SinisterSpiders
Meow
- Joined
- Apr 25, 2012
- Posts
- 3,625
((OOC: This thread is closed for LordUsagi. If you have any comments or feedback please feel free to PM)).
Queen Isolde smirked as she strode purposefully to her reception room. The heels of her boots collided with the gleaming white marble floors and sent the sounds of her footsteps thundering down the cavernous hall way. The sound of her boots was accompanied by the more delicate shuffle of the silk slippers of her handmaiden. It was a good day. Her soldiers not only managed to squash the rebellion like a helpless maggot, but they managed to catch a few of the rebels as they did so. There were few things that made her happier than a battle well won and new slaves around her palace. Plus, a slave taken from enemy ranks was all the more rewarding.
The Soldier’s that her General had caught had fought well, she had to concede that at least. They had fought until there was no hope left and then even beyond that. When they were surrounded they maintained their defence even though it was futile. They had been brought in under duress, and it had cost her the lives of three of her good soldiers. The long journey from the southern mountain range was treacherous enough without having to bring prisoners of war along, but the wit and courage of the rebels proved to be more dangerous than the landslides and frostbite.
Knowing that the slaves were in her palace, awaiting her inspection, filled her with a deep sense of triumph. Try as they might, not even the most venerable of their ranks was able to escape her justice.
The sound of trumpets erupted in the wondrous hall as the Queen approached the Reception Room. She smiled at the guards outside the door and they stopped their music to pull the silver gilt double doors back to allow her entrance.
The Reception Room was just as grand as the rest of the Palace of Ice. The walls and floor were made of stark white marble and most of the outer walls were frosted glass, allowing a soft muted light to filter into the majestic space. Along the centre of the room ran a carpet of red velvet, if Queen Isolde squinted, is could almost look like the trickle of blood spilt upon the ice. It was this carpet which she used to walk to her throne, a tall silver chair capped with large diamonds that glittered in the muted light more than they should have. The rest of the throne was carved and inlaid with precious crystals that were almost blinding to look upon.
Queen Isolde didn’t look at the new slaves as she walked past. It was better to let them know that they were not yet worthy of her attention. She wasn’t a cruel leader, to be sure, but she was firm and strict. Her enemies came from outside the boundaries of her mountainous icy home; from places that were hot, dry and just as desolate as the ice could be. They came from parts of the country where the mere thought of the warmth of another caused sweat to bead on your brow, your throat to dry up in anticipation of dehydration. Queen Isolde’s kingdom, however, was bitterly cold and desolate in a way that the others weren’t. In her country, the warmth of another body was not only a balm for the soul, it could be the difference between life and death. The men that were beneath her knew that, and they valued a woman’s body far beyond any treasure. This was why they served her; she knew the value of her own flesh, and that of the other women in her kingdom, and she used that power of that to her advantage. Under her reign very few were left to the bitter tendrils of a never-ending winter.
The lower status of the males is exactly why those outsiders believed they had a right to cross her borders. They believed that she had stripped her men of their rights, and that she had raised herself as an imposter in their stead. If they had stopped to ask, or tried to understand, they would have realised that her kingdom was a happy one. She was strict, but not cruel, at times they struggled, but no one fell behind, and most importantly she was not only loved; she was respected.
The Queen had to hold in her sigh of pleasure as she lowered herself upon the frigid throne, her pure white robes lined with mountain fox fur contrasting with the glimmering silver chair. She looked up, deep blue eyes surveying the rag-tag bunch of captives before her. She turned her head slowly, her sheet of midnight black hair falling over her left breast and blanketing the bodice of her silk dress. Twelve in all; and all so delectably different.
The youngest was just past his manhood, and the oldest looked as though he might not survive the week. Queen Isolde couldn’t help but be disappointed. She was hoping to see the spirited bunch she had heard so much about, not a haphazard collection of males who were barely able to stand. Starting from the young man on the left she took her time to rake her eyes over each of the men, assessing them, trying to determine their worth to her and her people. The Queen turned to her Handmaiden beside the throne with disappointment etched on her beautiful face. She was about to tell the girl to dismiss the new slaves when something small caught her eyes.
It wasn’t much really, just a flicker.
A flicker of resilience, a low-burning beacon of hope.
“You.” The Queen pointed to a man that she had previously overlooked. He was on the threshold of his autumn years, his body fit from what would have been years of travel, but not rock hard and bulging like some of his comrades. His hair was greying in a way that reminded her of the light fall of snow on a patch of obsidian. Now that she looked closer, she saw that resilience and hope weren’t the only thing lighting up his eyes; he was intelligent too, she could see that now. “What is your name?”
Queen Isolde smirked as she strode purposefully to her reception room. The heels of her boots collided with the gleaming white marble floors and sent the sounds of her footsteps thundering down the cavernous hall way. The sound of her boots was accompanied by the more delicate shuffle of the silk slippers of her handmaiden. It was a good day. Her soldiers not only managed to squash the rebellion like a helpless maggot, but they managed to catch a few of the rebels as they did so. There were few things that made her happier than a battle well won and new slaves around her palace. Plus, a slave taken from enemy ranks was all the more rewarding.
The Soldier’s that her General had caught had fought well, she had to concede that at least. They had fought until there was no hope left and then even beyond that. When they were surrounded they maintained their defence even though it was futile. They had been brought in under duress, and it had cost her the lives of three of her good soldiers. The long journey from the southern mountain range was treacherous enough without having to bring prisoners of war along, but the wit and courage of the rebels proved to be more dangerous than the landslides and frostbite.
Knowing that the slaves were in her palace, awaiting her inspection, filled her with a deep sense of triumph. Try as they might, not even the most venerable of their ranks was able to escape her justice.
The sound of trumpets erupted in the wondrous hall as the Queen approached the Reception Room. She smiled at the guards outside the door and they stopped their music to pull the silver gilt double doors back to allow her entrance.
The Reception Room was just as grand as the rest of the Palace of Ice. The walls and floor were made of stark white marble and most of the outer walls were frosted glass, allowing a soft muted light to filter into the majestic space. Along the centre of the room ran a carpet of red velvet, if Queen Isolde squinted, is could almost look like the trickle of blood spilt upon the ice. It was this carpet which she used to walk to her throne, a tall silver chair capped with large diamonds that glittered in the muted light more than they should have. The rest of the throne was carved and inlaid with precious crystals that were almost blinding to look upon.
Queen Isolde didn’t look at the new slaves as she walked past. It was better to let them know that they were not yet worthy of her attention. She wasn’t a cruel leader, to be sure, but she was firm and strict. Her enemies came from outside the boundaries of her mountainous icy home; from places that were hot, dry and just as desolate as the ice could be. They came from parts of the country where the mere thought of the warmth of another caused sweat to bead on your brow, your throat to dry up in anticipation of dehydration. Queen Isolde’s kingdom, however, was bitterly cold and desolate in a way that the others weren’t. In her country, the warmth of another body was not only a balm for the soul, it could be the difference between life and death. The men that were beneath her knew that, and they valued a woman’s body far beyond any treasure. This was why they served her; she knew the value of her own flesh, and that of the other women in her kingdom, and she used that power of that to her advantage. Under her reign very few were left to the bitter tendrils of a never-ending winter.
The lower status of the males is exactly why those outsiders believed they had a right to cross her borders. They believed that she had stripped her men of their rights, and that she had raised herself as an imposter in their stead. If they had stopped to ask, or tried to understand, they would have realised that her kingdom was a happy one. She was strict, but not cruel, at times they struggled, but no one fell behind, and most importantly she was not only loved; she was respected.
The Queen had to hold in her sigh of pleasure as she lowered herself upon the frigid throne, her pure white robes lined with mountain fox fur contrasting with the glimmering silver chair. She looked up, deep blue eyes surveying the rag-tag bunch of captives before her. She turned her head slowly, her sheet of midnight black hair falling over her left breast and blanketing the bodice of her silk dress. Twelve in all; and all so delectably different.
The youngest was just past his manhood, and the oldest looked as though he might not survive the week. Queen Isolde couldn’t help but be disappointed. She was hoping to see the spirited bunch she had heard so much about, not a haphazard collection of males who were barely able to stand. Starting from the young man on the left she took her time to rake her eyes over each of the men, assessing them, trying to determine their worth to her and her people. The Queen turned to her Handmaiden beside the throne with disappointment etched on her beautiful face. She was about to tell the girl to dismiss the new slaves when something small caught her eyes.
It wasn’t much really, just a flicker.
A flicker of resilience, a low-burning beacon of hope.
“You.” The Queen pointed to a man that she had previously overlooked. He was on the threshold of his autumn years, his body fit from what would have been years of travel, but not rock hard and bulging like some of his comrades. His hair was greying in a way that reminded her of the light fall of snow on a patch of obsidian. Now that she looked closer, she saw that resilience and hope weren’t the only thing lighting up his eyes; he was intelligent too, she could see that now. “What is your name?”
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