LuridTales
Really Experienced
- Joined
- Apr 26, 2012
- Posts
- 123
Our story begins long ago and far away. If you listen close to the story, you may hear the strains of a fair fiddle tune and you might find your feet start tapping! By all means, give in to your whim and join the dance.
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ROSALIND
It was a dreary day in the month of May, when Rosalind trudged into town. She was a tall, slender figure, wrapped in a great black cloak. She sparked little interest as she passed cottages which seemed to huddle together for warm, under a cold May shower. A few children ran out to stare at her, but where quickly pulled by in by mothers who did not wish to let their children grow sick and died, all for the lack of good sense and a few cents for medicine.
Rosalind had been walking for over a week, since she left the last village, and found little human habitation, beyond a few widely stretched farmsteads. The road, such as it was, had been difficult enough, with its wagon ruts and dusty surface. The recent rain had turned it into a quagmire. She pulled her boots up again and again, fighting the mud. Her calves were burning, but she dare not stop until she was some place dry and warm.
For a moment, she stumbled and simply knelt on the muddy ground. How had it come to this? A month ago, she had been a respected journeyman minstrel at the court of Duke Argon. Now she was a pauper, adrift in the world with little more than an old fiddle, courtly clothing unsuited to a life on the road and a cloak which she had stolen from a cloth's line. She fought back the painful memories and bit her lip. She steadied herself with some harsh words and forced herself to her feet.
For a moment she braced herself against the cold and damp, and against her tendency to blame herself. He was a fucking bastard and the blame lay with him. Forcing her tears back, she stumbled forward, looking for an inn; somewhere where there weren't suspicious villagers eyeing her from the doors of their huts.
In the center of the tiny village of thatched stone huts was a larger hut, distinguished from the others only by wit's size and by a wooden mug hanging over the door. Rosalind was to cold and stiff even to feel relief, but instead pushed through the door. Blessed warmth hit her, in a way that was painful, and made her cold feet feel all the worse.
MARA
Mara worked her tired hands over the surface of the bar, cleaning spilled ale and vomit. She was a worn woman in her fifties, with gray hair up in a bun, under her white cap and a pinched expression. Her once lovely skin was dull and lifeless. The lines of an older woman decorated her face and blue veins ran up her legs and arms. Her outfit was an utilitarian gray dress with a white blouse under it, as suited a hard working woman.
Mara had never expected to find herself married to a lazy innkeeper, and stuck in a one horse town. She was the daughter of a prosperous merchant, and her prospects had been brilliant. Her father had traveled the spice route to the East, bringing back beautiful Chinese silk and Turkish spices. Her mother had been a beautiful, strong woman who raised her daughters knowing that they would be married to important men, and be required to manage their households.
When she was 16 she had fallen in love with a common laborer named Jake, up from the country. He had been handsome, in a weathered, blocky fashion, which stood in contrast to the silky handed, perfumed city men. His thick, calloused fingers had played across her spin like a bass fiddle, bringing out sweet music in her, and turning her from a girl to a woman. In her father's stable loft they had their secret meetings, drinking stolen wine and dreaming of a life together.
When she was found to be with child, her father had vowed to disown her. His words had been harsh, and cut her to the quick. The security and love she had always felt were gone. Her mother had been sorrowful, but firm. She would always love her, but there was no home for her with the family. Her child would be a bastard and unwelcome. Her name would never be spoken of again. The next morning, Mara and Jake left the city with nothing more than a small bag of silver, a week of supplies and a sturdy donkey. Even these gifts had come on the sly and without her father's consent.
Years later, the donkey was dead, the silver had bought a small inn in Jack home village. Mara now was the mother of three rough handed, insensitive lads and the wife of a fat and lazy man, whom she had little love for. The hopes and dreams that had once been her's were gone. Her husband's people, the villagers and his family, were all hard working, sensible folk with little sympathy with her situation. She was an outsider and always would be.
When the bedraggled figure stepped through the door of her inn, with a hopeless expression and obvious pain of body and spirit, she all but rushed forward.
Mara rushed over to the figure, who was dragging mud and rain into her inn, and hustled her off through a side door. "Come come dear!" The girl did not resist but allowed herself to be led. After a trip down a short hallway, they were in the kitchen proper. It was a large room with gray stone walls, another large hearth and a large stone oven with a metal door. A young girl was in one corner, scouring metal plates with a brush, over a sink with a pump handle.
"Of with you Mitz! Take an apple and don't come back for a half hour." The girl jumped up, looking afraid that the mistress would change her mind, and then sped off with a prize from a large barrel in the corner.
Mara pulled a large steel tub out from under the sink and then filled a massive tea pot with water, and put in over a spit on the fire. "Come now girl! Off with your cloths."
The stranger let her cloak fall and struggled with her now almost ruined linen garments. Mara impatiently brushed her finger aside and started to untie and loosed her bodice and skirt strings. All the while, she could not help but gulp at the sight of such fine clothing. Even in it's bedraggled state, it reminded her of the clothing of her youth and made her homesick for a life that would never be her's.
ROSALIND
Rosalind complained little as she found herself stripped naked and pushed into the empty bath. The metal felt cold against her naked bum. The woman started pumping water into a bucket after bucket, as she filled the bath. At first, Rosalind was sure that she would die, as cold water surrounded her already aching body, but soon the woman was pouring the giant tea pot into one end of the bath and setting it to boil again. Within a short time, she was in a warm bath, for the first time in over a month.
Her pale skin was bruised from her travels, and from the hand's of the Duke's son. Her young, rounded curves were a bit thinned by hunger and the healing bruises made her looked like damaged fruit. The woman knelt beside her and started to lather her up, concentrating first on her long auburn locks, working the twists and knots out of it with firm fingers. Rosalind tried not to struggle under the woman's strong fingers, but it was painful. Slowly though, her hair was cleaned and bits of branches and haw were thrown to the side.
Rosalind's rounded cheeks and plump lips were covered with a make-up of grim and mud. The woman carefully cleaned it with a sponge, not quit looking into her green eyes. Rosalind wished to thank her, but kept quiet, feeling rather like a child being bathed by her mother. The older woman was efficient and impersonal, scrubbing at her breasts, and under them, and then down across her belly and legs. She forced Rosalind to sit up as she did so. Occasionally she would pour more hot water into the bath, keeping it a comfortable temperature. Finally, the older woman worked down her back, rubbing in circles which relaxed Rosalind and caused her to lean forward. After a while, the woman stood her up, rinsed her off with frigid water, and then threw a giant coarse towel around her.
Rosalind sputtered "but how much do I owe you?"
"Never you mind that now. I saw that fiddle, and unless you are carrying it to a friend, you can pay for your board with some tunes. First though, we need to warm you up and feed you."
Rosalind finally relaxed and enjoyed the warmth of the giant towel and the fire. Her thoughts drifted back to the Duke's son, and the horrible man's inability to take no for an answer! That she had refused him had infuriated the man!
RUPERT
(Six Months Ago)
Rubert had noticed Rosalind right away, when she entered service in the Duke's court. He usually spent his time in the observation tower, tracking the movements of the stars, or in the gardens, growing exotic herbs, or in his laboratory, working on new inventions. Still, even a Renaissance man like Rupert could not ignore her innocent, fresh faced beauty. She was like a red rose, half way bloomed from a bud, reaching for the sun.
Rupert lived in the tall West tower, and was official inventor for the Duke. Besides his skills in alchemy, astronomy, herbalism and general human knowledge, he was also the Duke's own nephew. His dear mother had died giving birth to him, and his father had died in a skirmish with France when he was only five. His uncle was, Henry was the only father he had ever know, and, to his regret, his cousin Roland was the other brother he ever had.
Rupert was a slight fellow, with straw colored hair and a need for spectacles. These spectacles had not endeared him to Cousin Roland, nor had his interest in academic and occult pursuits. Roland was a ruddy faced, corpulent fellow, who believed himself to be a great lover and a great warrior. His whole he had been coddled and lead to believe that he was a god amongst men, whilst his cousin Rupert was treated with content, as the poor relation who was always under foot, but who could not simply be dispensed with.
When Rupert first spotted Rosalind, she was sitting in the royal gardens, with the master of music, practicing her music. Rupert had always considered women a bit flighty and silly, though in his defense he had only been in contact with the upper crust. This woman was different though. Like many young women at court, she had lovely breasts, on display with a tight corset. What drew him though, was her concentration. As her bow moved over the fiddle, he could heard the complexities in the music. It held the same beauty as the dance of the celestial spheres.
He watched her, from behind a bush, for almost half an hour and every day after that tried to figure out where she was and find a way to study her movements, her voice and her lovely face.
Unbeknownst to Rupert, Rosalind had noticed him and waited for his attentions. Most men at court leered at her, but there was an innocence about his face which warmed her heart. She even found herself taking special care with her toiletries to look as good as was possible. Even her tutor noticed the twinkle in her eye and the rose in her cheeks.
Unfortunately, Rupert was not the only one to take notice of Rosalind, and develop an interest in her. Sir Roland also took to stalking her, though with an unadulterated desire to possess her as a prize, than out of any real admiration.
OOC: This is a story, where I am trying for good character development. PM me if you want to join, please. I have no definite goal, other than to work back to the beginning point and then finish the story from there. This is a "Fairy Tale".
-------------------------
ROSALIND
It was a dreary day in the month of May, when Rosalind trudged into town. She was a tall, slender figure, wrapped in a great black cloak. She sparked little interest as she passed cottages which seemed to huddle together for warm, under a cold May shower. A few children ran out to stare at her, but where quickly pulled by in by mothers who did not wish to let their children grow sick and died, all for the lack of good sense and a few cents for medicine.
Rosalind had been walking for over a week, since she left the last village, and found little human habitation, beyond a few widely stretched farmsteads. The road, such as it was, had been difficult enough, with its wagon ruts and dusty surface. The recent rain had turned it into a quagmire. She pulled her boots up again and again, fighting the mud. Her calves were burning, but she dare not stop until she was some place dry and warm.
For a moment, she stumbled and simply knelt on the muddy ground. How had it come to this? A month ago, she had been a respected journeyman minstrel at the court of Duke Argon. Now she was a pauper, adrift in the world with little more than an old fiddle, courtly clothing unsuited to a life on the road and a cloak which she had stolen from a cloth's line. She fought back the painful memories and bit her lip. She steadied herself with some harsh words and forced herself to her feet.
For a moment she braced herself against the cold and damp, and against her tendency to blame herself. He was a fucking bastard and the blame lay with him. Forcing her tears back, she stumbled forward, looking for an inn; somewhere where there weren't suspicious villagers eyeing her from the doors of their huts.
In the center of the tiny village of thatched stone huts was a larger hut, distinguished from the others only by wit's size and by a wooden mug hanging over the door. Rosalind was to cold and stiff even to feel relief, but instead pushed through the door. Blessed warmth hit her, in a way that was painful, and made her cold feet feel all the worse.
MARA
Mara worked her tired hands over the surface of the bar, cleaning spilled ale and vomit. She was a worn woman in her fifties, with gray hair up in a bun, under her white cap and a pinched expression. Her once lovely skin was dull and lifeless. The lines of an older woman decorated her face and blue veins ran up her legs and arms. Her outfit was an utilitarian gray dress with a white blouse under it, as suited a hard working woman.
Mara had never expected to find herself married to a lazy innkeeper, and stuck in a one horse town. She was the daughter of a prosperous merchant, and her prospects had been brilliant. Her father had traveled the spice route to the East, bringing back beautiful Chinese silk and Turkish spices. Her mother had been a beautiful, strong woman who raised her daughters knowing that they would be married to important men, and be required to manage their households.
When she was 16 she had fallen in love with a common laborer named Jake, up from the country. He had been handsome, in a weathered, blocky fashion, which stood in contrast to the silky handed, perfumed city men. His thick, calloused fingers had played across her spin like a bass fiddle, bringing out sweet music in her, and turning her from a girl to a woman. In her father's stable loft they had their secret meetings, drinking stolen wine and dreaming of a life together.
When she was found to be with child, her father had vowed to disown her. His words had been harsh, and cut her to the quick. The security and love she had always felt were gone. Her mother had been sorrowful, but firm. She would always love her, but there was no home for her with the family. Her child would be a bastard and unwelcome. Her name would never be spoken of again. The next morning, Mara and Jake left the city with nothing more than a small bag of silver, a week of supplies and a sturdy donkey. Even these gifts had come on the sly and without her father's consent.
Years later, the donkey was dead, the silver had bought a small inn in Jack home village. Mara now was the mother of three rough handed, insensitive lads and the wife of a fat and lazy man, whom she had little love for. The hopes and dreams that had once been her's were gone. Her husband's people, the villagers and his family, were all hard working, sensible folk with little sympathy with her situation. She was an outsider and always would be.
When the bedraggled figure stepped through the door of her inn, with a hopeless expression and obvious pain of body and spirit, she all but rushed forward.
Mara rushed over to the figure, who was dragging mud and rain into her inn, and hustled her off through a side door. "Come come dear!" The girl did not resist but allowed herself to be led. After a trip down a short hallway, they were in the kitchen proper. It was a large room with gray stone walls, another large hearth and a large stone oven with a metal door. A young girl was in one corner, scouring metal plates with a brush, over a sink with a pump handle.
"Of with you Mitz! Take an apple and don't come back for a half hour." The girl jumped up, looking afraid that the mistress would change her mind, and then sped off with a prize from a large barrel in the corner.
Mara pulled a large steel tub out from under the sink and then filled a massive tea pot with water, and put in over a spit on the fire. "Come now girl! Off with your cloths."
The stranger let her cloak fall and struggled with her now almost ruined linen garments. Mara impatiently brushed her finger aside and started to untie and loosed her bodice and skirt strings. All the while, she could not help but gulp at the sight of such fine clothing. Even in it's bedraggled state, it reminded her of the clothing of her youth and made her homesick for a life that would never be her's.
ROSALIND
Rosalind complained little as she found herself stripped naked and pushed into the empty bath. The metal felt cold against her naked bum. The woman started pumping water into a bucket after bucket, as she filled the bath. At first, Rosalind was sure that she would die, as cold water surrounded her already aching body, but soon the woman was pouring the giant tea pot into one end of the bath and setting it to boil again. Within a short time, she was in a warm bath, for the first time in over a month.
Her pale skin was bruised from her travels, and from the hand's of the Duke's son. Her young, rounded curves were a bit thinned by hunger and the healing bruises made her looked like damaged fruit. The woman knelt beside her and started to lather her up, concentrating first on her long auburn locks, working the twists and knots out of it with firm fingers. Rosalind tried not to struggle under the woman's strong fingers, but it was painful. Slowly though, her hair was cleaned and bits of branches and haw were thrown to the side.
Rosalind's rounded cheeks and plump lips were covered with a make-up of grim and mud. The woman carefully cleaned it with a sponge, not quit looking into her green eyes. Rosalind wished to thank her, but kept quiet, feeling rather like a child being bathed by her mother. The older woman was efficient and impersonal, scrubbing at her breasts, and under them, and then down across her belly and legs. She forced Rosalind to sit up as she did so. Occasionally she would pour more hot water into the bath, keeping it a comfortable temperature. Finally, the older woman worked down her back, rubbing in circles which relaxed Rosalind and caused her to lean forward. After a while, the woman stood her up, rinsed her off with frigid water, and then threw a giant coarse towel around her.
Rosalind sputtered "but how much do I owe you?"
"Never you mind that now. I saw that fiddle, and unless you are carrying it to a friend, you can pay for your board with some tunes. First though, we need to warm you up and feed you."
Rosalind finally relaxed and enjoyed the warmth of the giant towel and the fire. Her thoughts drifted back to the Duke's son, and the horrible man's inability to take no for an answer! That she had refused him had infuriated the man!
RUPERT
(Six Months Ago)
Rubert had noticed Rosalind right away, when she entered service in the Duke's court. He usually spent his time in the observation tower, tracking the movements of the stars, or in the gardens, growing exotic herbs, or in his laboratory, working on new inventions. Still, even a Renaissance man like Rupert could not ignore her innocent, fresh faced beauty. She was like a red rose, half way bloomed from a bud, reaching for the sun.
Rupert lived in the tall West tower, and was official inventor for the Duke. Besides his skills in alchemy, astronomy, herbalism and general human knowledge, he was also the Duke's own nephew. His dear mother had died giving birth to him, and his father had died in a skirmish with France when he was only five. His uncle was, Henry was the only father he had ever know, and, to his regret, his cousin Roland was the other brother he ever had.
Rupert was a slight fellow, with straw colored hair and a need for spectacles. These spectacles had not endeared him to Cousin Roland, nor had his interest in academic and occult pursuits. Roland was a ruddy faced, corpulent fellow, who believed himself to be a great lover and a great warrior. His whole he had been coddled and lead to believe that he was a god amongst men, whilst his cousin Rupert was treated with content, as the poor relation who was always under foot, but who could not simply be dispensed with.
When Rupert first spotted Rosalind, she was sitting in the royal gardens, with the master of music, practicing her music. Rupert had always considered women a bit flighty and silly, though in his defense he had only been in contact with the upper crust. This woman was different though. Like many young women at court, she had lovely breasts, on display with a tight corset. What drew him though, was her concentration. As her bow moved over the fiddle, he could heard the complexities in the music. It held the same beauty as the dance of the celestial spheres.
He watched her, from behind a bush, for almost half an hour and every day after that tried to figure out where she was and find a way to study her movements, her voice and her lovely face.
Unbeknownst to Rupert, Rosalind had noticed him and waited for his attentions. Most men at court leered at her, but there was an innocence about his face which warmed her heart. She even found herself taking special care with her toiletries to look as good as was possible. Even her tutor noticed the twinkle in her eye and the rose in her cheeks.
Unfortunately, Rupert was not the only one to take notice of Rosalind, and develop an interest in her. Sir Roland also took to stalking her, though with an unadulterated desire to possess her as a prize, than out of any real admiration.
OOC: This is a story, where I am trying for good character development. PM me if you want to join, please. I have no definite goal, other than to work back to the beginning point and then finish the story from there. This is a "Fairy Tale".
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