it not be still?" she teased, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket as she smiled. "I am indeed one of the clergy of this church. Jalon Miller."
"It is a pleasure to meet you, Etienne. Would you like some tea to warm you up? I can help you drink, if you find yourself in need of assistance." Most importantly, he should rest; the poor dear needed his strength.
"True enough, ma souer, true enough. Tea? Oh, a tisanne. Yes, please if it's not too much trouble. And if I could beg you for an explanation of what happened to me."
Why are the pretty ones always nuns? he wondered with a bit of chagrin.
She felt some of the tension leave her as she gently laid him back down on the bed and set the bottle down on the night stand. Jalon pulled out a blanket and covered him with it to ease some of the chills. The young woman breathed easier and silently sent a prayer of thanks to the Victim.
His eyes still struggled to focus. "Where…are you the priestess? An angel? Seems too small for heaven but too cold for hell."
He tries to rise, immediately thinks the better of it. "You have me at several disadvantages, my lady but I am discourteous. I am Ser Etienne...", he trails off, spent again.
Messer Etienne, the senior knight stood on the periphery of the proceedings and took in the scene. Bright costumes and garish masks. It reminded him of nothing so much as the carnevale in the Veneto, where it was said the Fair Folk of the Lagoon came forth to dance.
This had more of a hint of madness to it, in keeping with this odd bastion.
He’d considered wearing the same austere black as he’d done for the feast, but reconsidered at the last moment, opting for a scandalously short, snow-white houppeland with hanging sleeves, beaded to look as if they’d been spattered with blood. His hose were of crimson Florentine wool, tightly tailored, revealing the tightly muscled legs below, a second skin. His low boots were died to match.
On his head, as at the feast, he wore a bicocket hat with a sculpted and feathered swan rising from the crown. Unlike Monday’s, this one’s wings were tipped in blood red feathers, the chest speckled with matching beads. A bloody swan, the beads dripping down to cover his emerald eyes.
Upon his hands, fine red leather gloves, at his waist, a scarlet belt.
He wondered what he’d find tonight. The feast had ended in an unexpectedly pleasant fashion and he craved more. More of her, more of another. More.
He recognized at least half the people in the room now. Or he would, if not for the masks. That wasn’t done. Not in Venezia, not here.
"Sir Etienne..." greets the princess who seems to have almost materialized out of thin air next to the knight.
She is wearing an almost identical dress to the one she wore for the feast but with inverted colors. The fabric is heavy and almost blindingly white with the black accents matching the princesses hair. The chainmaile mask is hiding her whole face but it matches the silver corset and the other silver jewelery that is decorating the princess.
He turns at the sound of her voice, and for a moment, forgets himself, drinking her in with his eyes like a dying man. It is only a momentary lapse, but it's a look she's already seen.
"Your Highness," he drops to one knee, ready to take a hand if offered. "I know your fondness for swans and thought the red would compliment you . I hope I was correct.
I had not seen you for the past few days and hoped you had not tired of Bloodhaven already."
He takes her hand, the long nails, adorned with silver, the pale skin and odd coldness, lowers his head, and brushes it lightly with his lips.
His mind whirls. She is truly a vision, every inch the pen to his cob. He pushes his memories down, knowing what lies within this confection of fabric and silver. He keeps his knee and gazes upward, a look of honest devotion on his face.
"One must make the necessary social appearances, I understand. If the atmosphere becomes too close this evening and you tire of your obligations, you need only say the word and I'll be happy to find you a quieter diversion. After all, you will soon be heading home, and we can't have you ill on the road.
I am, in truth, a poor dancer. But if you wish to do so, I am at your service.
Or," he grinned conspiratorially, "we can simply take in the proceedings until you bore of them."
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thinking about my dear, sweet, stressed-out princess... i can't bear to see that furrow between her brows, can't bear to see the corners of her mouth turning downward. my sweet girl, she deserves the world. i can tell she's over the conversation already, and that there's surely a headache building behind her eyes...
the moment we're out of the reception hall, i'm closer to her than i ought to be, one hand just brushing at the small of her back. it makes her shiver, and she looks up at me so needily i fear she'll loose her footing there in the hall. not that i'd mind, of course i'd sweep her off her feet, but i know she'd be so embarrassed.
i walk her back to her rooms, and i know just what she needs already.
"i'll be there in a minute, dove, just need to lose some clothes," i murmur, tipping her chin up and giving her a chaste kiss to tide her over. "go kneel by the chair, sweet girl, i'll be right there." she pouts, but she goes obediently, sinking to her knees beside the armchair.
i undress as quickly as i can, though with the half-armor and all the mail and padding it still takes a while. i feel terrible for making her wait, of course, but there's nothing to be done for it. eventually, though, i make my way to her, beckoning her up.
"your turn, dove," i murmur, reaching out to her. "turn around, there you are. i'll just get these laces..."
i untie her dress with deft fingers, and help her step out of it. she's already getting floaty, the poor girl, so i draw her in for a hug, my hand low on her back. i can feel the warmth of her skin through the thin silk of her shift, and i kiss her neck slowly, gently, pulling her back to the present for just a moment.
"don't drift off on me just yet, hm?" i murmur, smiling softly at her, ducking my head to meet her eyes. "oh, poor girl, i know. it was so loud in there, wasn't it? it's alright. it's just us now, come on."
i sit down in the armchair, and draw her down on top of me, straddling my waist. it's a tight fit—the chair isn't large—but it's just right for us, snug and warm. my hand slips down, rubbing over the rise of her lower stomach gently, and she whimpers. i can't help but laugh softly, leaning forward slightly to steal a kiss, endeared by her neediness. "okay, alright, dove, i know. i know. i won't tease. i'm sorry."
true to my word, i ruck up her shift around her hips, and slip my hand between her legs, immediately rubbing soft circles over her pussy and clit. she's wet enough that it makes a quiet, sticky sound when i rub over her slit, and my cock twitches at the feeling of her slick coating my fingers. she rocks against my hand, already whining.
"lark," she moans. "lark, please, please, want you in me..."
"shh, shh..." i murmur, placating. "i know, i know. i don't want to hurt you, dove, i just need to stretch you out a little bit first. it's been a while since we've done this, hm? unless you've been seeing someone else, of course..." she pouts at that, and i laugh, leaning in again to kiss her neck until she relaxes. "i know you wouldn't. there's nobody else who could treat you like this, is there? you'd think of me the whole time if you were with someone else, anyways, i bet."
i slip a finger inside her sopping cunt, and it practically sucks my finger in. i hum contentedly at the feeling. she exhales shakily, a quiet moan escaping her. "you're so fuzzy already, my sweet girl..."
"so warm, dove," i purr. "so wet and warm... you must be aching." i slip her a second finger, stretching her open softly, curling and probing. she rocks against my hips, panting, a whining, squirming thing. i draw my fingers out, and she practically cries with need. i'm quick to hush her, kissing her deeply as i urge her into rising up onto her knees. i take myself in my hand, nearly hissing at the sensitivity of my cock, and stroke a few times until i'm fully hard; it doesn't take much. the sight of her, dripping onto my lap, her pupils blown, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, panting... well. it would drive any man mad.
i look her solidly in the eyes as she sinks down on my cock, my blood roaring in my ears at the shifts in her expression. her eyelids flutter, and her mouth drops open as she stretches around me. the sweetest noise escapes her as she settles fully in my lap, a sweet, high keening sound. i hold her close to me, grinding up into her a few times before settling, guiding her head to the crook of my neck.
"there you are, there you are," i say, my voice a little strained. "good girl. just relax, now, i have you. just relax. clench around my cock, rock your hips, whatever you need. we can stay here as long as it takes for you to calm down."
