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| December 2008 | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: May 28 2010, 01:27 PM (2,124 Views) | |
| golden_trillium | May 31 2010, 03:33 PM Post #61 |
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Author: golden_trillium Date: Thu Dec 11, 2008 9:02 pm Quintus
“Aye,” Quintus grunted, maintaining his stiff posture in the saddle and his resolute forward stare. They were slowing down…and ahead of them, the trees seemed to be thinning out, and Quintus fancied he heard the sound of water. A few snow-crunching horse steps later, and it became clear that that was indeed what it was…a stream, running shallow, cold and icy over rocks, and on the other side, glimpsed around the heads of Arthur, Amadeus, Tristan, and the others in the front of the group…the Woad rider, poised on the other bank like a statue.
Merlin…Quintus swallowed hard as the rider picked his careful but casual way across the ford towards the Roman group. He smiled as if he knew something, knew something that was to his benefit and the detriment of his enemies…something deadly. Where was the Magician? Was he watching even now? Quintus started suddenly as a flash of red caught the corner of his eye, and he turned his head to see another Woad woman, who had been hidden in the brush alongside the path, emerge from the trees and langorously straighten her lithe body, her snow-festooned hair nevertheless glowing almost unnaturally red in the wan winter sunlight. She was a barbaric figure…careless of her scanty clothing, seeming not to notice even her dangerous surroundings…but deadly, Quintus knew, as were they all. The woman looked down at the water of the stream, her expression shifting into what looked like displeasure from here, and the Centurion swallowed again, hard, and made himself turn back to the darker figure of the rider. There was no denying the red-headed Woad’s attractiveness- she was a beautiful, savage distraction, and he shouldn’t be devoting too much of his attention to her. “Look at that,” he nevertheless couldn’t help but mutter to Titrus, very softly out of the corner of his mouth, jerking his head shortly over in the direction of the redhead. Linnette
“Oh, of course,” Linnette exclaimed in answer, turning the book just slightly towards Mari so that she could get a momentary better look at the letters, just in case she was curious to see them better- then turning it back sideways so that she could read it. Holding it like that on the table meant that she had to crick her neck to read from it, but it seemed right to be sharing it with Mari like this nonetheless- after all, even though Mari couldn’t read yet, she had asked to learn, and seeing the letters as they were read could only help- right? Well, Linnette wasn’t sure how to go about teaching someone to read at all…but being able to see the book seemed like the minimum requirement. “I’m told it’s a comedy- about a woman who dresses up as a man. Hence the adventure, I suppose,” Linnette explained to Mari, once more smiling as she warmed up again to Mari’s pure, innocent enthusiasm. “It takes place in Spain…” Linnette faltered just a little, her mind turning momentarily back to Drake, who had lent her the book and told her it took place in and near his hometown. How funny- Linnette would be able to picture him in the places the story described, maybe learn a little more of him in the process. “Drake…the man from before…” Linnette nodded hurriedly towards the tavern door, getting the rest of the explanation out in a rush, but without lingering on the subject, “It’s really his. He’s from Spain. Anyway…” Moving on quickly and with a renewed touch of embarrassment from that potentially-uncomfortable topic, Linnette turned the first leaf of the book, revealing the first page of text, beautifully illustrated with a small but brightly colored picture of a woman in a simple, sleeveless Roman dress gazing to the right with a far-away expression on her face- as if anticipating her coming adventure. It was quite beautifully done- as were the words themselves. They were simple, neat, and quite easy to follow as Linnette began to read. “’Gloriana was the daughter of a prosperous family, but she had little care for the things of womanhood, for spinning and weaving and things of that sort. She was beautiful, and virtuous, but not at all pleasing to her mother and father- for since childhood she had had an unbearable curiosity about the ways of men. I speak of immoralities, you think, perhaps? No, nothing so crude at all! Did I, Cinna Appius, not say Gloriana was virtuous? And when have the men of the Appius family ever been known to lie?’” Linnette chuckled, the small laugh bubbling unexpectedly up from her at the story’s odd, whimsical writing style. She had never read anything quite like it at all! “This is funny already!” she admitted to Mari, shaking her head ruefully and thinking for a small, sad moment, how much Gedeon would have enjoyed a story like this, too. She had read to him a few times- he could manage his name and a few common words but little more- and he had enjoyed hearing her, but books were in short supply around the fort. She had promised some day to read to him anything he wanted from the Villa’s library, when they went back there…but of course that would never be happening now. Linnette determinedly blinked back a light mist from her eyes and returned her eyes to the book, moving steadfastly on with the story, letting its narrative take her up again. “’I am no exception to my family’s honesty, of course, and here I speak the truth. Gloriana was virtuous- the most virtuous woman in all of Spain, perhaps, but she had a great curiosity about men. She desired nothing more than to understand them- to know why they did one thing or did not another, or here deceived and here spoke the truth. Men seemed to her strange creatures, of little rhyme or reason at all…’ Gloriana was very right,” Linnette put in, once more meeting Mari’s eyes with a laugh, then reaching for a bite of bread before going on. How lucky she was to have this book to distract her and Mari from unhappy topics- how good it felt to laugh at something small, and of little consequence! One more thing Drake’s done for me, she thought, picturing his face in her mind again, with a small, contented smile despite herself, as she once more lowered her gaze to the page to read. |
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| golden_trillium | May 31 2010, 03:36 PM Post #62 |
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Author: Elessars Girl Date: Fri Dec 12, 2008 10:55 am Arthur Arthur’s deceptively placid green eyes focused on the man across the ford; a dark figure upon a dark horse in stark contrast to the pale white landscape surrounding him. The Woad appeared almost mythical and as much a part of the woods and frozen earth as did Guinevere. He, too, was adorned in swirls of blue paint that dominated even his buckskin trousers and jacket. The crystal clear water could be heard trickling over and around stones and fallen branches. But all else was still to Arthur’s ears…except Guinevere’s steady breathing and then her certain voice as she called out to her brethren….
Arthur’s thick fingers gave a mild squeeze to Guinevere’s hand in his possession. His crimson cloak still covered half her lithe form in his lap and his leather clad thighs still pressed firmly on either side of her bare legs. Although the circumstances were anything but….Arthur and Guinevere were joined in a most intimate way. And if the Commander could use it to his advantage, he would. But she had more access to Arthur than she surely realized here…his wound might be well padded beneath his Roman armour, but it was Arthur’s weak point and Guinevere could discover it. And Arthur had one other weakness that Merlin’s daughter might exploit….she was a woman of considerable beauty and charm and of Igrain’s people. And perhaps that is why Arthur felt some connection to Guinevere – he was half Briton and thus the blood of this land also flowed through his veins.
Arthur elevated his chin, not truly with an indication of superiority…but with dignity and his sheer determination to continue on to Merlin. The Commander had no intention of turning around and riding back to Badon without a meet with Merlin. It was unacceptable. Arthur held firm his position, Casti standing proud and magnificently stoic while the mounted Woad Smith crossed over the ford and came to a halt in front of Arthur and Guinevere.
“And I shall welcome his arrival,” Arthur answered evenly, green eyes easily holding the gaze of the other man. He prayed to God that the meet would go peacefully and that no further blood would be shed from either side. There was movement in the wintry forest around them….Merlin’s people clearly had Arthur’s men surrounded….and Arthur hoped the fact that he had so willingly rode into such a situation would prove his good and honorable intentions to Merlin. And he still held Guinevere firmly in his lap – and she had willingly consented to Arthur’s possession of her. Derfel Derfel walked at Lancelot’s side in the wake of the blindingly polished guard until they came upon a small group of riders near the main gate. At the head of the group was perhaps the most extravagantly decorated woman that Derfel had ever seen. She was even more exotic in her appearance than Darya had been upon the Saxon’s first meeting of her. And this one seemed even more out of place in the cold, bleak landscape of Britain than any Sarmatian beauty. Derfel squinted as he looked up at the woman’s jeweled headdress and as the sun dipped back behind heavy grey clouds – his eyebrows rose to nearly his hairline as he took in the tiny perfect details of her noble expression.
“No doubt,” Derfel quietly mumbled in reply…and stood stark still as the lady addressed them both. Her dark eyes appeared to be assessing them. And Derfel could not help but to feel lacking – on reflex he straightened his back and held his blonde head high. He was after all, Arthur’s knight.
Dwell here? Surely there is some mistake. And who is this Lord Aracelli? Derfel smiled sweetly and cordially at the lady, but wisely kept his mouth shut. Lancelot was in charge anyways. And it would be quite amusing to watch the arrogant and dogmatic First Knight deal with nobility.
Derfel gave a slight bow when Lancelot actually bothered to mention him by name. But again, his mouth remained tightly shut. It was not his place to interject anything here. And Lancelot was utilizing a surprising level of incredible charm in addressing the lady anyways. It was a side of the dark knight that Derfel had no idea even existed…interesting.
Derfel was still standing right next to Lancelot, so when the dark knight quietly murmured to the woman, he could still make out the words….and fought off the urge to roll his eyes at Lancelot’s attempts to charm their ‘guest’. Derfel tugged at his forest green overcoat to straighten it and then allowed one hand to rest on the hilt of his sword, the other slipped into his coat pocket…and he waited for whatever Lancelot wished to do with the lady until Arthur returned. But it was damn curious as to what this stunning woman was doing here asking for their Commander. |
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| golden_trillium | May 31 2010, 03:37 PM Post #63 |
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Author: LadyCastus Date: Fri Dec 12, 2008 12:40 pm Rosita and Nolan Rosita still scowled as she and Nolan continued to lead the group. However, when they arrived at the ford, all anger seeped from the woad's being. Something warm and comforting filled her body when she looked up and saw Smith on the other side. There he sat upon his horse, looking incredibly handsome and wild, his hair blowly recklessly in the cold wind. Rosita sucked in a breath as the woad scout began to lead his horse slowly toward them, his thigh muscles tight and strong, showing through his trousers. His body swayed in time with the movement of the horse, his hips rocking side to side, his crotch rocking backward and forward. Rosita self consciously licked her lips and tried to peel her eyes away from the blue-painted adonis headed her way. A piece of hair hung limply over his face, partly covering one of his eyes, but Rosita still saw the twinkle in them - the underlying look of mischievousness. Rosita's breath caught in her throat when Smith finally got close enough to speak, her gasp barely audible as she watched the woad's lips partly.
Nolan couldn't help but smile at Smith's statement. He knew he'd been right when stating that Merlin would not want Arthur going to their village. Nolan was sure Merlin would have something to say about that later. He turned around and held up his hand, signaling the party to halt. "Stop here," Nolan growled, looking directly at Arthur. "No farther." Rosita finally broke the hypnotic-like spell that kept her eyes locked onto Smith and turned around to face the group also.
Nolan rolled his eyes at Arthur in disgust and looked over at Rosita. "Go check the back of the line again," he told her. Rosita shifted the weight on her back and moved slowly down the line, checking the men for any sign of trouble. She glared at Tristan as she moved past him and locked her eyes onto Brendyn. She smirked at the young Roman with a look of defiance on her face. She wanted to say something to him, but didn't dare. Instead, she continued down the line. "But will he welcome yours?" Nolan said to Castus, exposing his teeth in almost a snarl. "That is the real question, isn't it half blood?" |
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| golden_trillium | May 31 2010, 03:39 PM Post #64 |
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Author: golden_trillium Date: Fri Dec 12, 2008 8:02 pm Merlin and Tristan The Romans were nearby. Merlin could smell them- the stink of horse, the acrid tang of metal armor- the enemy, tainting the pure freshness of the snow-covered British woods. As the Woad chieftain walked, his feet unerringly finding the faint path despite the crust of snow, he could hear at a distance Guinevere’s clear, confident voice, calling out across the ford; the Smith’s reply in answer, and a light splashing of water that was probably the rider crossing the stream. Some more male voices after that, growing closer as Merlin walked- Smith again, and Nolan, and Arthur Castus himself. The Roman spoke evenly, confidently- well, no wonder. His British blood gave him that. Too bad he had renounced that particular portion of his heritage. Merlin continued forward, his strides lengthening as the underbrush opened up. He had brought nine more warriors with him, all that he could readily round up, but aside from two that shadowed him on either side, just behind, they had all spread out and melted into the undergrowth now, ready with watchful eyes and keen ears for whatever should happen. They were strong, and they were well concealed, and they, plus the burial party could slaughter the Romans should it come to that- but in the interests of more recuperation time for his people, Merlin hoped very much that that would not be necessary. He would make no bargains here, would not risk further offending the Gods with more truces- but he did not intend immediate aggression, either. He merely intended to hear Castus out, and then send him on his way. If he would go. And Merlin intended deception, too. He was approaching the group boldly now, not disguising his movements, along the path calculated to reveal the least to the Romans about the location of the village. The Woad leader and his party had picked their careful way across the stream some way up it, and now Merlin was nearing Castus from the west and slightly south, and on the same side of he stream- very nearly in the opposite direction from where the village lay. Hopefully, between his position and Smith’s original one on the other side of the fort, the Romans would have no idea in which direction the rest of the Woads could be located. They would have to guess, and if they guessed, they could be misled, trapped, ensnared. They would not find the village. And now the clearing and the ford were close at hand. Merlin paused, took a breath, a silent prayer to the Gods, as it were, and pushed aside the last screening pine bough, and then he was stepping out into the midst of the gathering with barely a sound of his fur-booted feet on the spotty snow. He was master of this ford, of this land. Merlin knew it in his heart, and it showed in his bearing, straight, dignified, and easy, though he was on foot and so many of the group were mounted. He nodded to Nolan and Smith, in unsmiling, yet generous, acknowledgement of their service here, and eyed his daughter, perched between Arthur’s thighs, with a look that was half disapproval, half interest. An idea seemed to have tugged at his mind on seeing that- a small, soft whisper from the Gods- but he put it aside for now. He would think on it later. His gaze slid up to meet Arthur’s, deep, dark eyes meeting the Roman’s green ones, and seeming to search him, to see inside him as Merlin pondered this situation. “Merlin is here,” he stated, his eyes now sweeping around the clearing, over all of those Arthur had brought with him, soldiers and Sarmatian slaves. The scout was there- Merlin spotted him glaring at Rosita as she paced restlessly back along the line of the group and gave him a momentary glare of his own. One to be watched, the Sarmatian- a formidable enemy. Amadeus Scipio was also with Arthur, but Merlin noted that the man who had argued with him, Malcus Barbattus, was not. As for the others- there were one more Sarmatian knight and four others, all of little consequence individually. But nonetheless, his people were watching, and would reward treachery with the swift point of an arrow. “What would you say to him, Artorius Castus?” he inquired, raising an eyebrow politely, if coolly, as he once more regarded the Roman Commander. |
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| golden_trillium | May 31 2010, 03:40 PM Post #65 |
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Author: lady ione Date: Sat Dec 13, 2008 9:47 am Vanora Neeve had not said a whole lot, but then she had always been the quiet type. For Vanora, as long as she had known the healer, Vanora still found her expressions hard to decipher. Neeve always seemed to be deep in thought, and when she did speak, it was always very straight forward and to the point... nothing wishy washy. Right now, she wondered what the healer was thinking. Granted, Vanora had seen more than her fair share of bare bottoms in her motherhood having had 11 children to change and bathe, but she had also taught them to move to a bit of privacy when changing clothes... obviously Neeria's parents had not taught her such things. She had not even felt abashed to undress in front of she and Neeve. Vanora was beginning to wonder if this young woman had even had parents she remembered, or if they had abandoned her for Neeria did have some odd behaviours, though she had a sweet, innocent tinge to her. The red head waited for Neeve to answer her question about Ione, and the answer came. Vanora knew Ione would be able to fix the dress so that it'd fit, though there were other weavers in the fort, but Ione was a likeable soul who was always willing to help out... Plus it was odd that she had not shown up for her morning breakfast yet, and it was now late after noon...
Vanora raised an eyebrow at Neeve's statement, but then, the healer always seemed to be busy her and there, and did not tarry long in one place for long periods of time. For a moment, Vanora recalled watching her eldest daughter get her first nice dress and how she had twirled about showing it off proudly. To see Neeria enjoying the dress, twirling about in it just like a little girl excited for her first party dress. To Vanora, it just seemed as though Neeria had really not had all of the comforts of life, and had not really owned such a piece of clothing this nice before. Finally, the young woman seemed to calm down from her excitement...
Though the woman did not make eye contact, Vanora could hear the gratefulness in her voice, "You are most welcome, dear. You may keep that and the boots to wear, and don't forget the belt either." She laughed lightly, then looked at Neeve. Had the young woman wanted to tell her something? Her brown eyes turned back to Neeria who was twirling around in her dress, and remembered how her daughter had acted when she had received her first nice dress. It was always a magical moment, and though Neeria was not her daughter, the moment brought back good memories. It was not long before Neeria calmed down a bit, and stopped twirling. Granted she did not look like much now, but Vanora could see a natural beauty in the young woman, and figured if she had a good scrubbing that she'd be one no man could resist... Though there were some men who were not so nice and could prove a problem, perhaps she'd find one that would like her. It had not gone unnoticed how young Adian had looked at her and treated her. He really was quiet and not such a bad sort....
Vanora smiled at both of the women, "Well I really should be getting back to the tavern anyway. I told one of the girls that I would not be gone long." to Vanora, nudity did not phase her much as she had seen more than her share of bodies from bathing the children, and changing diapers. Though she had still instilled in all 11 of the children that privacy in public was a good thing. Obviously, Neeria had not been taught manners, but she was polite and sweet. Perhaps she had been an orphan of the battle, but then why was the word "prison" mentioned so may times? What had she been in prison for? Well, no doubt if she needed to know, Neeve would tell her. And what was that about "my people"? What tribe was she from? After Neeria was dressed in her old clothes, Vanora grabbed her cloak nearby, "Well, not sure where Bors scampered off to... some mission or something, but it'd be nice for some company if you are permitted." Permitted? Vanora turned to Neeve, "It was good to see you again, Neeve." There was a pause, then. "I wouldn't ask you to look in on Ione, but she never came to have breakfast this morning, and I have not seen her about. I know she is pregnant...I hope nothing happened to her." Being a mother of so many children, Vanora's motherly instinct always kicked in, and she felt something must be wrong... almost like a child skinning their knee. The red head placed the shawl over her shoulders, and nodded to Neeria, "You may keep the boots and the dress then... Oh and don't forget the cloak." She motioned to the cloak that Neeria had not tried on, but Vanora was sure it'd fit anyway. "Neeve, if you need anything more, you know where I will be." |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 09:43 PM Post #66 |
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Author: Darya Date: Sat Dec 13, 2008 12:45 pm Neeve Almost every other person would certainly have laughed, grinned or at least smiled benignly at Neeria’s behavior when the Woad actually tried the dress on. Like a child, she twirled about the room…obviously absolutely fascinated by the swinging of the skirts and the feeling of the drapery on her bare skin. And as Neeve had predicted, it was an odd sight. A Woad in a dress. It was just…kind of wrong. But oh well, since it seemed to make both, Vanora and Neeria, happy…so be it. Neeve, however, watched the whole scenario straight-faced and only secretly recalled that Neeria was perhaps feeling the same way she had when she had been on a Roman ship for the first time in her life. The healer recalled that moment very lively…as it had been the day she had met Lucius. The second Roman, who had managed to successfully make her forget all her reservations she had regarding the Empire that had dared to conquer this island. Yet Neeve had not expressed her amazement about the ship as obvious as Neeria was expressing hers about a dress and a pair of boots right now. Briefly, a corner of the Briton’s mouth twitched slightly at her own thoughts and she actually dared to wonder where the Roman soldier might be now. They had met again here at Badon…but he had soon disappeared again without a single word, which – to be honest to herself – saddened her a little. Of course this would remain her little secret…but still… Then Neeria finally seemed to have enough of dancing about the room…and for the blink of an eye, Neeve thought to see something shadowing the Woad’s dirty face. Another emotion…something more negative; maybe something that made her realize how strange she was acting. Whatever it was, it made the prisoner remove the dress and put on the lumps again. Her comment about whether or not her nudity might have startled Vanora and Neeve made the healer snort quietly… I couldn’t care less, really…, the Briton thought and reminded herself that she had given up on trying to understand some of the Woads' weird behaviours a long time ago…
“I know what he said…”, the healer just murmured calmly and suppressed a roll of her blue eyes, ignoring the prisoner’s next attempt to tease her. Neeria was a Woad. So why could she not just jump into the next puddle, pond or lake and be happy with it. Well, it was winter and most waters had a layer of ice covering them… Pity. And when a simple dress and a pair of boots already excited the Woad that much, how 'bad' would it get once she had set foot into the bath-house? The bath-house was a Roman invention, thus it was big, impressive and pompous. Hopefully Neeria would not faint at its sight for Neeve was in no mood to carry a Woad across the fortress… Anyway, the bath was actually the last thing Arthur had ordered her to grant Neeria. All else apparently was up to what Neeve thought proper. How very tempting… It would be so easy to drag the other woman right back into the dungeons…and no doubt Lancelot would not exactly argue with her about this. But then Neeve knew the Commander too long and too well…and was sure that was not what he had had in mind when he had freed Neeria. Sort of at least. And again the healer sent a silent prayer to the Gods that Derfel would show up any moment to take over. “And no, you running around naked does not bother me at all…”, the Briton then said, still not moving an inch from where she was standing but still watching Neeria closely as the Woad put on her old clothes again. As a healer, she had seen all parts of a human’s body in a more or less healthy shape. And even though some people did controvert Woads actually being humans as well, Neeve knew better. She had watched the forest people for too long to believe in all the fairytales that existed about them. “You will get the chance to do so again in the bath-house…”, she added with a slightly cynical undertone. And whether or not you will be allowed to return here for dinner will hopefully not be my decision to make anymore, the raven-haired added in thought and brushed a hand over her face.
Neeve gave Vanora a wry smile and nodded slightly at her words when the gesture seemed to fit in. Yes, Ione was one of the tasks she had not had the chance to work at yet…even though she had told the weaver to check on her after she had told her about the pregnancy. If Derfel had not taken over guarding Neeria until after the Woad had had a bath, the healer saw no other choice but to take the Woad to the weaver’s shop to indeed get both things done: the dress worked on to fit Neeria and Ione herself to be checked on health-wise. Lancelot and Darya were the other two on her schedule. Oh, this would be yet another long day… “Thank you, Vanora…for helping out here…”, the Briton finally said and pushed herself away from the wall, “…and don’t worry about Bors. He’ll be back in no time… I’ll see you around then…” With that, the healer adjusted her dark thick cloak and moved towards the door, ready to leave. So it was the bath first…then probably the weaver’s shop… “Are you ready?”, she asked Neeria and gave the Woad a cool, yet expectantly glance as she did so… |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 09:46 PM Post #67 |
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Author: Pinkie Date: Sat Dec 13, 2008 4:36 pm Drake The broth burned his tongue. Drake hissed and frowned, pushing his wooden spoon under the chunk of rabbit that he had been chasing around the bowl for far too long. He missed it and ended up with a spoonful of soup which he took another tasting of. He was eating out of the pot – of course. A part of his mind mocked him for this rather bizarre ritual. He was pretending – for all intents and purposes – like he was out in the wilderness. He was cooking, eating and behaving as if there wasn’t a tavern or a kitchen for miles, that there was no roof over his head and no servants to call upon to gather more wood. Wood… The Spaniard put his pot onto the hearth near the fire and rose up onto his knees. He reached across for a chunk of firewood and turned it over in his huge hand. He brushed his thumb against the soft splinters and then tossed it into the fire. It thunked against the back of the hearth and then started to sizzle on the flames. As the flames licked about the edges of it, Drake took one of the smaller sticks he had gathered and broke it in half before tossing it onto the building flames. With no candles lit and the window of his room so small and really rather grubby, the main colour in the room was orange. The flicker and spit of flames played around the man’s bearded face as he sat back, shoulder against the leg of the table. He hitched one knee up and reached for his dinner. He placed it on the thick leather trouser leg at his knee and tried another spoonful. This time it spilled onto the creases of his tunic and burned his firm abdomen beneath. “Fuck…!” Drake exclaimed quickly, sitting up abruptly and putting the pot down onto the hearth. He pulled his tunic up and pressed his cold hand to the little scald mark between his chest and stomach, grumbling to himself about heat and rabbits and stupid boiling broth. Sighing, the Spaniard slouched back down, pushing the pot away from him with his foot and slid his cold hand down to the tanned, folded lines of muscle at his stomach. He was frowning at the fire, as if he had heard a whisper and sought its source. He took a breath and held it then blindly reached out beside him for the amphora of wine. When his thick fingers wrapped around the neck of the clay amphora the Spaniard paused… He had never seen her face lit with the flames that he had set but that did not stop his imagination from conjuring the punishing image. Cecile – beautiful Cecile! Her glossy black hair charred and scorched… the beautiful, tanned face of his wife was blistered and melting, sliding down the pale bones of her cheeks and sinking to her chest which heaved with smoky breaths. A skeletal hand reached out to him and her face – oh her face contorted into a mask of pure pain and betrayal. “Sir?” the voice was lilting, sweet, and female. Drake looked up at the serving wench. That was one thing he had to say about this place, this Syrian hell, its women were the epitome of angelic. Their bodies were lithe and beautiful, supple and strong, willowy. Their faces were pure and wholesome, smiling and untouched by the ravages of war and the conceited masks of cosmetics adopted by the Roman women. And their mannerisms were pleasing. The woman stood before him now with a tentative smile on her face – her hand was steady as she offered him some more wine. He was already drunker than he should have been – it seemed the months since Cecile’s death had become one hazy drunken blur. “No.” he told her, lifting his hand to push hers away. But instead he held it. He wrapped his fingers about her wrist and held her there. Her pretty features turned to concern and she took a step back, extending her arm as she did not wish to displease the soldier by pulling away from him. “Bed with me.” He said to her, somewhere between an order and a request. The woman’s eyes widened and she looked over her shoulder quickly to see if anyone was close enough to have heard. She was shaking her head as she looked back at him but there was something in his eyes, behind the hardened, bitter, drunken soldier front that he put forward – there was something that she could see, something to nurture. The golden fringe of her headscarf brushed her nose as she tipped her head forward, glancing at him from beneath her eyebrows with a silent nod of confirmation. Drake harrumphed at the odd memory. He looked down the neck of the amphora and swirled the dark liquid. There was something in it that reminded him of blood – his green eyes drifted to his badly bandaged hand. Another harrumph – and coupled now with a dark frown. Drake shook his head softly and took a long, long draught of the cold wine to blot out any thoughts about her. She had offered to bandage his hand but … it wasn’t right. It wasn’t right that sense of responsibility she felt to bandage his stupid hand. His protection was freely given – it was not given with an expectation for her to reimburse him somehow. The memory was obscure. It bore no relevance that he could see right now – except the wine … the wine tasted the same. Or perhaps it was because that night had been the first of almost a years worth of blurred memories as he went from place to place getting drunk. The woman had been beautiful too – in body and spirit, she had been beautiful. She hadn’t deserved him to treat her as he did. Drake hung his head, his bottom lip pursed outwards in petulant reminiscence as he looked at the red scald on his torso. Her warm hand on his bare chest had felt nice. It had felt like it restored him a little. Her soft lips touched his collarbones creating a maddening stir of passion in his loins. Drake pushed his hand in behind her neck and turned her around so that her back was to the door and he pressed her against it, pinning her there with the solid mass of his body. He brushed his lips against her chin, her jaw, his fingers wrapped around the nape of her neck, his thumb pushing her chin upwards to allow him more access to her foreign scented skin. “Who are you?” she whispered urgently, one of her legs hitching up against his waist. Drake shook his head and murmured something unintelligible He lifted his face from her neck and looked at her lips, slowly he dipped his head and kissed her, his eyes remaining open for a moment. Then he closed his eyes and tasted… “Blood!” he spat, withdrawing from her quickly, shoving her against the door abruptly . He turned away from her wiping a hand against his lips and then looked at his fingers. There seemed to be more of them than there should be. The alcohol. But no blood. Drake looked back over at the startled woman and turned to her quickly. He took up the same position again but his breathing was harder, his ardour vanished but his intensity increased. Cecile’s lips had tasted of blood… that last kiss. Claudius had gutted her, the stench of her insides was strong in the air that day and Drake had kissed her, one last kiss he had told himself, but blood had been upon her lips and blood he had tasted. Tensing his jaw, Drake kissed the Syrian again hard. He shut his eyes tight against the taste of blood and his fist curled into her hair, clutching strands of it painfully. She gave a squeak of protest at the pain but his lips were hard upon hers and she could do no more than that. Drake withdrew, growled in fury and lowered his face. The woman trembled. Both her tiny hands were upon his shoulders – but now it was to hold him back. As if she could! The Spaniard kissed her again, harder, his tongue pressing against her unwilling lips as he forced himself to admit that there was no blood, it was his imagination, it was a foul memory but it wasn’t working – all his mental chastising was not working and still… “Fucking blood!” he growled, slamming a hand against the woman’s shoulder as he turned away from her. She cried out in pain, her shoulder blade cracking hard against the door from the force of his shove. She sunk to the ground initially but scrambled to her feet once the soldier had turned back to her. Drake shook his head, looking at her in apology – but it was not for hurting her. It was for his next action. “I’m sorry…” he told her in a gentle whisper, gently placing his hand around the back of her head once more. He pulled her towards him and kissed her softly, tenderly. She was not convinced and her knees became weak, her body falling against him a moment. And then he sunk his teeth into her bottom lip. She cried out and pushed away from him. When he released her she stepped back and wiped a hand to her mouth in shock, looking at the blood staining her dark fingers. “Why … I don’t understand!” she exclaimed to him in her beautiful accented voice. Drake licked his bottom lip which was stained with her blood also. He tasted blood and shut his eyes, turning away from the woman in disgust. At himself. “I don’t either.” He told her breathlessly. With a gesture of his hand he dismissed her without meeting her beautiful eyes again. Dark eyes… … not hazel. Yet another disgruntled harrumph broke the silence in the old soldier’s room. He looked over at the broth sitting on the hearth and knew that he should eat. To prevent himself getting drunk on all the wine… he had eaten nothing yet. Tensing his strong jaw, the Spaniard took another gulp of wine and got to his feet. He rooted in his saddlebags with one hand, the other holding the amphora – and he dug right down to the bottom of one of the side bags. He pulled out a silver chain. Thick links joined together and hanging from one of them was a pale pink stone. Rose quartz the Syrian had told him the following day. It would make it so his heart could love again, she had told him too. Drake dangled the rosy stone from his thick, clumsy looking fingers, his green eyes intent on the blasted thing as he wandered back to the fire. He sat down awkwardly, sloshing the wine – but there wasn’t enough in the amphora to spill now. He didn’t understand why she had tasted like blood there had been none. He didn’t know why it was the same with the other women too. Now he just avoided it… Blood on beautiful lips reminded him too much of what he had lost - what he had loved and what he had lost. “Doesn’t matter…” he told himself in a surly whisper and let his hand slide down to the ground, the silver links dropping from his fingers, forgotten once again. The wine offered little comfort – but at least it blotted out the worst of it. For now. |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 09:48 PM Post #68 |
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Author: lady ione Date: Sun Dec 14, 2008 10:57 am Adian "Awww shit! Can't anything go right today?" The young carpenter looked down at the piece of wood that a nail had split. He'd have to start the work over again. Ghosts, split wood, a black and blue thumb from being hit with a hammer... Fuck it all! Adian frowned at the piece of useless wood then cast it into the cart, and brought out a new piece. The storage units had suffered great damage, but it was nothing he couldn't fix.... it'd just take time. Adian rummaged through his tool box and discovered that he had left one of his tools back in the tavern earlier. Rolling his eyes, he told one of the workers that he'd be back in a moment. All he needed was something else to take up more of his time. He made his way back over to the tavern, and entered the establishment which was not busy at all... except for Tatiana and the lovely raven haired woman he had bumped into some time back. Why was Tati not at work? Cocking his head to one side, Adian studied the woman she was sitting with... and the woman had a hawk perched on the back of the chair next to her. Well nothing like being courtious he smiled inwardly as he approached the table, "Ladies, I came in to retrieve a tool I had left behind and thought I'd stop by to say, "hello". " Affectionately, he bent down and placed a soft kiss on Tatiana's cheek, "Tati, what a nice surprise...." Adian was about to say some rather seductive things to the copper haired woman, but then saw that there was company. He mentally kicked himself again as he turned to the dark haired beauty next to Tatiana and bowed slightly, "I am called Adian, lady. What would your name be?" In the back of his mind, he could not forget the naturally lovely dark haired woman he had seen earlier here (Neeria), and he wondered how she was fairing... |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 09:50 PM Post #69 |
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Author: TwistOfShadows Date: Sun Dec 14, 2008 1:25 pm Isabella Araceli Isabella felt exotic. She was familiar with grand and ornate marble pillars, with brightly coloured vines wrapped around their curves. Jerusalem had striking birds that swooped low throughout the city, and called out in song and screeches. Badon Hill lacked the richness of her homeland, and the cold was positively unbearable. Her long white fur cloak covered her shoulders well, but her skirts were not thick enough for this climate. They were thin and light, decorated with various beads and pearls. She appeared strange against the dull grey stone, and the icy cold setting. The Lady Araceli pursed her lips petulantly, and held her chin high, nobly so. She understood her status, and would never betray that. She only prayed that Arthur was noble enough to cater for her needs, her expectations. She desired a pretty bedroom, with inspirational silks and weaves to perform. The woman also wanted flamboyant dinner parties, and courtly intrigue. It was the way of her family, who were the politically influential in Rome. Isabella had sat at her mother’s side, blinking lazily and prettily at the noble families around her. Oh, but she could be demanding. Her nature was not as frail as her physical form appeared to be... Sitting atop her impressive mount, she looked down at the two men. She scrutinized them vigorously, and did not care for appearing rude. They clearly weren’t noble, nor were their opinions worth considering. Isabella saw them as mere guards, serving Arthur, and wondered why Arthur had not been brought directly to her? She did not deal or converse with servants. Not truly. They made her nervous, uncomfortable. The darker man approached Isabella’s horse, and her fingers tightened on the reins. She did not appreciate his closeness, nor his casual attitude. Her dark eyes assessed him. The man was lowly, but there was something about his eyes. They were almost black, and intense in their attentions. Isabella watched him touch her horse, and listened to him speak in a foreign tongue. Did he not know how rude it was? To speak another language in the presence of someone who did not understand it? Isabella tightened her lips into a thin line, and watched him carefully. He was...handsome, somewhat. In a wild and uncivilised manner, but his attention unnerved her. She should be dealing with Arthur...so where was he?
An assignment?! Isabella listened, and...was bemused. Arthur had left this man in charge...but he appeared unfit to command a stables to order! The woman arched a pretty eyebrow down at the man, and parted her petulant mouth. He did not speak wildly, nor offensively...and his recognition of her beauty warmed her. The Lady Araceli was a prize to any man, because she was adept and pure. Her dowry would be large, and she came with political influence within the Empire. The Lady was used to compliments, and it was pleasant to hear that he recognised it. He was not completely barbaric, and so she lifted a gloved finger into her hair, pulling a curl away from her cheekbone. Her beauty shamed him? It was pretty, but Isabella had never received such compliments from...a filthy man? She blushed momentarily, and attempted to blink away the flattery.
Lancelot offered his hand, and Isabella glanced down at it suspiciously. His name did not sound particularly Roman, and the Lady did not wish to risk her reputation by consorting with commoners...but Arthur would not leave a fool in command, surely? She was very tired after her journey, and would like nothing more than to settle herself for the evening...but she had a duty! She had to deliver a very important document to Arthur Castus, because her father had emphasised its significant nature. A light frown crossed her pretty expression....but then she listened to Lancelot’s order. ’I would recommend you not order me about???’ Isabella’s frown disappeared, and she wrinkled her nose at his proffered hand. How very rude, and utterly displeasing! His words suggested he was Sarmatian, one of Arthur’s famed cavalry...and yet he had all the manners of a grumpy politician! Isabella glanced at Derfel, before reaching out and grasping Lancelot’s hand. Her gloved fingers slipped into his palm, but she grasped him hard. Accepting his offer, but showing her displeasure. She did not move to mount though... “Perhaps you did not receive my introduction, Lancel-otty.” She spoke confidently, her accent faltering over his name. Her words were soft, gently spoken, and almost mirrored his own ’intimate’ tone. Her dark eyes met his fiery gaze, and her lashes appeared thick with disapproval. “I do not order anyone around, because a woman knows her place, does she not? It would be rude to make assumptions on someone’s character, and I do not care for it. I am not here to please you. I am here to deliver urgent news to Arthur’s hand.” The Lady glanced down at her documents, and pulled her slippered feet from her stirrups. She squeezed Lancelot’s hand as she dismounted, and landed promptly before him. He was tall, but Isabella was noble. She was also tired and impatient. The jewels on her headdress jingled as she spoke again. “If Arthur is not present, then you had best take me to a room...suited to my station. I will wait for him there, and you will make sure I am comfortable." With a swish of skirt, and a tingle of jewels, she turned to look over Lancelot’s shoulder. More dull, grey buildings, and not a palace in sight. Such disappointments... |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 09:52 PM Post #70 |
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Author: lady ione Date: Sun Dec 14, 2008 9:23 pm Ione She stood by the door a few moments more before moving over to where she had left the finished black cloak. Ione looked down at it, neatly folded and ready to deliver to Titrus. A slight smile played on the corners of her mouth as she ran her hand over the surface, before picking it up and placing it in a protective covering. The blankets had been picked up, the lieutenant's daughters had been seen to.... She held the cloak to her, then brought it over to where a parchment was waiting to wrap the cloak in, and carefully folded it, wrapped it neatly and placed it on the shelf for merchandise to be picked up. The weaver stood at the table, letting the overwhelming silence envelope her, and left a tear fall. All of the grief she was feeling for all of the losses. Ione wiped a tear away as she felt her stomach jump and move. It seemed like every time she thought of Ian, the other joyfully reminded her that he, or she was there. The young woman laughed through the sadness, and placed her hand comfortingly on the active unborn child. Moving slowly over to her chair, Ione sat down and closed her eyes only to rest them for a moment, but it also brought memories that only seemed like dreams now... ...the times spent with Javier....the time he had found her in the frozen garden, fog swirling about them... the time they spent at her homestead... his promise to return... the first time she met Accolan, and the times they shared... ...The dream broke, and Ione slowly opened her eyes to the blur of tears. The realization was becoming more apparent that Javier and Accolan would not come back. They were not coming back... Her head turned to the window and watched the clouds pass over. The remembrance of a sweet kiss shared.... the calming voice that had stayed her in a tragic time... The gentle hand that had held hers... Absently, Ione began to rub over her stomach, and began to hum a soft little song to calm the moving child. The miscarriage had seemed like a bad dream, but it had all happened, and it was a reality Ione knew she had to come to terms with if she was to give her remaining child a happy life. Slowly, she closed her eyes again, humming softly to her unborn child... |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 09:53 PM Post #71 |
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Author: Lancelot Date: Mon Dec 15, 2008 7:12 pm Lancelot The First Knight gazed up at the exotic lady; his eyes were wide, and despite the dark bruise around the one, his black irises and the liquid white of his eyes were sparkling and deep. His long lashes hid his truth easily; his lids were half masted as the woman - Isabella - spoke to him, even as she took his offered hand.
A rolling laugh echoed Lancelot's chest, the sound mocking and yet pleasant at the same time. He bowed over her hand as she landed beside him, dismounting effortlessly as she looked about the grounds. He could tell from her expression - and her words - she was not exactly happy to be here. "Lancelot," he repeated his name, pronouncing it slowly for her benefit. He moved a bit closer and stared down at her. She was small, yes, but her dress and her personality made her charming and a lot larger than her physical stature implied. "Lady, I cannot tell you how sorry I am you are not here to please me," he continued, his voice smooth as silk as he kept ahold of her slender fingers. "I think you might find me - intriguing." He smiled tightly, falsely, as once again he found his mind whirling to just what the fuck was going on with Arthur and his 'assignment' and the distinct possibility that he might have to find something to do with this woman should Arthur not return. Lancelot's head began to throb, and he turned to Derfel. "Cadarn," he snapped. "Come with us, and I might have need of your woman later. Perhaps she can help the lady Aracelli here with her ... getting to know the garrison." He turned back to Isabella, and finally let go of her hand with a gentle squeeze. A grip that said do not forget me. "I can house you in the quarters where the officer's wives usually stay when they visit. This is a working fortress, madam, and unfortunately, not exactly as fancy as the home you came from, I am sorry to say. However. Once Arthur returns, he may have a better room for you. In fact, he has the best rooms in the place! We'll have to ask him if he would trade." And then he winked at her - audacity, thy name is Lancelot - and backed away. He clicked his fingers at her ostentatious guards. "Men - take care of the horses. I would expect you can find your mistresses new 'home' with the help of one of the lads. Let's go." Gods, just let me get this seen to. And then, for a brief second, if I can just have a moment to myself....just a bath? Maybe? He shook his head, his wild curls tumbling over his forehead, and he waited, his posture erect and his face carefully arranged, even as the chill wind froze his bones and made every injury on his flesh ache. I am raw, here His jaw cracked when he clenched it, but it was little pain compared to his head and his heart. |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 09:57 PM Post #72 |
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Author: lady ione Date: Mon Dec 15, 2008 9:48 pm Vanora Vanora tied a loose knot to tie the two ends of her shawl together as she made ready to go back to work. Looking over at Neeve, she could see that the young healer had not gotten much rest yet today, and hoped that at least Neeve would get a good night's rest. As far as Vanora could see, there were other healers who could hold down the infirmary for one night. Though she was not an expert on the infirmary staff, she heard tell that there were nuns and other healers, so why did everyone seek out Neeve? Possibly, because of her tenacity to get the job done right, her honesty and well just her willingness to help out and follow orders through to the letter. Or at least that is how Vanora saw her.
"You are welcome, Neeve. Anytime," Vanora gave the healer a warm smile, but at the mention of Bors, her smile lessened a bit. After all of these years of watching Bors go off on missions and battles, the red head still worried about him. Moving to the door, Vanora moved the latch, and opened it, stepping outside to the sound of her children throwing snow at each other. Oh! To be a child again! Vanora had to smile at the little bastards, then turned to Neeve and Neeria, "Neeria, you enjoy that dress and the boots and cloak okay? Neeve, I will see you around later perhaps." Stepping aside, Vanora held the door open for the two ladies... Brendyn All suddenly became deathly still. Silence enveloped the group. Brendyn had to take the time to admire the beauty about him: the snow lying undisturbed on the ground and flocking the trees with a sort of shimmer. The frigid wind that blew about the two groups caused some of the snow to blow off the trees in a sort of powdery mist. Somewhere, Brendyn thought he heard the song of winter birds , or was it a sort of call the woads did? No, the sound was too sweet and lilting. The stream and the rocks surrounding it were powdered with snow and ice... the stream itself looking like a piece of well wrought glass. In the glassy stream was the perfect reflection of the woad who looked like a statue on the back of his black horse.... It was truly a lovely scene. Even beauty sometimes can hold dangers we cannot forsee, Brendyn.... The voice of his uncle rang in his mind as if reminding him that even though this was a reflective spot, it still held danger. The young soldier found himself holding his breath, the incident with the stone all but forgotten, as the tenseness of the moment enveloped him. Even Bors who always had a lot to say, said nothing at all. Alert eyes moved over the area to try to catch everything in that moment... to make sure no surprise attacks were in the making.
Brendyn moved Tyranus forward just a bit, then stopped him. His eyes moved to the figure on the horse as he moved across the stream towards the group. Merlin comes? His eyes began to move over the area on the other side of the stream as if trying to find this Merlin. Nearby, a lovely woad came out from her hiding place, but Brendyn paid little attention to her. To be distracted now would not be a good thing. So he basically ignored her, and continued to look to the other side of the partially frozen stream, the wind whipping through his cloak making him shiver a bit. Brendyn was tired and wanted nothing more than to lie down and catch up on about 24 hours of sleep, but this mission was of the utmost importance. The lives of both parties depended on it. It seemed to Brendyn that both sides had suffered enough loss... At least that was what he judged by the looks of the fort and those lost in the battle outside the wall. Brendyn looked to Tristan, the Optio and Arthur, then back to the other side of the ford. Though he was searching for a glimpse of the woad leader, it did not go unnoticed by him that the group was surrounded well by Merlin's loyal group. As Nolan shouted orders to the female woad, Brendyn could feel her gaze on him, but he still looked forward not giving the female woad another thought. Any normal person who hit a soldier of Rome would be punished, but Arthur seemed like the merciful type, and besides, what would it have accomplished to fight with her? He wanted peace like the others and fighting would not have achieved that. Suddenly, a large male woad appeared on the opposite side of the stream, a figure that somehow commanded attention. For a moment, Brendyn was awestruck as he had only heard of the "magician", but had never seen him. Until now, he had only thought of Merlin as a legend: A myth. Merlin had appeared so silently that it almost seemed unearthly in a way... "ghosts"... that is what they were known as, and Brendyn could see why.
So it begins... Brendyn thought his full attention now moving from the woad leader to the Roman Commander. There was a silence so thick one could cut it with a knife before any spoke again... |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 09:59 PM Post #73 |
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Author: Pinkie Date: Tue Dec 16, 2008 5:14 pm Smith There was a cockiness about Smith that was quite disarming. He moved as if he did not fear a knife in the back. He moved as if a knife in the back would not harm him. His relaxed posture atop Scáth was off-putting, it was almost challenging. As he perused those gathered he found himself wondering how they perceived him. He was dirty – mucky, the blue paint he had decorated himself with was pale and fading, the darker swirls he had adorned on the strong muscles at the tops of his arms still stood out quite noticeably but the rest were fading. He looked young too – he looked young and yet he looked wise. He looked like a child of Merlin. Rosita was looking up at him and he turned his head as he walked past her, looking down at her without expression. Until the last moment when his left eye winked at her and the left side of his lips quirked upwards in a cocky grin. It was a brief flash and when he turned his head back to the front there was no vestige of this moment of playfulness.
Smith took a deep breath, inclining his head respectfully to Arthur. He had learned this from Merlin’s actions. To respect the enemy. To respect the enemy ensured you would never underestimate the enemy. And Arthur was worth respecting. For all his Roman pomp he was British by the set of his eyes. Perhaps that is why he was easier to address than the sharp nosed fellow behind him. Smith gave a considering look to the Optio – but his attention was distracted. He lifted his head and looked towards the trail along the river, past the ford. He lifted his chin and gave a smile of acknowledgement, gesturing with a pointed inclination of his head the moment when Merlin arrived upon the foggy path.
Smith glanced back towards Nolan and then back to the path as Merlin finally descended from the shelter of the forest and mists of the river to stand before them. The horseman smiled and pulled Scáth back a bit. He slid down from the saddle once he stood a decent distance from the Romans and walked the horse over towards Ceinwyn. He did not address the feral woad at all – he looked at her directly, without hiding his assessing perusal of her form, and then looked back to watch the negotiations with interest. The horse stood off to one side of him, Ceinwyn on his right. He let his brown eyes rove down the line of Romans but kept an ear on what Merlin and Arthur would say. |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 10:00 PM Post #74 |
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Author: Darya Date: Wed Dec 17, 2008 8:16 am Neeve
The healer gave Vanora a final nod of thanks and then motioned Neeria to follow her, briefly pondering whether to see Ione first or to go to the baths. Both would make sense to her: seeing Ione first would mean the dress would fit the Woad better once she had had her bath…but she would probably have to try it on a few times during the process…and that would certainly be a better thing to do when cleaned already. Sighing, Neeve finally decided to head to the bath-house first… She glanced over her shoulder to make sure Neeria was following…and then scanned their surrounding with the small hope that Derfel was somewhere near…approaching them to take over the guarding part. But apparently, she was not that lucky. Instead, the Briton’s blue gaze lingered on Vanora’s kids for a moment…and she found herself wondering how the redhead managed all this; the big family…the tavern…Bors… The healer shook her head slightly to herself and then focused on their way again. Thankfully, the bath-house was not too far away… “Right, it’s gonna be like this…”, Neeve then addressed Neeria, who seemed to be struggling a little to carry all the things Vanora had given to her while trying to keep up with Neeve’s pace. Taking a deep breath, the healer slowed down a little to make things a bit easier for the Woad. Not knowing why…but oh well… “You’ll take a quick bath…then we’ll get you dressed properly… And in case your new guard has not shown up until then, you will have to accompany me to the infirmary…” Another pause and a brief glance towards the cloudy heaven, where Dwyn was once more circling above them. “Any questions so far?” |
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| golden_trillium | Jun 1 2010, 10:01 PM Post #75 |
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Author: TwistOfShadows Date: Wed Dec 17, 2008 9:00 am Guinevere There was a pale fog lingering above the ford, and Guinevere listened to the soft and frequent trickle of water. Tall trunks loomed endlessly into the sky above them, and the vines wrapped tightly around their bark, like lovers embracing. The Woad’s dark eyes glittered vehemently, and she drew strength from her surroundings. This was British territory, and had not yet been suffocated with Roman greed. The leaves were greener for their freedom, and the lands more beautiful. The woman sat atop Casti, and she met Smith’s strong gaze. To her side, she saw Ceinwyn emerge from the thick undergrowth, and stand proud at the rocky edge. Proud and defiant. The Woad people were impenetrablein this terrain, and surely Arthur knew this? The further they rode into the center of the woodland, the safer the Woads were...and the more fatal the Roman plight became. Guinevere had no patience for the tales of Roman reform. They were cruel men, and should leave or die.
Guinevere watched Smith cross the ford, and lifted her chin proudly. She listened to the man, and could not disguise the smile on her lips. Her father was coming to them, and would deal with the situation accordingly. She felt Arthur squeeze her small fingers, and she returned the gesture. There was something warm about their intimacy. Guinevere would never trust a Roman to become this close to her, and yet Guinevere and Arthur understood each other. There was a common respect, almost a merciful attitude, but Guinevere would always choose her people. She did not turn to look at Arthur, but merely met Smith’s gaze and nodded in agreement. A dark smile lingered upon her coltish mouth, and she returned her attention to the front of the ford. Merlin would come, and in his wisdom, would know best....
Guinevere watched her father emerge from the trees, and the atmosphere changed, intensified. The Woad looked fondly to the chieftain, and lifted her fingers to her face, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Merlin approached them, but Guinevere did not feel ashamed by her current situation. She was tucked neatly and comfortably between the enemy’s thighs, and yet she was also a tool of leverage and politics between Briton and Rome. Technically, the entire group of Arthur’s party were hostages, and so Guinevere was not ashamed. She looked out over the ford, from above high and noble cheekbones, and held Arthur’s hand tightly. It was a comfort, but also a reminder of her presence...and his precarious position. The Romans were surrounded, and it would be foolish to play false. No, Guinevere remained silent, and awaited Arthur’s reasoning... |
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