Blueblood - The World on a Blade's Edge (Closed)

[Wicked_Maelstrom]

The spoils of war, or maybe it should be said, spoiled by war because that was what Ahmon-Lok was. War was his world, he lived for it, he looked for it and he thrived in it. Relishing every order he shouted. Finding order in the middle of confusion, serenity in middle of chaos. It was music to his ears; the crash of steel on steel, the grotesque sound of the blade piercing armor, flesh and bone, the desperate cries and moans of the dying. He gloried in the smell of sweat, spilled blood, bowels and excrement of the fallen.

Ever since he was old enough, big enough and strong enough to lift one of his father's mighty swords off the ground his life revolved around the keen edge of vicious steel. His father, now dead, became a legend in Ahmon-Lok's homeland, built-up to almost mythical proportions by the retelling of his adventures and battles among the people. As tough as it is for a son to live up to a legendary father, he not only filled his father's footprints but deepened them.

His father, like most tend to do, pushed his son hard, harder than the other men under his leadership. Training him in the disciplines of combat, the skills of weaponry, the flexibility in tactics, the creation of strategy and strength in leadership. His father exercised him as one would a battle hound, an attack falcon or a war steed. Constantly honing his body, quickening his reflexes, limbering his growing mass of muscles. His son never buckled under the pressures nor complained, absorbing everything like parched land does with the first drops of a much needed quenching rain. The pace Ahmon-Lok progressed at astounded everyone, even his father, till the day came that the student surpassed the teacher.

His proud father understood the time had come and during a grand ceremony announced his retirement and the turning over of his men to his son, leaving him now to pursue his remaining pleasures...food, drink and women.

That was when Ahmon-Lok became spoiled. Conflicts, clashes, skirmishes, battles and war always surrounded him. Tempting him, enticing him, luring him like a seductive sultry woman. As the victories grew so did his name till he was revered by many and feared by all.

As time went by though, the excitement and rush of battle grew fewer and fewer till, as far as his world existed, peace reigned. He could easily have become a ruler but he despised such opportunities. In his view it would only bring a man to become an obese sloth dependant on men like Ahmon-Lok to maintain their safe cozy little world. This would not do for a man such as he and the boredom took him far from his homeland, finding service as a mercenary, eventually hiring out his skills to a wealthy Nobleman.

Here he was the captain, territorial guardian and bodyguard for the Nobleman and his family. Kidnapping and assassination were commonplace in these parts. Laws here consisted of whatever man last standing decreed so Ahmon-Lok fit in perfectly.

He soon found out that his biggest battle were not with men, rouges, kidnappers or assassins but with a woman, the Noble's daughter, Miria. This woman pricked him more often and with more savagery than any man's sword ever could. She was the spoiled among the spoiled. She had everything anyone could desire but wanted more, never satisfied. The accumulation of attention and material were her pastime. Men would grovel and fawn over her only to feel the sickening understanding of humiliation as she kicked them to the side like they were common curs.

Beautiful is a feeble attempt to describe Miria. Ahmon-Lok was stunned by her, as all men were, but he never let on. Duty was his place and purpose. He never would allow himself to be like the men that filed out with their tails tucked between their legs when they foolishly tried to become her suitor and she had become bored with them. He was the only one that seemed impervious to her wiles and she did not appreciate that one bit. He was fully aware that she used her looks and seductive skills to entice him more and more as the days went by because of this. Cooing to him, seductive posturing, secretive revealing glimpses of her body to him. It failed every time. The more she tried to lure him, the more he steeled himself and immersed himself in his duties. He wanted her, he knew that. He would walk through the hearth of hell to bed her, to make her a begging screaming slut but he would not play her game. Every time she failed her wrath would explode, directed at him. It pained him, tormented him, burned him more than the scorching fires of hell itself could but it never weakened him. He knew the firm grip of a strong hand onthe back of her neck was what she needed but it was not his place to do so.

..........................

Ever watchful eyes stayed on her, staying aware of where she was, who she was with and what she was doing. Eyes that hated her. Eyes that burned with the festering knowledge of being scorned, of being used, of being humiliated. Eyes that watched while the mind behind them plotted her fall, her demise, her comeuppance, her humiliation, her suffering. Eyes that saw value in her, saw riches that could be obtained by her. Eyes that sparkled from these thoughts, in company with the raging fire of revenge.

 

[sarijak]

Miria woke, as she often did, from a strange dream, sweat clinging to her nubile body, the thin blankets arrayed in a pile around her long legs. The memory of her dream faded from her just as easily as the echo of the scream that had awakened her.

She disentangled herself from the mess of blankets and rose slowly and awkwardly, shaking lightly.

It had been a vivid dream, she was sure of that, but the details escaped her, as they always had. There had been eyes staring at her, the feel of hands across her body, chains gripping her slender wrists...

She walked slowly across the luxurious room, lit by the faint and fading candle light. She did not like going to sleep in the dark and had not ever since she was a child.

She was no child now. She looked at herself in the long, full length mirror fixed to her wall. Even bleary-eyed and dishevelled from sleep, it was clear she was no child, but a full-bodied and wonderfully curved woman.

The thin nightgown clung to her ripe body like a second skin, moulded to her by the sweat that rose from her dreams. Her skin was as pale as the moonlight, her hair a rich and lustrous blue-black. Her pale nipples were firm and hard, poking at the near-transparent garb and blue veins spread across her full, rounded breasts.

Nineteen years old. Beautiful. The daughter of a rich and powerful man. It was no wonder that men came crawling to entice her into bonds of marriage or into the pleasures of their. Her father rejected them all, always holding out that there was more to her than that.

Still, she could see her suitors, to taunt them and play with them, drawing them down along paths of her choosing. It was a dangerous game and one that could lead her to a very painful end but she was confident that no one dare try anything.

A few stolen kisses, hinting at the promise of more than she truly offered, one hand brushing against her full breast, the occasional glimpse of her open gown or emerging from the bath clad only in steam.

None reached further than that. It amused her to play with them so. No one could resist her beauty.

She heard a sound from the garden outside the window and glided across the room to her balcony, where she threw open the shutters and looked down.

Ah, yes. There was one man who did resist her beauty. Ahmon-Lok. The common mercenary her father had hired to protect his house and his daughter. No much than a hired thug.

And yet, her breath caught in her throat as she watched him practice with his sword. She had seen him once, apprehending a common cutpurse who had tried to steal her money pouch. He had moved so quickly, like a striking wolf. She had stroked herself into a blissful ecstacy that night, remembering the look in his eyes.

But he rejected her. He did not desire her and he made no attempts towards her. Not that she would have allowed him any such liberties, of course, but the fact that he had made no attempts irritated her. She had not hidden that irritation either. To think that a common barbarian thug should spurn her advances!

He was there. In the garden. On his duty.

Miria smiled and walked from the balcony. It was a warm night. She did not need an overgown. She would walk down to the garden and the gates and watch Ahmon-Lok, master swordsman at his duties. Her father was away on business and there was no one to gainsay her.

He would not be able to resist her smiles and caresses and flirtatious glances for long. And then...

Her belly fluttered and she smiled.

He was just a common mercenary, after all. But still... anything could happen.

She had no idea of just what the 'anything' could include, or of just which eyes were watching her, or that those dark eyes had reached even into her father's household.

 

[Wicked_Maelstrom]

Thrust, parry, thrust, duck, spin, slice. Ahmon-Lok religiously practiced every night when all around slept. His duties were light at these hours, he only needed to watch over the house of the Noble. Guards under his command were patrolling the perimeter in silence as he practiced.

He stood there, his broad shirtless chest rapidly expanding and contracting from his exertions. The sword held out before him in an upward angle. This was not his normal sword but the practice sword given to him many years ago by his father. The slaughtersword his father called it. Large, blade heavy, unbalanced, used for one of two purposes. To cut a man in half or as now, to practice. The imbalance had made his wrists, his forearms, his upper torso strong to where now he could wield the ungainly weapon in one hand and use it efficiently if he needed to. The night was warm, rivulets of sweat trickled down his tawny skin. He shook the dripping sweat from his locks then began again. Grunts enforced each movement as he flowed to the rhythm of a warrior dancing with steel as his partner, together under the moonlight.

He heard the shutters being pushed open but he kept at the task of refining his craft. He knew who it was. She watched him often while he worked out. It was as if it too had become a part of the nightly exercise. He no longer gave it much thought as his focus returned to the steel and the cadence of armed combat.

Thrust, spin, slice, duck, thrust, slice. Over and over the sword whirled through the still night air. Subtle variations each time, always finding new dance steps. The creak of the shutters closing reached him. She had gone to bed was his thought as he continued to slash the night air with the blade.

............................

Eyes make no sound as they go about their task. They can go from one part of the room to another and no one would hear a thing. They watched her as she tossed and turned in her sleep. They leered at her as the coverings got kicked off, allowing the moonlight to fall over every curve of her youthful body. Eyes that slid back deeper into the cover of darkness when she sat upright, awakened from her slumber. Eyes that followed her closely as her bare feet patted across the cool tiled floor taking her to the window. Eyes that blinked in momentary blindness as the moonlight flooded the room, silhouetting her flawless form. Eyes that watched in surprise when she did not return to bed. Eyes that followed as far as her door before they lost her.

Once she was gone from those eyes, the form behind them slid the stone back into it's place in the wall. Enclosed in total darkness the eye's owner scurried like a rat, familiar in it's world that was the color of pitch. Easily and quickly it went to another spot where the eye's could spy from. Dusty cobwebbed air was swept into the lung's of the eye's owner but it heeded none of it as it reached the chink in the wall. The eyes peered into the dim light of the hallway, catching sight of her as she took the stairs down. The eye's blinked in puzzlement as they followed her down. The eye's widened upon realization of her destination. The eye's pulled back as the shadows fell to cloak them. A voice join the company of the eyes, a hushed voice that dripped with disdain, aided by madness. "Sssso the little virgin ssssslut wisssshessss to play her game again. Sssshe issss sssssuch a wicked thing, yesssss, wicked. Ssssshe will learn there issss a price for wickednessssss, yesssss, a price indeed. A heavy price, ssssshe will find out ssssssoon enough. If ssssshe cannot be mine, then ssssshe will be no one'ssssss. Let'sssss sssssee how the proud little sssssslut enjoysssssss being a sssssslave. Yesssss, a sssssslave, ssssssold. hehe I will be rewarded with the richesssss sssssshe bringssssss, oh yessssss, richesssss. hehehe Wait till ssssssshe ssssseessss who sssssold her. hehehehehe Sssssssee her face when sssssshe hearssssss ME tell her ssssssshe can kissssss her pretty little world good bye. hehehe Oh the joy. hehehehehe

The back of a grimey hand wiped the spittle from it's smiling mouth then retreated into the depths of the house as the giggling continued.

 

[sarijak]

Miria walked heedless of her near-nudity through the shadowed halls of her father's house. The chill night air brushed lasciviously against her nubile body and she shivered with delight at the caresses.

Everything was quiet. Not even the servants made a sound. Her father had taken his personal assistants with him, of course, but there were enough who would remain. The house needed to be cleaned and maintained and Miria herself needed to be looked after.

Not a sound.

She supposed she should be grateful that the servants were all clearly abed. It would be scandalous for a nobleman's daughter to be wandering about at night, so barely dressed, her body visible for all to see. The scanty nightgown did nothing at all to conceal her nakedness. Her pale nipples poked at the thin fabric and the shadows of the fur between her legs were dark and clear, matted with sweat and moisture.

But she did not care. Who but a servant would see her? And what did they matter? She was still a maiden and that was all that mattered when it came to resolving an alliance.

She paused as a shadow fell over her and a shiver ran through her body. Something from her dreams came back to her. The sounds of screaming and the burning between her legs.

She had been the one screaming, she knew that, but the screams sounded so much unlike her.

She tried to think of Ahmon-Lok again, remembering the way he had whirled and danced while practicing with his blade, the way his muscles had rippled in the moonlight and sweat had coated his broad back.

He wanted her. She knew that. He hid it, very well. But he wanted her. What man or woman did not? What irritated the young maiden was that he did nothing to act on it. Had he pursued her, leered at her, made suggestive comments or remarks... those she could have handled.

But he did not. He did nothing.

A shiver ran through her at the thoughts of what he might do.

She wanted to watch him practice. As she moved through the dark and increasingly silent house, she wondered whether this was a good idea, but she steeled herself. She would watch him practice. She was not a child to run fleeing from night terrors that did not exist.

But... she thought she would have reached the door out to the garden by now. Instead she was... She looked around. Stupid girl! She had turned left instead of right from the hallway. It was funny how the house seemed different by night time.

She turned to take the correct path and froze. There had been a noise. A strange sound, almost like a hiss mixed with a giggle. She turned back, looking into the thick shadows that marked the corners of the hallway.

"Is someone there?" she whispered.

There was no answer. All was still.

She stood as a statue, staring into the darkness. Was that a shape there? Was there something shrouded and hidden?

Slowly, without fear, the near-naked girl stepped towards the shadows, her heart pounding beneath her shapely breast.