GrayOldFart
Really Really Experienced
- Joined
- Oct 22, 2012
- Posts
- 340
(OOC -- Need a female writer for 2 characters. For more information, see the seeking writer post and the OOC comment at the bottom.)
The Scrounger dumped the gunny sack upon Carnegie's desk, spilling out hard back books, magazines, and pamphlets of all types, sizes, and ages. He asked proudly, "Done good?"
Carnegie pushed the selection about, revealing covers and titles. There were romance novels, childrens' fairy tales, bibles, and magazines ranging from home and garden to Mens fashions; but there was nothing close to what he was looking for.
"You did very well," Carnegie lied. He gestured to his Lieutenant. "Redridge. Take the men downstairs. Give them all they can drink ... dinner ... a bath. Let them share a girl if they'd like."
Redridge's crossbow toting Militiamen escorted the excited Scroungers out. Once the room was clear, Redridge turned to his boss and jabbing a thumb over his shoulder said, "You send'em out there every day, looking for these books of yours but won't tell them what they are looking for. These men can't even read. Most of'em wouldn't understand a comic strip even if it had no words in it! It's crazy!"
"Are you concerned about the men?" Carnegie asked, glancing over his thick glasses, "Or about my sanity."
"I'm concerned about you staying in power!" Redridge answered without hesitation. "You give the Scroungers water and women and food and fuel to run around the desert searching for something you won't explain to them. You give ... but don't get. Someday ... you won't have anything left to give."
"Oh, my good friend," Carnegie said with humor in his voice. He rose and guided the man out the door of his second floor office to the mezzanine. Below them in what had been a Vaudeville Hall in the early years of the 20th century and a brew pub saloon in the early years of the century after that, three dozen men and women were drinking and eating and cavorting.
"I give," he said, gesturing toward the man behind the bar trading pure water for what ever the thirsty had to offer. He gestured again, this time to another pair of men carrying arms full of traded goods back toward a door guarded by Carnegie's Militiamen. "And ... I get. As long as I control the only pure water source for a hundred miles, they will continue to bring me their--"
"Junk!," Redridge cut in. "Most of it ... it's garbage. You burn a lot of it ... give most of of the rest away."
"You're missing the point my friend," Carnegie said, ready to explain that as long as people saw him as the only man to trade their junk to, eventually someone would trade him something he truly wanted. But his attention shifted quickly and he finished with, "Please excuse me, my friend."
Carnegie caught the eye of the stunningly beautiful woman ascending the stairs to the saloon's second floor and blew her a kiss. She flashed him a smile that seemed driven more by obligation than by excitement. He watched her with great interest. She was an elegant woman, often dressing in long, flowing gowns and tall, thin heeled shoes that had only one real purpose in this new society: setting her apart from -- above -- the rest of the populace.
She reached the top of the grand staircase and stopped close to him. She maintained a catholic school dance gap between them as she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Public displays of affection weren't part of their relationship; their intimacy -- sometimes consensual, at other times not so much so -- had always been reserved for either of their bedrooms or, on rare occasion, his office.
"Accounts are settled," she said. "Everyone is either caught up or has made arrangements to do so."
"Arrangements?" he asked with great anticipation.
She half glanced toward the lobby. Standing within a circle of a half dozen Militiamen were one of the town's seamstresses and her teenage daughter. "She says work has been slow. She can't pay her taxes. She has offered to work off her debt here ... work exclusively for you until she's caught up."
"And the girl?" Carnegie asked, knowing what the answer would be.
"I told her you would want more than a new shirt and drapes for the bar," she said, her tone reflecting her distaste for Carnegie's taste in young, female flesh. She leaned in and kissed his cheek again -- this time, no doubt from pure obligation -- and passed by him to return to her room. She said with obvious sarcasm, "Have a nice time, Carnegie."
He watched her disappear, but as her door slam, his eyes returned to the young breasts and firm buttocks below. But unlike Claudia would have presumed, Carnegie's gaze was not on the seamstress's daughter ... but on Claudia's daughter instead.
Solara had entered the saloon just a moment after the others and ascended the stair case on the opposite side of the balcony from Carnegie. Solara rarely used the stairs and mezzanine that passed by his office and bedroom doors; she rarely neared him without reason beneficial to herself or without being summoned by the man who ruled the town and all of its population.
Carnegie seldom referred to the young beauty as daughter ... whether in the context of Claudia's daughter or my daughter. Despite his consort's assurances that she had been untouched when he bought her from a passing caravan at 15, Carnegie didn't truly believe Solara was his blood. To refer to Solara as your daughter to Claudia would only confirm his doubts that she was his daughter, too.
But more than that, referring to her in that way would make it hard for Carnegie to partake of the beauty one day. He lusted for Solara each and every time he laid eyes upon her; believing her to be his own would prevent him from someday enjoying the feel of him inside of her, and he just couldn't have that. So, regardless of Claudia's assurances during her pregnancy and following the child's early birth, Carnegie knew what he knew ... and nothing was going to change that opinion, or stand in the way of his dreams of conquest for Solara.
He watched her ascend the staircase two steps at a time and hurry to her own room. Unlike her mother, Solara's fashions tended toward tight fitting tank tops and jeans that revealed her curves and fit body, or loose buttocks-length tee shirts that drooped off one shoulder to give hints at a firm breast, with form fitting leggings that were little more than a second skin for her long, athletic legs.
For any other woman in this town, to dress such would have been inviting rape from the animals who eternally roamed the town's streets. But Solara pulled it off without concern because of who her supposed father was. The only man who had ever laid hands upon her without permission had hung from a pole in the middle of town, losing a finger a day for seven days before finally dying of exposure. Just to ensure that his point had been made, Carnegie had personally sliced the privates from the corpse and had them preserved in a sealed jar that still sat on a shelf behind the saloon's bar.
Since then, men tended to back a step at Solara's approach, fearing the loss of their own package. Carnegie couldn't be certain that Solara was still pure and untouched. He liked to think so, for selfish reasons. But he did know that if she had given up her chastity already, it had been by her own accord and initiative, because there wasn't a man in this town brave enough -- or stupid enough -- to make a move on her without her permission being written in stone.
I have written the very basics about the two female characters that are necessary for the story's direction in the post above, but beyond that, their personalities, background, and details are for you to create. Essentially:
The Scrounger dumped the gunny sack upon Carnegie's desk, spilling out hard back books, magazines, and pamphlets of all types, sizes, and ages. He asked proudly, "Done good?"
Carnegie pushed the selection about, revealing covers and titles. There were romance novels, childrens' fairy tales, bibles, and magazines ranging from home and garden to Mens fashions; but there was nothing close to what he was looking for.
"You did very well," Carnegie lied. He gestured to his Lieutenant. "Redridge. Take the men downstairs. Give them all they can drink ... dinner ... a bath. Let them share a girl if they'd like."
Redridge's crossbow toting Militiamen escorted the excited Scroungers out. Once the room was clear, Redridge turned to his boss and jabbing a thumb over his shoulder said, "You send'em out there every day, looking for these books of yours but won't tell them what they are looking for. These men can't even read. Most of'em wouldn't understand a comic strip even if it had no words in it! It's crazy!"
"Are you concerned about the men?" Carnegie asked, glancing over his thick glasses, "Or about my sanity."
"I'm concerned about you staying in power!" Redridge answered without hesitation. "You give the Scroungers water and women and food and fuel to run around the desert searching for something you won't explain to them. You give ... but don't get. Someday ... you won't have anything left to give."
"Oh, my good friend," Carnegie said with humor in his voice. He rose and guided the man out the door of his second floor office to the mezzanine. Below them in what had been a Vaudeville Hall in the early years of the 20th century and a brew pub saloon in the early years of the century after that, three dozen men and women were drinking and eating and cavorting.
"I give," he said, gesturing toward the man behind the bar trading pure water for what ever the thirsty had to offer. He gestured again, this time to another pair of men carrying arms full of traded goods back toward a door guarded by Carnegie's Militiamen. "And ... I get. As long as I control the only pure water source for a hundred miles, they will continue to bring me their--"
"Junk!," Redridge cut in. "Most of it ... it's garbage. You burn a lot of it ... give most of of the rest away."
"You're missing the point my friend," Carnegie said, ready to explain that as long as people saw him as the only man to trade their junk to, eventually someone would trade him something he truly wanted. But his attention shifted quickly and he finished with, "Please excuse me, my friend."
Carnegie caught the eye of the stunningly beautiful woman ascending the stairs to the saloon's second floor and blew her a kiss. She flashed him a smile that seemed driven more by obligation than by excitement. He watched her with great interest. She was an elegant woman, often dressing in long, flowing gowns and tall, thin heeled shoes that had only one real purpose in this new society: setting her apart from -- above -- the rest of the populace.
She reached the top of the grand staircase and stopped close to him. She maintained a catholic school dance gap between them as she leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. Public displays of affection weren't part of their relationship; their intimacy -- sometimes consensual, at other times not so much so -- had always been reserved for either of their bedrooms or, on rare occasion, his office.
"Accounts are settled," she said. "Everyone is either caught up or has made arrangements to do so."
"Arrangements?" he asked with great anticipation.
She half glanced toward the lobby. Standing within a circle of a half dozen Militiamen were one of the town's seamstresses and her teenage daughter. "She says work has been slow. She can't pay her taxes. She has offered to work off her debt here ... work exclusively for you until she's caught up."
"And the girl?" Carnegie asked, knowing what the answer would be.
"I told her you would want more than a new shirt and drapes for the bar," she said, her tone reflecting her distaste for Carnegie's taste in young, female flesh. She leaned in and kissed his cheek again -- this time, no doubt from pure obligation -- and passed by him to return to her room. She said with obvious sarcasm, "Have a nice time, Carnegie."
He watched her disappear, but as her door slam, his eyes returned to the young breasts and firm buttocks below. But unlike Claudia would have presumed, Carnegie's gaze was not on the seamstress's daughter ... but on Claudia's daughter instead.
Solara had entered the saloon just a moment after the others and ascended the stair case on the opposite side of the balcony from Carnegie. Solara rarely used the stairs and mezzanine that passed by his office and bedroom doors; she rarely neared him without reason beneficial to herself or without being summoned by the man who ruled the town and all of its population.
Carnegie seldom referred to the young beauty as daughter ... whether in the context of Claudia's daughter or my daughter. Despite his consort's assurances that she had been untouched when he bought her from a passing caravan at 15, Carnegie didn't truly believe Solara was his blood. To refer to Solara as your daughter to Claudia would only confirm his doubts that she was his daughter, too.
But more than that, referring to her in that way would make it hard for Carnegie to partake of the beauty one day. He lusted for Solara each and every time he laid eyes upon her; believing her to be his own would prevent him from someday enjoying the feel of him inside of her, and he just couldn't have that. So, regardless of Claudia's assurances during her pregnancy and following the child's early birth, Carnegie knew what he knew ... and nothing was going to change that opinion, or stand in the way of his dreams of conquest for Solara.
He watched her ascend the staircase two steps at a time and hurry to her own room. Unlike her mother, Solara's fashions tended toward tight fitting tank tops and jeans that revealed her curves and fit body, or loose buttocks-length tee shirts that drooped off one shoulder to give hints at a firm breast, with form fitting leggings that were little more than a second skin for her long, athletic legs.
For any other woman in this town, to dress such would have been inviting rape from the animals who eternally roamed the town's streets. But Solara pulled it off without concern because of who her supposed father was. The only man who had ever laid hands upon her without permission had hung from a pole in the middle of town, losing a finger a day for seven days before finally dying of exposure. Just to ensure that his point had been made, Carnegie had personally sliced the privates from the corpse and had them preserved in a sealed jar that still sat on a shelf behind the saloon's bar.
Since then, men tended to back a step at Solara's approach, fearing the loss of their own package. Carnegie couldn't be certain that Solara was still pure and untouched. He liked to think so, for selfish reasons. But he did know that if she had given up her chastity already, it had been by her own accord and initiative, because there wasn't a man in this town brave enough -- or stupid enough -- to make a move on her without her permission being written in stone.
^^^^^^^^^^^
I have written the very basics about the two female characters that are necessary for the story's direction in the post above, but beyond that, their personalities, background, and details are for you to create. Essentially:
- Claudia:
- She is Carnegie's consort. She will do anything he asks because he is the boss ... and because he provides her with a life style she couldn't get anywhere else.
- In a society very much divided by gender, she is Carnegie's intermediary to almost all of the town's female merchants and service providers, including the saloon's whores. This includes control over many of the resources they use for their businesses, buying and distributing many of their goods, and collecting their taxes or a percentage of their income, as in the whores.
- While loyal to Carnegie out of necessity, she is desperately looking for a way to get rid of him and sit upon the throne herself. But, the Militia will not take orders from a woman; and the Scroungers would not likely fear her and serve her in the way they do Carnegie.
- She is not above sacrificing her daughter to Eli if she thinks it will get her what she wants.
- Solara:
- Whether she is a virgin still or not is up to you.
- Her reason for not appreciating Carnegie is up to you.
- Whether she is or is not his blood child or, if she isn't, whether she knows it to be one way or the other is up to you.
- She, like her mother, would like to see Carnegie gone ... or if that fails, she would like to be gone herself. But Carnegie told her once that if she ever left town, her mother would be very unhappy with his reaction ... which she took to mean that he would torture, rape, and/or kill her.
- Her reaction to being "given" to Eli is up to you. Maybe she, too, sees him as a way to change things; or maybe she sees him as just another man looking for power and control.
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