A Land Far Away

The sun passed its heavenly warmth to her through the thin cotton hood. Underneath the protective veil she felt like the small plant on the forest floor, reaching ever higher to compete with its tall cousins for slivers of light. She wished she could free herself of the dress and bask in glow, feeling the prickle of the grass and the wind lick over her body. The heavy thud of the armoured boots of the steel coated man she followed soon brought her back to reality. It had been the first time she had been outside the city walls since her long walk, but escaping with her instructor took the fear away.

They reached the open clearing and he looked at her, clearly expecting her to do something that eluded her like the most basic skills elude a child. He was an interesting man; taller than her with a marred face indented with a cyclopean milky eye starring coldly at her. Though some would spurn the disfigurement she knew it portrayed his most prominent feature; a cold stubbornness, the fortitude of a forgotten piece of masonry that would yield to nothing, not elements nor time.

“Well take it out lass.” The words were empty save for their clear intent. She did as directed, gripping the steel viper as though it would jump and pierce her neck.

“No. Like this. Hold it at shoulder height.” The instruction was followed by a swift kick to her rear leg, “do you dance flat footed as well? If you aren’t prepared to move your feet you are dead.” The harsh reality of years of experience struck her and she made effort to take it all in, moving her feet and making ready to strike.

“Now attack me lass.” She hesitated, the man was unarmed save for a shield. What if she hit him? She didn’t have time to contemplate it further before he barked at her again. She reacted, lunging at him, what must have looked like a troglodyte trying to stick a giant.

His response struck her with deadly intent; a dull pain threatening to open the flesh of her chest, to crack the bone, seeking the precious organs underneath. It too her breath away but it was her head striking the ground that blurred her vision.

He loomed over her. . .

The hooded matron loomed over her, moving with swiftness and grace that hid her malicious motivations. She didn’t see the hand but felt the hot swell rise on her cheek, “No! How many times must you be told? Touch yourself here, while moving your hips like this. I will not tell you again.” The threat was clear and she knew her instructor would follow through. She did as she was told, tying in vain to please the woman.

“Adequate, but we can hardly expect more from you can we Cass? Your poor breeding is showing through. If you cannot please me, who knows and accepts your flaws, how is it that you will please those. . .Mulan, hmm?” The matron folded her arms over her supple, powerful form – how Cass wished she had been gifted so. The matron was beautiful, almost perfect, something that inspired awe in her as well as terrible jealousy. Even though she had not fully developed, she would never be like her.

The matron’s voice mimicked a loving coo, “Oh, I still see some of that pride in your eyes. A fire. . .” Her hand reached down and rested on Cass' shoulder, the silver talons attached to her fingers sending cold shivers down her spine, “such an admirable trait. . .were you not who you are,” the sharp tips of the talons began to catch on her skin as the matron slowly caressed down her arm, “we will correct that attitude. Do not make a sound youngling.” The emphasis on command was clear and she closed her eyes knowing what was to happen.

She could feel the lukewarm wetness of blood dribble down onto her fingers. She locked her jaw in an attempt to move the pain out of her mind. It did little to ease the experience. By the time the matron had served her discipline a small pool of her own blood lapped at her feet, slowed from growth only by the coagulation of it between her fingers.

She looked up at her instructor, terrible in her beauty and wrathful in her love. Her vision blurred with tears. . .

She looked up at him as her vision cleared.

“Lass! Lass are you hurt?” He reefed her up with little effort and she was glad he did not let go, she felt she would buckle over and gasp for breath. “I’m sorry lass, I didn’t think. I just reacted. Here, pick it up and we will continue.”

She slowly bent down and retrieved the fallen short sword, convinced that it yearned for a master with at least some form of martial prowess if it was going to be further disgraced by mere practice. She wondered if it would ever have such an owner. . .

Good. *slow approving nod* now again.

((Very nice.))

Awesome Sauce serve more please

“Ooohhh, look at me I’m a spellguard!” The mouse haired young woman waved her arms around dramatically, “I am soooo superior to everyone else!” The drunken rant made her nervous and Cass shifted her position, her attention wavering from the dark skinned man to thoughts of her own safety. Though he didn’t seem to mind, a bemused smirk forming on his lips as the tirade continued.

She shifted again, turning slightly on the smoothed wooden bench to snatch a glimpse at the center of attention. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment and then pounded. She did not know the woman but that did not matter, it was clear what she was; well dressed in fine, if utilitarian robes, a golden circlet, and, the unmistakable air of superiority or arrogance, she was never sure which it was. She had seen many like her, dressed in their red robes, content to nurture their energies like a a suckling pig until next they could bring it forth in a vulgar display of power.

It sickened her. It terrified her.

All the while he became more amused, sitting opposite her in a fine silk tunic watching the pretty elf try and restrain the mage. He lifted his hand to pad his chin and her gaze drifted from him to the looming death leaning against the end of the table. Sporting its scars proudly along it heavy, polished length, for a moment she wondered which was more deadly; the tireless sentinel and master or the drunken mage. She abandoned all thoughts as she heard the magus speak, tossing a piece of rind at the table. The arcane response all to familiar.
The rind seemed to melt, and before her eyes she saw it cover a vast area in a viscous, raw smelling, black grease. Next would be the fire. She paniced, sliding from the bench to under the table. She could feel the grease seep through the cloth of her dress as she curled into a little ball, wrapping her knees to her chest and burying her face in them. It was cold, slippery as it violated her flesh with its residue. She desperately wanted it not to make contact with her skin - a futile hope as her trembling only insured its working through the weave of the dress.

Go away. . .

She heard the man fall many times. The slosh of him failing his footing sending splashes of the black substance over her. It was in her hair. She whimpered. There would be no escaping it. Her tiny form quivering in expectation.

Go away. . .

She heard the hiss of the sentinel as its master brought its terrible purpose to bear on the mage. The bemused demeanor of the tanned man lost in the sea of his own contempt as he spat foul warning at his transgressor. She only laughed, the typical response. The fire would be next.

Please. . .please go away. . .

She heard a loud thud as the timber of the bench, once serene and harmless, buckled and sprayed her with its fragments as the sentinel cleaved it out of existence. More shoulting. She knew it would be soon. She heard the concerned comments of the pretty elf, begging for an end to the standoff. She shut her eyes tightly.

“Cassandra? Cassandra, come with me.”

“Cassy! Cassy follow me!” He giggled as he turned the corner, the small frame of his body vanishing into the dim lighting, “Cassy! Run it will catch you!”

“Wait for me!” She could hear the thundering steps of her keeper behind her and it was all she could do to reassure herself that she would make it to, that he wouldn’t leave her alone. She looked down at her feet as they padded over the stone flooring. It was so big, how could she outrun it? She couldn’t, she knew it was only a matter of time before it scooped her up in its large hands. She didn’t care, she ran on.

“Seth! Help!” Her thoughts frantic as a large finger brushed past her short crop of fine hair, searching for her neck. As she pleaded for help what little light there was around her seemed to vanish, she knew it, she could feel her eyes adjust. Her pursuer faultered and its pace slowed, but it kept coming all the same, if more timidly as it tried to negotiate the darkness.

“Seth?” She continued, trying to put some distance between her and her pursuer. She felt a tiny hand wrap around her wrist and tug her to the side, she lost her footing and fell on him. The two children a collection of awkward limbs trying to disentangle themselves, “Seth! How did you do that?”

“Shhh,” he smooshed a finger infront of his lips, “Secret. Can you see him?” She looked around the corner, a small head jutting from the alcove. Biting lip and squinting, she nodded, brow furrowed as the lumbering giant made its way up the passage. The large curved blade hanging by its side breaking the silence as its tip scraped on the stone walls.

“It can’t see us,” she shook her head,“ we need to hide.” He nooded at her words and she felt a brief coldness and then she was wriggling, trying to fit into an outcrop, a crack in the wall. She looked at him and he smiled, his boyish features only just starting to show; copper hair like hers, the same height as her, the same large almond eyes, but his face was different - more mischievous, slightly fuller. She watched as he tried to fit in with her, both of their eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and fright as they watched for the keeper. She could smell it; dirty, unkept, but she did not hate it, just wanted to get away from it.

Its lumbering came to a stop infront of her, she could see its tattered boots, hear its dissatisfied breath and she dare not look up lest it see her. “Don’t be scared Cass, I’ll protect you.” She felt his comforting warmth wrap around her. . .

She trembled as he wrapt his muscular, grease covered arms around her and pried her from her hiding spot. The splinters clinging to her dress cried in protest and dug into her flesh. “Come Cassandra, I will look after you.”

It wallowed there in a sea of its own lifeblood; a fish out of water gasping for a few more moments of existence before its already glazing eyes glassed over and it expired. She looked it over as it tremored, small tendrils of saliva mixed with bodily fluids dripping over its lips and caking at the corners of its mouth in a viscous display. Why had it come to this? She shivered in contemplation as a breeze ripped through the hollow walls. The dark, cold almost sterile surroundings seemed to box the grotesque scene, frame it as if to bear witness to this pathetic creatures final moments.

It quivered again. Such a waste. There was nothing to do, she knew it, but that didn’t help sate the feeling of failure. There was no need for this. There was no need for the loss of life. It was lesser than her, but she genuinely did not mind, she was considered lesser by almost everyone she encountered. The angry brand on the back of her neck labelled her as such for any that knew what it represented, the recent troubles only compounding the issue. She heard them in the street, in the tavern, the other dancers, “whore”, “harlot”, maybe the words rung a tune of truth? How could they not be? She had done things she was not proud of, things that were done to her. Her brow creased and there was a moment of hesitation as she looked down at the now close to death thing. She could have nurtured it, healed its wounds and had a companion that would not judge her unworthy or vile.

She sighed. Bending down, her hand fingered the hilt of a dagger discreetly slipped down between the firmness of her calf and the supply leather. She placed the lethal edge against its thick hide, a scythe ready to harvest. Outside something whistled a cheery tune. . .

The arrow whistled past her shoulder and lodged firmly into the guardian next to her. She looked at it only briefly, but she saw it smile as it dropped to its knees, clutching the lithe needle that had penetrated it so easily. The matron rose up and pointed at the interlopers menacingly, “Kill them!” Springing to life the guardians, protectors that she had tormented as a small child, formed a wall in front of her. Their docile demeanours drawn out equally as quickly as their ornate curved blades. Cass was fascinated at how they moved. Gone was the torpor that she remembered them for, or, perhaps it was that she never paid them much attention in the first place, they were simply creatures she didn’t care to acknowledge. Now they were all that stood between her and a howling mass.

The guardians moved forward, blades drawn high as if to cleave that which first come into contact. One of the giants fell, another lithe needle protruding from its wide head. Cass’ eyes drew wide as she glimpsed the sight that threatened them through the unfortunate opening in the defensive wall. Dark skinned warriors, adorned in colourful feathers and blue paste that gave them a primitive, savage look. They barked loudly and engaged the wall with the all the ferocity of the jaguars whose pelts some of them wore. Spears, obsidian bladed clubs and curved swords met in a symphony of battle. The savages were fast, having the advantage of numbers and bowmen it was not long before the guardians began to fall, some having sustained multiple grievous wounds before succumbing to the eternal waste.

The matron spun round and glared at her, “Protect the young ones, take them to safety.” Before Cass could gather one up in her arms, the matron was struck in the shoulder, the force knocking her back. The abhorred look in her eyes petrified Cass, her juvenile frame unable to move, her eyes focussed on the beautiful figure as it grabbed at the offending arrow with disgust and hatred that Cass could not imagine possible. “Leave!” She began chanting, her hands weaving intricate patterns in front of her as the last of the protectors fell. She chanted sacred things, terrible things; alien yet also so very familiar.

Cass scooped up the infant and cradled him in her arms as she hurried from the scene, “these secrets are not for us,” she soothed in his ear as it clung to her. Cass felt a sudden rush of heat at her back. There were no screams, no cries of pain, just the smell of burning flesh and the sickening sound of a body of water dropping, or like waves lapping the shore. She dared a look over her shoulder. There were two dozen blue feathered demons, cursing in their harsh tongue and moving to topple the matron. They were stabbing at her. Her beautiful, perfect skin torn and lacerated in too many places to count. What she would have given to bear the pain with her. Cass staggered. Her childhood mentor being cut down by a pack of. . .of rabid beasts. In a final act of perfect defiance Cass watched as she matron latched on to the shoulders of the nearest assailant and sank her teeth deep into its neck.

Cass turned, she could watch no more. The others had already made good time ahead of her with the young ones. She began running. She could hear them behind her. She could smell them. Her knees blooded on the stone as she fell to the floor; a pounding thump reverberated in her skull. She tried to move but her limbs responded slowly. Suddenly she was taken back to the torpid movements of the now butchered guardians; there were none to ignore her as she had ignored them. “Get. . .under me.” She did her best to shield the infant, her body providing the shelter from the storm. Her head lulled to catch one final glimpse of her broken teacher. . .

She looked at it one final time. Its vitality exhausted. Now nothing more than sinew and gore. Such a tragic waste of life. . .

Lovely stuff!

((Fair warning this one is slightly more graphic and contains less than consensual sex in it))

Why had it come to this? At what point had she lost her nerve? She contemplated as she slinked around the mossy cave wall. Her knuckles drew white as she gripped the crossbow tighter, the answer stabbing directly to her core. It was the loss of Seth. She was not trained to be this. . .direct. Years, what felt like lifetimes spent learning the finer points of court; a wayward smile in the right direction, a flick of hair, a suggestive sway, a lingering scent – these were her weapons. These were the tools that kept her alive, got her out of countless situations and enabled her to go unnoticed if she wished. Now she stalked the passage ways of some stinking cave, following a man as mysterious to her as the workings of the crude bolt thrower in her hand, and for what? The chance to stick some inferior little rodent of a creature with a wooden quill so she may be better able to do the exact same thing in the future?

She gritted her teeth and pushed the frustration aside. It was not the thinking she wanted. It was that time for her and her skin itched and her emotions ran high. She shook her head and moved into the jagged face of the wall, blending in with the shadows. Drawing the crossbow close to her she took aim at the beady set of red eyes hovering like fireflies in the darkness. No, it was not time to succumb to those emotions; this was useful, she needed these skills to survive.

She applied pressure to the lever and the bolt snapped, flying through the air and striking with a spectacular, sickening thud. The beady eyes became wide and threatened to explode as a raspy wail escaped the sad little bolt catcher. She moved back against the wall. She had expected a few, perhaps even a handful, of the disgusting little green creatures to emerge chattering and waving their makeshift weapons around but she had not expected this. . .What seemed like scores of goblins poured over the passage. She hesitated and pulled another bolt looking over to her hooded companion. Strange fire – perhaps even raw energy – shot from his fingers as he burnt one after another, the small charred bodies forming a morbid coal pit in the center of the passage.

She let fly another bolt, it struck but slightly off target. Ironic, she though as she drew the needle like whip blade at her hip, that these creatures were so inferior yet so numerous. She moved her feet quickly and thrust at the first gibbering greenskin. By pure luck, or perhaps sheer inability to do otherwise, the midsection thrust pierced the howling creatures open mouth. It quivered there a moment, a puppet suspended on the tip of her blade, before its eyes rolled back and she withdrew. The slightest dribble of thick, almost black, ichor snaked its way down the thin blade as the corpse fell to the floor. Another three charged her, including the enraged one that she had already shot. How she wished the metal tipped bolt had hit home instead of its current location in the creatures twisted and swelling shoulder.

She looked over her shoulder for her companion, an error she did not get to regret before a stone headed mace struck the side of her face. Her vision blurred and she staggered. Her tongue lapped in her now pooling mouth and a stream of deep red ran down over her chin and spilt onto the course leather of her jerkin. A bewildered frown creased her features as she pushed herself off the rough cut wall to parry the next blow. Although a valiant attempt she knew it was useless, the sheer force of the onslaught knocked the rapier from her hand and she felt her knee buckle as it cracked under the force of the stone edge.

Strangely she felt nothing as she fell to her knees. . .no pain, her mind outlandishly clear, her hands falling empty to her sides. Then she felt it. A digging in her lower back. She groaned and she arched in a feeble attempt to escape the puncturing. Her head lulled forward as she struggled to catch up with the realization of what was happening. She watched as a strange slither of saliva mixed with her own blood slowly dropped in a long tendril from her mouth to come to rest on a spear head that was jutting out of her stomach. She looked over the torn leather of her armour to the proud, wet gash in her belly. Bodily fluid wept from organs she had no right seeing and she raised a hand, clasping her fingers over the spear head and torn segments of her flesh alike. . .

“Not like this. . .” The words escaped feebly from her lips and she collapsed to the side. . .

He flipped her over and pinned her flat on her stomach, the silken sheets of the day bed radiating comforting warmth thanks to the afternoon sun. She closed her eyes as she felt his eager hand run up the inside of her thigh and dispatch with the flimsy, sheer chemise that held vigil over her modesty. She looked out over the open room; a warm breeze, silk in abundance and opulent luxury. Were it not for this particular duty she could envisage spending a length of time in the South, yes, its climate was most pleasing.

Her lip curled and she was thankful for the thin veil that covered all but her eyes as she felt his engorged length ineptly probe her nether regions. For the first son of a Sultan, Prince Kadar Badi Abdul-Aziz was inexplicably lacking self-confidence and experience she thought as he finally managed to part her. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift as best she could as he began his thrusting, each subsequent slap against her rear from his ample bulk bringing her back to the sordid moment. She wanted to escape, to kick him away from her and purge the sensation of his skin sliding over, into, her. She calmed her breath, it would be over soon, and thankfully the Prince was a man of average stamina.

Finally the moment of his release arrived and she bit her lip as he forced deeper, his weight grinding the front of her hips and pelvis painfully into the wooden base of the daybed. He withdrew and the moment was over, she would have to act or see it wasted like the seed that now ran down her inner thigh.

“You are the most beautiful woman I have ever set eye upon; truly my father is blessed to count you among his harem. A symbol of both his status and position.” He quickly fiddled with his silken tunic and the sash that kept it closed as if he was afraid she may glimpse his wilting manhood, “Were I Sultan, I would declare you first among wives.”

This was her moment; she flipped onto her back and feigned satisfaction, an impish smile secretly deposited behind the thin veil. “Surely great Prince your time has come to claim your birthright and accept your father’s advice only as consul?” She mentally recoiled. Too much, too strong.

“You speak out of turn, mind your tongue or see your cheek marred by my palm.” He raised his hand as to slap her and she acted accordingly. An act, as she knew too well that he had neither the confidence nor stomach to discipline any woman, but he may order a guard to do it. “My father has many good years left, and Waukeen willing, will guide the western trade routes to Chult for many a year to come.” He made some obnoxious religious gesture that she dismissed almost as soon as it began.

“Great Prince I meant no offence, I am but a simple dancer and oblivious to such things, I see only a great man that. . .deserves to be greater?” He looked at her a small smile creeping over his lips, “Perhaps your father, the Sultan, does not see the mighty son he has created. . .Perhaps he should be reminded?”

The inane exchange of innuendo and double speak continued for several more minutes, culminating in her handing a small vial over to him with instructions on usage. After he had been set in motion and swiftly departed with a new found sense of self-importance she laid back on the bed. She would miss the South once this was over, its weather most of all she mused. For now her attention drifted to the vile stream of fluid which had sunk into the silk under her and reeked of his wet, rancid sex. A bath was needed, time to relax and wash away such detestable matters. . .

She lay there in the water, finger absently tracing the jagged landscape of the scar that she now housed on the perfection of her skin. She could feel her temper rise and she closed her eyes. How had it come to such a state? Dragged out like some dying animal by a hooded half-mage. . .unacceptable. Her skin itched all over distracting her from the internal rant. She would sleep on the matter; she would have to adapt once again to survive.

Very very well written. Quite and enjoyable read.