Morvran Voorhis hated the Northern Realms. Compared to the glory that was the Nilfgaardian Empire, the north had nothing to offer. He had thought about it, long and hard, before he had to give up. Which he did without putting up any resistance.. There was nothing that spoke in the favor of the godforsaken place.
Firstly; The weather. A cruel joke from the gods. If the sun had the strength to break through the clouds and shine upon the dreary excuse of land that was Redania, it was barely bearable. Just barely. More often than not, the sun didn't shine and in its absence, rain that felt like nails accompanied winds that pierced both skin and bone and settled into the marrow. His limbs were still stiff and achy from spending too much time in badly heated castles and pathetic excuses of mansions the northern nobles called their homes.
Secondly; The people. Spending time with northerners was something he tried to avoid altogether. With a fervor. One cannot dress a pig in pearls and petticoats and expect to get a princess, and that was true, oh so true, for all the social standings in the north. The commoners, he steered clear of. Not even giving them as much as a flickering glance. The nobles, he loathed. Their vapid conversations and their puerile tries to be dignified aggravated him. The royalty, he looked down upon. In truth, Redania had been stuck with idiot rulers, and that wasn't going to change. Not until his motherland would take action, of course. Putting an emperor on the throne.
Thirdly; The accent. The thick and uncivilised matter of intonation, the words they used, the complete butchering of anything that apparently was considered to be seen as a way of communication… Yes, that was the common speech in its essence. To Morvran, nothing sounded more like a horrible, choppy bark than the common speech. Bedding a native, a woman born and raised in the north, well… one was better off gagging her if one wanted to come. Even then, coming was to be considered a tricky endeavour.
Fourthly; The cities. Now, he had been living in Novigrad for some time, due to its neutrality which was to be considered as a good thing in the greater scheme of things, but the cities weren't beautiful. They were unrefined, much like the people living in them and that shone through. With drunkards walking the streets on almost any time of day, hussies preying on people out in the open and barely clothed at that, not to mention the dwarves and elves and halflings and beggars… No, the cities were a product of the cesspool that really was the north in its very essence.
He scoffed, hearing the knock on his door.
"General? General Voorhis?" Just the sound of his footman's voice made him want to go berserk. But he wouldn't because he was full of everything that made the Empire superior. Grace, poise, cleanliness, words being used. No, he wasn't going to yell, he wasn't going to take out his hatred of the place on something as trivial as a footman.
"Not. Now." He responded through gritted teeth. "I said I wasn't to be bothered. This is being bothered. Leave. Now."
"Cer-certainly, General."
He heard the footsteps grow fainter on the other side of the door.
With a sigh, he opened the latest band of his current obsession. The Nilfgaardian Stud Book, the forty-sixth volume. One he'd been very much involved in from the very start. He laughed as his mind retraced his previous train of thought.
Fifthly; The horses. The northern-bred horses were an abomination. Blocky, stout and unattractive. Made for pulling carts and ploughs and not for riding. Being broad as barn doors with their short necks and swelling rumps, they probably managed what they were supposed to. But they lacked all of that the Nilfgaardian thoroughbreds had. The beauty, the way they moved with flicking forelimbs, a raised back, all in a natural frame. The means of turning the tide in the heat of battle, they were soldiers too. The intelligence, how they almost merged with its rider and listened to every single aid with no delay. The ability to carry a rider just for fun, swiftly, effortlessly, and how they made him feel like he was kissing the sky.
Morvran felt a chuckle, desperate to escape him. The horses of the north were just like the people. Or the weather. Or the cities. Oh, the irony! What a revelation on that horrible, rainy day! He instantly felt a little bit better.
He directed his eyes to the Stud Book again, tracing the lineage of one of the stallions he'd bred himself. One that was destined for great things, one that would win races, sire beautiful offspring and bring in a small fortune. If he was to let him go. After all, producing horses was his biggest passion in life and one can't let a passion escape without being handsomely compensated. So far, none had been able to match what he wanted for the stallion so he still remained in his ownership.
Fact is that the stallion, Feainewedd, or The Sun Child (named just that due to his golden colour), was grazing on the hills outside an estate east of Novigrad. It was an experiment keeping him there, with the intention of letting him sire one, just one, foal together with a Redanian mare.
Morvran had given it much thought before bringing him from the south. Feainewedd had everything one could ever want in a horse, but the the mare, Canarie, had something else. She was blessed with a stamina beyond compare.
True, Canarie wasn't a Redanian draft. She was the product of something Morvran could appreciate. Diligence. Hard work. Excellent choices. Educated guesses. A product of carefully picking out stallions for able mares, a masterpiece in the making. She had draft lines, far back in her pedigree, but looking at that mare… He felt his heart beat faster. She wasn't far from the ideal conformation that only could be seen in Nilfgaardian thoroughbred mares, but she had an unbreakable spirit and an endurance to match. Something that would compliment his stallion perfectly.
Again, that rapping on the door. Now, he felt annoyed. Almost infuriated when the door opened before he had given the person on the other side the right to do so.
"General Voorhis. I'm tired of waiting."
His annoyance turned into something else when he heard the voice. Saw the person it belonged to. "Lady la Valette. I'm honored." He stood up instantly and rounded his desk.
"Why did you send your footman away? He was informing you of my arrival. To keep a lady waiting," she stepped inside and closed the door behind her, "is incredibly rude." Her lips were softly curled up into a smile.
"I wasn't aware, my Lady. I was under the impression that you were arriving tomorrow. And that we were to meet at… the residence?"
"Morvran," she said, his name sounding like a purr when it came from her lips, "we can't let the horses have all the fun, can we? Your Feainewedd, and my… Canarie."
She had closed the distance in between them with just a few steps. Her breasts were fighting for room with her dress being slightly unlaced in front, as they stood just a heartbeat apart.
"Louisa…" Morvran's hands instinctively ended up feeling her décolletage. How the soft and round, and totally divine, parts of her rose and fell with every breath.
She traced his jawline, leaning in. Breathing on him and his lips with a seductively open mouth. Slightly twisting her fingers around his golden necklace. "Is it the first time your stallion is going to have his way? With a mare from the north?"
He had to brace himself with one hand against the desk, feeling the blood rushing to his groin. Making him hard. Making him ready. He exhaled, slightly too loud for his own liking. He wasn't being a model Nilfgaardian now. "Yes. The first time with such an exquisite creature."
"Wonder if he knows how to treat her? She might refuse him if he's being too forward?" Her hand skimmed across his thigh, stopped just a breath shy of where he wanted her to touch him.
"He knows. He will wait for her and thㅡ" He gasped, shuddering underneath her hand. "...and then, he'll take her. Make her succumb to him. Not get off until he's satisfied."
"So you have you seen him? How he treats the mares?" She stepped to the side and let go of him. Throwing a small glance over her shoulder, her brown hair cascading down her back.
He felt his breath, and his words for that matter, get stuck in his throat. His pulse was pounding in his ears, mirroring the pulse he felt elsewhere.
She leaned over the desk, inching her dress up. Excruciatingly slow. "I asked you a question," she said, her head slightly obscured from where he was standing. "If you know the answer, why don't you show me?"
He was quick to regain a little composure in order to do what she had implored him to. Trying desperately to free himself from the restraint of his clothes.
"At first," he said breathily, "he'll nip at her haunches. He'll test her, see if she's the right state of mind." He caressed her dress up, revealing her more and more with every touch.
"Then, he'll get ready. Work himself up in order to do what is expected of him." He reached down to free himself from his clothes, taking himself in his hand. Keeping himself hungry.
"After that, he'll collect himself. Put more weight on his hind legs as he prepares himself to rear. And then he'llㅡ" His voice became something guttural instead as he grabbed her hips, pushed into her, almost losing his way.
Hearing her moan, hearing her fingernails scrape against his desk made him focus as he put one hand on the back of her head, feeling strands upon strands getting caught in between his fingers.
"Then, he'll bite her withers, use her as leverage as he thrusts into her, making her buckle underneath him." He had found a rhythm now, one that wouldn't make him last much longer. "He won't be caring about her now! Now, it'll be all about him as he, as heㅡ" He moaned, feeling his hands almost automatically closing themselves. One in her hair, the other on her hip, pulling her closer. Listening to the tantalising sound of flesh colliding with flesh.
"It's all about him as he comes!"
In that very second, the very second he was falling out of the sky after reaching an incredible high, Morvran Voorhis realised something. The north, its cities, its people, its dialect, its horses and its weather seemed much more tolerable. Strangely enough.
And the foal, he would keep for himself.