Just Desserts
**Arien Nightshade is a World of Darkness LARP PC played by a friend of
mine. Over time and much RP, we've worked up a vast history of Arien, his
childe Ilyona (now called Mellonia) and a number of other members of Clan
Tremere, as well as some other PCs. None of this is IC information, but
it's good story, and a lot of fun for me to write. Enjoy!**
==
Count Armaine, as he was known to his host, entered his chambers with an angry stride, throwing aside his cane and reaching to pull the wig from his head. He paused, nearly losing his balance, seeing movement at the far side of the room.
"Who is it?" he asked gruffly, hand going to the hilt of his sword instead. He relaxed as he saw the young woman move away from the walls toward him, eyes appropriately downcast.
"I beg your pardon, milord. I was sent to serve you this night." Her voice was soft, a gentle note to it that startled him more than her somewhat bedraggled appearance.
"Where is Phillipe?" He tossed his cape to the ornate chair near the bed, followed closely by belt and sword. "I am not used to strangers in my room."
"Phillipe is ill, milord - I was asked to take his place." Arien paused for a moment, looking her over - although with her eyes down and her head tipped forward, he could only see her red hair, and that her skin was fair - perhaps more fair than some of those court beauties he'd spent the night dodging. She was thin, and very fragile looking as a child might be. She gave the impression of being tiny - even to him. He sighed.
"So, if you will wait on me, then you have to look at me, yes?" He held his arms out, and she deftly removed his coat, then the necessary jewelry so that she could remove his shirt. He frowned, not at her work, but that she would not look at him. "What's your name, girl?"
"Astra, milord." She carefully laid his shirt across the back of the wardrobe, and knelt before him to unfasten his boots and remove them, then unfasten his trousers and draw them off. He watched her, beginning to be amused that she could do that without looking, where the women of court did nothing but look. With an inward shrug, he actually found his mood improving - and gods knew it couldn't have gotten much worse. He really needed to have a talk with his - Regent - about this court assignment. Not that playing power games wasn't fun - and he did it so well, especially among the women, with their behind the scenes influence.
He felt her standing before him, and glanced over to see her, eyes still averted, holding a dressing gown for him. He rolled his eyes, but allowed her to pull it on him. Seating himself gracefully in the chair before the mirror, he reached for the hair brush - only to find she was one step ahead. And he still hadn't seen her face.
"Astra?" He turned quickly, and she looked into his eyes by reflex, before blushing and looking away.
"Yes, milord?"
"Look at me..." She shook her head, and little tendrils of coppery red hair bounced with the movement. Now that he took a good look at her, her own hair must be nearly as long as his - but was bound up in a net behind her head. He smirked at her reluctance. "Why not - do you not think I am handsome?"
"Milord is jesting," she said softly, but he could see the tenseness in her body. The poor girl was terrified. He pondered this - certainly it was not him that terrified her so - he had a marvelous reputation with women....
"I never jest about my looks, Astra. Tell me - do you not think I am handsome? Or are my looks not to your liking?"
"You are more than handsome, milord," she told him, as she began to brush his hair. Her touch was more like a caress, and he smirked to himself. Ah, so that was it...
"Did you poison my servant to get in here, Astra?" he asked casually. Her head came up, her eyes angry, but she dropped them very quickly, resuming her former subservient demeanor.
"I did not, milord. He is truly ill - the Gascone doctor is with him."
"Then how did you manage to end up in my room, hummm?"
"The slave master sent me, milord." Her voice was barely a whisper, and she did not see his eyebrows go up, although his voice remained calm.
"Indeed. And this - slavemaster - he is of the household?" Her hands faltered with the brush only a second before she got control again.
"Yes, milord. He supplies all the servants for many of the court. We are - expendable that way, you see."
"I see. And where does he get these - servants - he supplies? Are you truly slaves?" She started to turn away from him, and his hand reached out quickly to grab her by the wrist. "Oh, no. Stay. I wish to know about this - slavemaster."
He could feel her trembling in his hold, and he let up the pressure a bit as he realized he was frightening her more than he wished to. Pulling her around in front of him, he pulled her into his lap, still holding her wrist, although gently now. "Astra, you have nothing to fear from me - just talk to me."
She nodded, still unwilling to meet his gaze, and it began to make him uneasy. Pulling her hand along in his grasp, he used the back of his hand to lift her face so he could look into her eyes. Her own looked back at him - frightened, yes, but also determined. They were the most startling color - blue like the chicory flowers that dotted all the country roadsides - flowers he himself had not seen under sunlight in nearly 300 years. Under all that red hair, the blue looked somehow alien, even to him.
"Now, let us make introductions, yes? I know that your name is Astra. Where are you from?" His hand had strayed of its own volition to stroke the side of her face, where the soft tendrils framed her ivory skin. Her neck was graceful, and even with the rough clothing she wore, she had enough beauty to rival those of the court he had so recently left.
"I am from Brittany, milord - Kerric nouAvelle." She watched him, much as a bird watches a snake, powerless to resist his grip and his commands, but not yet hopeless. He smiled, and her eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"So, that was not too hard... I am Arien of Armaine - which is north of here, near the Scottish border. I am visiting the court at the request of my cousin, who is actually the Count there - but they honor me with the title as heir apparent I suppose. In any case. I find courts boring. And I find you - enchanting..."
He was gratified to see her blush a fiery crimson, and turn her head. This was not a slut, whatever else she might be. And now he was more determined than ever to have the truth from her. He had not fed yet tonight...
"So, now, do you tell me you are a slave in truth - or is that simply what your master likes to call you?" He frowned slightly as he felt her go rigid in his hold, and perhaps more that, where his arm brushed against the back of her ribs, he could feel something there - welts or scars perhaps.
"I am truly a slave, milord. I am here to give you pleasure..." He blinked at this, and sighed.
"I do not find pleasure in taking those who have no choice." He leaned forward slightly, catching the scent of her hair. It was not honeysuckle or rose attar as so many of the court ladies did it. It was instead the fragrance of a long-ago remembered garden, with bees buzzing in the mint and rosemary under hot summer skies...
"The choice was mine, milord, truly..." Her voice was so soft, he nearly missed it with the intensity of his reverie. He turned her on his lap so he could look at her.
"Why?"
She looked startled at the question, and looked down, thinking. He smiled, and shook her gently.
"No you don't - I do not want a clever lie or a partial truth - I want the whole truth..."
"I don't think..." Her eyes caught with his, and held there for a moment, and she sighed. "Very well, milord... "
Arien stood her up and patted her behind. "Bring the wine and two glasses over here, and we will talk." He watched as she walked away, and could feel the blood hunger - a delightful edge on the idea of slaking his lust on this delicate creature. Phillipe was a good companion, and of course understood his master as this one did not. Still, what a delicate lily compared to the overblown roses of court... His loins ached at the thought, and that improved his mood greatly. This was the kind of hunt he preferred.
Astra returned with the tray and glasses, kneeling gracefully to pour his and hand it to him. At his insistence, she poured herself a glass, and sipped daintily. As he watched her, it became obvious that she was not a village cast-off. She had learned manners somewhere. He gave her a moment to get some wine in her system, before pressing his question.
"Now, tell me why you chose to serve me this night." He watched the firelight play across her features as she took a deep breath, and sat the wine glass on the floor with a shaky hand.
"I go to the - a - new assignment tomorrow. When you first came, I wanted to be with you, but Phillipe was always there. This would be my last opportunity, and so I begged for the chance to serve you."
Arien frowned slightly at his glass. "I do not think I have given the impression of being any woman's idea of a gentle or refined lover." In fact, thinking back on it, he had been at pains to do otherwise - not realizing that the women of court would dote on his cruelty like that of a spoiled child.
"That was not the point, milord," she said, pausing for another deep breath. "I know what you are - I want you to kill me."
Arien burst out laughing. "Kill you? With sex, I suppose - what is it with women, anyway?" He wiped a tear from his eyes on the sleeve of his robe, noticing that it left a pink stain. When he looked at Astra, she had not moved - in fact, she seemed to have frozen in place, and was deadly serious.
"I am sorry, milord," she said when he had calmed down a bit. "I have offended you. I will go and send you someone more to your liking..." She was quick to rise to her feet, but not quick enough. He suddenly stood in front of her, and nothing about him looked as human as she remembered - especially not the way his long silver-white hair seemed to lift and move of its own accord.
"Leaving so soon? We have not finished our talk--" His hand felt cold on her wrist as he pulled her closer. "Why me? Why did you come to me to die?"
"It doesn't matter, milord - it was nothing, as I am nothing..." She would have gone on but for his lips on hers, a kiss which possessed her as nothing before had ever done. She was reeling as he released her from it, and only his hand steadied her on her feet.
"It matters to me. Come." Taking her by the hand, he pulled her toward the great curtained bed. Standing before it, he looked at her closely, perhaps making up his mind, before his other hand ripped the dress from her body in one fluid motion.
Her body was almost too thin to be beautiful, her ribs were visible, and no gentle curves rounded out hips or tummy. Her breasts were larger than he expected, but high and firm - and virginal. When he looked at her this way, he thought she couldn't be more than 16. She stood like a statue - no move to cover her nakedness like those simpering hypocrites of the court, and for that alone he applauded her. Gently, he reached up and pulled the netting from her hair, to see it cascade down over her shoulders and breasts in waves of shining copper-red. His long-denied body demanded action, and his hand slid into her hair, pulling her into him for another long and passionate kiss.
Her body responded to him as his one hand explored her breasts and felt the nipples harden at his touch. Without fully letting go of her, he gently laid her in the bed, pulling back only long enough to slip the robe from his body and toss it away before scooping her into his arms tightly, his face buried in her hair. Her arms went around him, tentative at first as if she was uncertain what was expected of her. As his hands explored her, he found her breasts with his tongue, teasing her with that before pulling one hard point into his mouth to suckle in earnest. Her sounds of passion and desire fueled his fire - a burning need he had never known with those made-up prima donnas of the court.
"Ah, gods, Astra - woman you are driving me insane." One hand trailed lower, looking for her treasure chest, and he smiled as he felt her body arch up, demanding his attention. Her voice was sweet in his ears as she moaned with pleasure - a sound any man longs to hear when he sets out to please a woman. And her sweet kisses burned against his throat like fire as his fingers dipped into her secret place, feeling her wet and warm and inviting.
More roughly than he realized, he knelt before her and pulled her toward him, his fangs sinking into her neck as their bodies met, her murmur of pleasure a soft song in his ears. Her blood was sweeter than anything he could remember tasting, her body young and ripe for pleasure. He took pleasure in seeing to her enjoyment as well as his own.
He could feel her body shudder in his arms, her soft cry mixing pleasure and release. Closing the wound at her throat with a lick of his tongue, he dropped his head to suckle again at her breast, as he spent himself in his passion. His senses reeled as he rolled over, laying her on top of him to hold her close, her hair a curtain to screen them both as he kissed her more gently now. He lay with her like that for several minutes, until he could feel himself ground and focus again.
She lay limply on top of him, her pulse slow and perhaps not as strong as he would have liked. Still, she was alive and well, and he hoped she felt as good when she awakened as he now felt. Pulling her hair back from one side of her face, his hands traced her face and throat, and one slim, pale shoulder. As they ran over her back, he stiffened at the unmistakable feel of scars - whip scars from the feel of them. Rolling her gently to the side, he laid her on her stomach on the bed, and brought the lantern closer. If he thought he had been angry before, it paled in comparison to what he now felt.
From his own background, he knew the things that could happen to a slave. Most of them were unplanned - stemming from anger or frustration that had nothing to do with the person at hand, only making them a target for release of the unwanted emotion. But this - the metal-tipped whip that did this kind of damage was outlawed in every civilized country - even England's Navy forbade it's use in this day and age. And to have done damage this recently, her master must have defied the law - these scars were barely healed. What kind of monster -- no, he didn't have to ask that. Not with his past.
Setting the lantern on the table and turning it down, he slipped back into bed, pulling her back against him, and kissing her gently on the throat. Gods, her blood had been so good - and her body so sweet... Well, then. He needed to talk to this slave master. Yes indeed - talk might be only the first thing he needed to do to this slave master... He had half hoped she would awaken before sunrise, before he needed to sleep, but she seemed at peace, and he could not bear to wake her. He fell asleep with her body pressed along the length of his own, her breasts cupped in his hands, and his face buried in the scent of her cloudy tresses.
**
Astra was gone when he awakened about two hours before sunset. No sunlight would reach into this part of his chambers - he had no worry there. But unless she should return, he would not be able to look for her for another couple of hours. For some reason, that worried him. Dressed and armed, but this time without the wig and the frou-frou of court fripperies, he paced his apartment, waiting for his freedom.
The door opened, and Phillipe looked in, smiling as he saw his master up and about.
"Good evening, Master Arien. I hope you are well?" Arien nodded, obviously preoccupied, and Phillipe did not allow it to dampen his sunny spirits.
"Can I do anything for you now, Master? Will you need to dress for court?"
"I am not going to court tonight, Phillipe. And you are better, yes? You will rest up and maybe we will play chess when I return."
"Very well. May I ask where you are going?" Phillipe, from long habit, was tidying the room, making the bed - as if he had never been away. He paused only a moment when Arien answered him.
"I need to see the man who sent Astra to me last night - do you know who it is?"
"Ah, yes, Master, I do. His name is Garmond Radescu, and he is the Prince's slavemaster." Phillipe looked up as Arien stopped walking. "Is something wrong?"
"He is truly a slavemaster then - not just an overseer?"
"No milord, he owns many slaves - illegally of course, but it is ignored. He loans or rents them to the nobles. The Prince enjoys many of them - he considers them expendable, since he can afford to pay to replace them."
"Where can I find this Radescu?" Arien's pacing took him nearer the doorway, but the light was still a bit bright for him to venture out.
"In the servant's wing - on the second floor colonade." Phillipe looked the room over, satisfied, and turned to Arien. "Do you wish me to accompany...." He was talking to empty air.
If Arien's look didn't exactly say court, it still had enough presence to cause a flurry of bows and curtseys as he stormed through the servants' wing. The place looked like a kicked anthill in places - knots of mostly young girls, dressed in rags and cast-offs, doing menial chores with a furtive air. The open cistern at the center of the large courtyard hosted older women washing clothes, and a few naked children playing in the water, while pails of drinking water for the servants were drawn from the same cistern and hurried down the halls.
Arien did not pause as he walked by until he reached an older woman who looked like she might still be smart enough to understand him.
"I am looking for Radescu" he told her. She squinted a little at him, and bobbed her head in what constituted a curtsey for someone too infirm to get to her feet and perform one.
"That staircase and the second door on the right at the top," she said, waving a gnarled hand behind her. "You from the barracks about the girl?"
"What?" Arien had started to turn, and spun back to look at her. "What about it?"
"The girl sent to the barracks this morning - I heard it didn't work out. I thought you were here about that." She shrugged and went back to her work. Arien, with a curse in fluid Gaelic, took the stairs three at a time, and burst open the door without knocking.
"Where is Astra?" He wasn't quite shouting, but the effect was the same on the man standing behind the table - wine now spilled over the table and his shirt front. The first two adjectives Arien could think of for this man were "slimy" and "weaselish".
"Master, master, calm down, please.... here, have some wine...." the man sat another glass on the hastily mopped table and poured another glass of wine for Arien himself. "Now, what is it you wished to discuss?"
Arien's look was hardly reassuring, as his narrowed eyes took in the slavemaster. "It is not a discussion. Astra was sent to me last night - I expected to keep her. She is gone. I want her back - NOW."
Under the layers of dirt and an unhealthy tan, the slavemaster went paler still. "Ah, milord, I have many lovely women to choose from..."
"Astra. Now." His hand went to the hilt of his sword, an unconscious response to his very conscious desire to destroy this worm.
The man spread his hands in a shrug that was also somewhat defensive. "That is not possible milord. She is - dead."
Arien blinked, and blinked again. Sometime between the two blinks, he had moved, for now he had the overturned table top against his knees, and the slavemaster up against the wall by the throat.
"Tell me what happened..." he said softly, in a voice so menacing that the slavemaster felt the front of his pants begin to wet through.
"She - she was sent to the barracks this morning..."
"Why." Amazing how much anger and hatred one could deliver in a near- whisper.
"She was difficult - defiant. Her whole family was like that - her sisters all as bad or worse."
"I take it they are dead as well?" The slavemaster took that as understanding of his problem, apparently, and began to look relieved.
"Yes milord - she was the last of them. Part Roman, they tell me the family was - and stiff necked enough to be. Impossible to break."
"And so you killed them - all of them?"
"Well, not myself - I just gave them jobs that --erk-- master, you are choking me..."
"You will soon thank me if I do no worse. You will take me to the barracks then."
"She is not there, master - I swear it!" His voice edged with panic, he struggled briefly - no match for Arien's normal strength, let alone his anger.
"Where is she?"
"Dead - I told you. The soldiers... YYAAAHHHH!" Arien's face was bare inches from Radescu's now - eyes red, fangs visible.
"Which barracks?"
"The Campanian ones - by the north wall..." Radescu whispered, feeling himself flung through the air and crashing against the wall.
It was late enough by the time he reached the barracks that dinner was over, and most of the men were either out on the town or laid up working on their weaponry. Switching his cloak for a darker, more utilitarian style, Arien walked into the Campanian barracks as if he belonged there, and like most soldiers who recognize a fellow, they greeted him without overt curiosity.
It took rather less than an hour to piece together the entire story. The men in the barracks were soldiers, and their thoughts about women - especially slave women - were uncomplicated. They were for pleasure - and when you tired of them, if they still lived - you got rid of them. This one - she had not survived long enough to suit them, but the end was the same. Arien's anger melted into a profound sadness as he realized that her request of the night before had not been a jest after all. She had known what her fate would be - as it had been for her sisters and even the 8-year- old brother she had tried to protect. She was the last. And she was gone.
He left the barracks quietly enough, and returned to his apartments. His footsteps rang hollowly on the stone floors, and Phillipe looked up, somber faced, as his master entered.
"Regent Levasy contacted you, milord," he ventured, when Arien said nothing to him. His response was a curt nod, and Phillipe, with more than a year's experience under his belt, went away to let his master be. When he was wanted, he would be ready...
Arien stepped in front of the message glass, and read the message from his Regent. He smiled as he turned away from it, and Phillipe dared come out of hiding.
"Good news, milord?"
"Indeed it is - we are leaving this pestilential hell-hole." Arien strode to the door and turned back to wink at Phillipe. "Pack please - we will be gone in an hour. I will send the coachman to carry the things."
"Yes milord, of course..." Phillipe looked disappointed, but it was hardly unusual. Always the middle of the night - always short notice. Now where was his Master off to?
Arien needed no directions this time to Radescu's place. Like most slavemasters in so-called civilized societies, he kept his darker secrets to himself. But for tonight, Arien had other plans.
Radescu still looked a bit dazed in the lamplight, and Arien smiled fiendishly to himself. How appropriate! And soldiers didn't care - they would take anyone for pleasure - sometimes the humiliation was more fun than the sex. With much coaxing and help, he got Radescue to his feet, and walked him toward the barracks quarter, as if out to show a comrade a good time.
Phillipe sat with the coachman, waiting impatiently. His master had said shortly - and they needed to be on the road soon or they would have trouble finding lodging by daybreak. He smiled broadly as he saw Arien's graceful trot across a wide alleyway, and the former Count Armaine jumped lithely onto the coach and settled down.
"Let's go," he told the driver, as Phillipe slid down to join him in the back. To his surprise, Arien was cordial, but not really looking at him.
"Are you hungry, milord?" he asked hopefully. His eyes opened wide as Arien laughed.
"Ah, no, Phillipe, I have eaten tonight already." As if relenting in his coolness, Arien lifted an arm and let the boy snuggle against him as the carriage rolled past the barracks toward the main gates and freedom. As they past the Campanian barracks, Arien laughed again. It sounded like a party was going on...
rev 1/1/04
==
Count Armaine, as he was known to his host, entered his chambers with an angry stride, throwing aside his cane and reaching to pull the wig from his head. He paused, nearly losing his balance, seeing movement at the far side of the room.
"Who is it?" he asked gruffly, hand going to the hilt of his sword instead. He relaxed as he saw the young woman move away from the walls toward him, eyes appropriately downcast.
"I beg your pardon, milord. I was sent to serve you this night." Her voice was soft, a gentle note to it that startled him more than her somewhat bedraggled appearance.
"Where is Phillipe?" He tossed his cape to the ornate chair near the bed, followed closely by belt and sword. "I am not used to strangers in my room."
"Phillipe is ill, milord - I was asked to take his place." Arien paused for a moment, looking her over - although with her eyes down and her head tipped forward, he could only see her red hair, and that her skin was fair - perhaps more fair than some of those court beauties he'd spent the night dodging. She was thin, and very fragile looking as a child might be. She gave the impression of being tiny - even to him. He sighed.
"So, if you will wait on me, then you have to look at me, yes?" He held his arms out, and she deftly removed his coat, then the necessary jewelry so that she could remove his shirt. He frowned, not at her work, but that she would not look at him. "What's your name, girl?"
"Astra, milord." She carefully laid his shirt across the back of the wardrobe, and knelt before him to unfasten his boots and remove them, then unfasten his trousers and draw them off. He watched her, beginning to be amused that she could do that without looking, where the women of court did nothing but look. With an inward shrug, he actually found his mood improving - and gods knew it couldn't have gotten much worse. He really needed to have a talk with his - Regent - about this court assignment. Not that playing power games wasn't fun - and he did it so well, especially among the women, with their behind the scenes influence.
He felt her standing before him, and glanced over to see her, eyes still averted, holding a dressing gown for him. He rolled his eyes, but allowed her to pull it on him. Seating himself gracefully in the chair before the mirror, he reached for the hair brush - only to find she was one step ahead. And he still hadn't seen her face.
"Astra?" He turned quickly, and she looked into his eyes by reflex, before blushing and looking away.
"Yes, milord?"
"Look at me..." She shook her head, and little tendrils of coppery red hair bounced with the movement. Now that he took a good look at her, her own hair must be nearly as long as his - but was bound up in a net behind her head. He smirked at her reluctance. "Why not - do you not think I am handsome?"
"Milord is jesting," she said softly, but he could see the tenseness in her body. The poor girl was terrified. He pondered this - certainly it was not him that terrified her so - he had a marvelous reputation with women....
"I never jest about my looks, Astra. Tell me - do you not think I am handsome? Or are my looks not to your liking?"
"You are more than handsome, milord," she told him, as she began to brush his hair. Her touch was more like a caress, and he smirked to himself. Ah, so that was it...
"Did you poison my servant to get in here, Astra?" he asked casually. Her head came up, her eyes angry, but she dropped them very quickly, resuming her former subservient demeanor.
"I did not, milord. He is truly ill - the Gascone doctor is with him."
"Then how did you manage to end up in my room, hummm?"
"The slave master sent me, milord." Her voice was barely a whisper, and she did not see his eyebrows go up, although his voice remained calm.
"Indeed. And this - slavemaster - he is of the household?" Her hands faltered with the brush only a second before she got control again.
"Yes, milord. He supplies all the servants for many of the court. We are - expendable that way, you see."
"I see. And where does he get these - servants - he supplies? Are you truly slaves?" She started to turn away from him, and his hand reached out quickly to grab her by the wrist. "Oh, no. Stay. I wish to know about this - slavemaster."
He could feel her trembling in his hold, and he let up the pressure a bit as he realized he was frightening her more than he wished to. Pulling her around in front of him, he pulled her into his lap, still holding her wrist, although gently now. "Astra, you have nothing to fear from me - just talk to me."
She nodded, still unwilling to meet his gaze, and it began to make him uneasy. Pulling her hand along in his grasp, he used the back of his hand to lift her face so he could look into her eyes. Her own looked back at him - frightened, yes, but also determined. They were the most startling color - blue like the chicory flowers that dotted all the country roadsides - flowers he himself had not seen under sunlight in nearly 300 years. Under all that red hair, the blue looked somehow alien, even to him.
"Now, let us make introductions, yes? I know that your name is Astra. Where are you from?" His hand had strayed of its own volition to stroke the side of her face, where the soft tendrils framed her ivory skin. Her neck was graceful, and even with the rough clothing she wore, she had enough beauty to rival those of the court he had so recently left.
"I am from Brittany, milord - Kerric nouAvelle." She watched him, much as a bird watches a snake, powerless to resist his grip and his commands, but not yet hopeless. He smiled, and her eyes widened slightly in surprise.
"So, that was not too hard... I am Arien of Armaine - which is north of here, near the Scottish border. I am visiting the court at the request of my cousin, who is actually the Count there - but they honor me with the title as heir apparent I suppose. In any case. I find courts boring. And I find you - enchanting..."
He was gratified to see her blush a fiery crimson, and turn her head. This was not a slut, whatever else she might be. And now he was more determined than ever to have the truth from her. He had not fed yet tonight...
"So, now, do you tell me you are a slave in truth - or is that simply what your master likes to call you?" He frowned slightly as he felt her go rigid in his hold, and perhaps more that, where his arm brushed against the back of her ribs, he could feel something there - welts or scars perhaps.
"I am truly a slave, milord. I am here to give you pleasure..." He blinked at this, and sighed.
"I do not find pleasure in taking those who have no choice." He leaned forward slightly, catching the scent of her hair. It was not honeysuckle or rose attar as so many of the court ladies did it. It was instead the fragrance of a long-ago remembered garden, with bees buzzing in the mint and rosemary under hot summer skies...
"The choice was mine, milord, truly..." Her voice was so soft, he nearly missed it with the intensity of his reverie. He turned her on his lap so he could look at her.
"Why?"
She looked startled at the question, and looked down, thinking. He smiled, and shook her gently.
"No you don't - I do not want a clever lie or a partial truth - I want the whole truth..."
"I don't think..." Her eyes caught with his, and held there for a moment, and she sighed. "Very well, milord... "
Arien stood her up and patted her behind. "Bring the wine and two glasses over here, and we will talk." He watched as she walked away, and could feel the blood hunger - a delightful edge on the idea of slaking his lust on this delicate creature. Phillipe was a good companion, and of course understood his master as this one did not. Still, what a delicate lily compared to the overblown roses of court... His loins ached at the thought, and that improved his mood greatly. This was the kind of hunt he preferred.
Astra returned with the tray and glasses, kneeling gracefully to pour his and hand it to him. At his insistence, she poured herself a glass, and sipped daintily. As he watched her, it became obvious that she was not a village cast-off. She had learned manners somewhere. He gave her a moment to get some wine in her system, before pressing his question.
"Now, tell me why you chose to serve me this night." He watched the firelight play across her features as she took a deep breath, and sat the wine glass on the floor with a shaky hand.
"I go to the - a - new assignment tomorrow. When you first came, I wanted to be with you, but Phillipe was always there. This would be my last opportunity, and so I begged for the chance to serve you."
Arien frowned slightly at his glass. "I do not think I have given the impression of being any woman's idea of a gentle or refined lover." In fact, thinking back on it, he had been at pains to do otherwise - not realizing that the women of court would dote on his cruelty like that of a spoiled child.
"That was not the point, milord," she said, pausing for another deep breath. "I know what you are - I want you to kill me."
Arien burst out laughing. "Kill you? With sex, I suppose - what is it with women, anyway?" He wiped a tear from his eyes on the sleeve of his robe, noticing that it left a pink stain. When he looked at Astra, she had not moved - in fact, she seemed to have frozen in place, and was deadly serious.
"I am sorry, milord," she said when he had calmed down a bit. "I have offended you. I will go and send you someone more to your liking..." She was quick to rise to her feet, but not quick enough. He suddenly stood in front of her, and nothing about him looked as human as she remembered - especially not the way his long silver-white hair seemed to lift and move of its own accord.
"Leaving so soon? We have not finished our talk--" His hand felt cold on her wrist as he pulled her closer. "Why me? Why did you come to me to die?"
"It doesn't matter, milord - it was nothing, as I am nothing..." She would have gone on but for his lips on hers, a kiss which possessed her as nothing before had ever done. She was reeling as he released her from it, and only his hand steadied her on her feet.
"It matters to me. Come." Taking her by the hand, he pulled her toward the great curtained bed. Standing before it, he looked at her closely, perhaps making up his mind, before his other hand ripped the dress from her body in one fluid motion.
Her body was almost too thin to be beautiful, her ribs were visible, and no gentle curves rounded out hips or tummy. Her breasts were larger than he expected, but high and firm - and virginal. When he looked at her this way, he thought she couldn't be more than 16. She stood like a statue - no move to cover her nakedness like those simpering hypocrites of the court, and for that alone he applauded her. Gently, he reached up and pulled the netting from her hair, to see it cascade down over her shoulders and breasts in waves of shining copper-red. His long-denied body demanded action, and his hand slid into her hair, pulling her into him for another long and passionate kiss.
Her body responded to him as his one hand explored her breasts and felt the nipples harden at his touch. Without fully letting go of her, he gently laid her in the bed, pulling back only long enough to slip the robe from his body and toss it away before scooping her into his arms tightly, his face buried in her hair. Her arms went around him, tentative at first as if she was uncertain what was expected of her. As his hands explored her, he found her breasts with his tongue, teasing her with that before pulling one hard point into his mouth to suckle in earnest. Her sounds of passion and desire fueled his fire - a burning need he had never known with those made-up prima donnas of the court.
"Ah, gods, Astra - woman you are driving me insane." One hand trailed lower, looking for her treasure chest, and he smiled as he felt her body arch up, demanding his attention. Her voice was sweet in his ears as she moaned with pleasure - a sound any man longs to hear when he sets out to please a woman. And her sweet kisses burned against his throat like fire as his fingers dipped into her secret place, feeling her wet and warm and inviting.
More roughly than he realized, he knelt before her and pulled her toward him, his fangs sinking into her neck as their bodies met, her murmur of pleasure a soft song in his ears. Her blood was sweeter than anything he could remember tasting, her body young and ripe for pleasure. He took pleasure in seeing to her enjoyment as well as his own.
He could feel her body shudder in his arms, her soft cry mixing pleasure and release. Closing the wound at her throat with a lick of his tongue, he dropped his head to suckle again at her breast, as he spent himself in his passion. His senses reeled as he rolled over, laying her on top of him to hold her close, her hair a curtain to screen them both as he kissed her more gently now. He lay with her like that for several minutes, until he could feel himself ground and focus again.
She lay limply on top of him, her pulse slow and perhaps not as strong as he would have liked. Still, she was alive and well, and he hoped she felt as good when she awakened as he now felt. Pulling her hair back from one side of her face, his hands traced her face and throat, and one slim, pale shoulder. As they ran over her back, he stiffened at the unmistakable feel of scars - whip scars from the feel of them. Rolling her gently to the side, he laid her on her stomach on the bed, and brought the lantern closer. If he thought he had been angry before, it paled in comparison to what he now felt.
From his own background, he knew the things that could happen to a slave. Most of them were unplanned - stemming from anger or frustration that had nothing to do with the person at hand, only making them a target for release of the unwanted emotion. But this - the metal-tipped whip that did this kind of damage was outlawed in every civilized country - even England's Navy forbade it's use in this day and age. And to have done damage this recently, her master must have defied the law - these scars were barely healed. What kind of monster -- no, he didn't have to ask that. Not with his past.
Setting the lantern on the table and turning it down, he slipped back into bed, pulling her back against him, and kissing her gently on the throat. Gods, her blood had been so good - and her body so sweet... Well, then. He needed to talk to this slave master. Yes indeed - talk might be only the first thing he needed to do to this slave master... He had half hoped she would awaken before sunrise, before he needed to sleep, but she seemed at peace, and he could not bear to wake her. He fell asleep with her body pressed along the length of his own, her breasts cupped in his hands, and his face buried in the scent of her cloudy tresses.
**
Astra was gone when he awakened about two hours before sunset. No sunlight would reach into this part of his chambers - he had no worry there. But unless she should return, he would not be able to look for her for another couple of hours. For some reason, that worried him. Dressed and armed, but this time without the wig and the frou-frou of court fripperies, he paced his apartment, waiting for his freedom.
The door opened, and Phillipe looked in, smiling as he saw his master up and about.
"Good evening, Master Arien. I hope you are well?" Arien nodded, obviously preoccupied, and Phillipe did not allow it to dampen his sunny spirits.
"Can I do anything for you now, Master? Will you need to dress for court?"
"I am not going to court tonight, Phillipe. And you are better, yes? You will rest up and maybe we will play chess when I return."
"Very well. May I ask where you are going?" Phillipe, from long habit, was tidying the room, making the bed - as if he had never been away. He paused only a moment when Arien answered him.
"I need to see the man who sent Astra to me last night - do you know who it is?"
"Ah, yes, Master, I do. His name is Garmond Radescu, and he is the Prince's slavemaster." Phillipe looked up as Arien stopped walking. "Is something wrong?"
"He is truly a slavemaster then - not just an overseer?"
"No milord, he owns many slaves - illegally of course, but it is ignored. He loans or rents them to the nobles. The Prince enjoys many of them - he considers them expendable, since he can afford to pay to replace them."
"Where can I find this Radescu?" Arien's pacing took him nearer the doorway, but the light was still a bit bright for him to venture out.
"In the servant's wing - on the second floor colonade." Phillipe looked the room over, satisfied, and turned to Arien. "Do you wish me to accompany...." He was talking to empty air.
If Arien's look didn't exactly say court, it still had enough presence to cause a flurry of bows and curtseys as he stormed through the servants' wing. The place looked like a kicked anthill in places - knots of mostly young girls, dressed in rags and cast-offs, doing menial chores with a furtive air. The open cistern at the center of the large courtyard hosted older women washing clothes, and a few naked children playing in the water, while pails of drinking water for the servants were drawn from the same cistern and hurried down the halls.
Arien did not pause as he walked by until he reached an older woman who looked like she might still be smart enough to understand him.
"I am looking for Radescu" he told her. She squinted a little at him, and bobbed her head in what constituted a curtsey for someone too infirm to get to her feet and perform one.
"That staircase and the second door on the right at the top," she said, waving a gnarled hand behind her. "You from the barracks about the girl?"
"What?" Arien had started to turn, and spun back to look at her. "What about it?"
"The girl sent to the barracks this morning - I heard it didn't work out. I thought you were here about that." She shrugged and went back to her work. Arien, with a curse in fluid Gaelic, took the stairs three at a time, and burst open the door without knocking.
"Where is Astra?" He wasn't quite shouting, but the effect was the same on the man standing behind the table - wine now spilled over the table and his shirt front. The first two adjectives Arien could think of for this man were "slimy" and "weaselish".
"Master, master, calm down, please.... here, have some wine...." the man sat another glass on the hastily mopped table and poured another glass of wine for Arien himself. "Now, what is it you wished to discuss?"
Arien's look was hardly reassuring, as his narrowed eyes took in the slavemaster. "It is not a discussion. Astra was sent to me last night - I expected to keep her. She is gone. I want her back - NOW."
Under the layers of dirt and an unhealthy tan, the slavemaster went paler still. "Ah, milord, I have many lovely women to choose from..."
"Astra. Now." His hand went to the hilt of his sword, an unconscious response to his very conscious desire to destroy this worm.
The man spread his hands in a shrug that was also somewhat defensive. "That is not possible milord. She is - dead."
Arien blinked, and blinked again. Sometime between the two blinks, he had moved, for now he had the overturned table top against his knees, and the slavemaster up against the wall by the throat.
"Tell me what happened..." he said softly, in a voice so menacing that the slavemaster felt the front of his pants begin to wet through.
"She - she was sent to the barracks this morning..."
"Why." Amazing how much anger and hatred one could deliver in a near- whisper.
"She was difficult - defiant. Her whole family was like that - her sisters all as bad or worse."
"I take it they are dead as well?" The slavemaster took that as understanding of his problem, apparently, and began to look relieved.
"Yes milord - she was the last of them. Part Roman, they tell me the family was - and stiff necked enough to be. Impossible to break."
"And so you killed them - all of them?"
"Well, not myself - I just gave them jobs that --erk-- master, you are choking me..."
"You will soon thank me if I do no worse. You will take me to the barracks then."
"She is not there, master - I swear it!" His voice edged with panic, he struggled briefly - no match for Arien's normal strength, let alone his anger.
"Where is she?"
"Dead - I told you. The soldiers... YYAAAHHHH!" Arien's face was bare inches from Radescu's now - eyes red, fangs visible.
"Which barracks?"
"The Campanian ones - by the north wall..." Radescu whispered, feeling himself flung through the air and crashing against the wall.
It was late enough by the time he reached the barracks that dinner was over, and most of the men were either out on the town or laid up working on their weaponry. Switching his cloak for a darker, more utilitarian style, Arien walked into the Campanian barracks as if he belonged there, and like most soldiers who recognize a fellow, they greeted him without overt curiosity.
It took rather less than an hour to piece together the entire story. The men in the barracks were soldiers, and their thoughts about women - especially slave women - were uncomplicated. They were for pleasure - and when you tired of them, if they still lived - you got rid of them. This one - she had not survived long enough to suit them, but the end was the same. Arien's anger melted into a profound sadness as he realized that her request of the night before had not been a jest after all. She had known what her fate would be - as it had been for her sisters and even the 8-year- old brother she had tried to protect. She was the last. And she was gone.
He left the barracks quietly enough, and returned to his apartments. His footsteps rang hollowly on the stone floors, and Phillipe looked up, somber faced, as his master entered.
"Regent Levasy contacted you, milord," he ventured, when Arien said nothing to him. His response was a curt nod, and Phillipe, with more than a year's experience under his belt, went away to let his master be. When he was wanted, he would be ready...
Arien stepped in front of the message glass, and read the message from his Regent. He smiled as he turned away from it, and Phillipe dared come out of hiding.
"Good news, milord?"
"Indeed it is - we are leaving this pestilential hell-hole." Arien strode to the door and turned back to wink at Phillipe. "Pack please - we will be gone in an hour. I will send the coachman to carry the things."
"Yes milord, of course..." Phillipe looked disappointed, but it was hardly unusual. Always the middle of the night - always short notice. Now where was his Master off to?
Arien needed no directions this time to Radescu's place. Like most slavemasters in so-called civilized societies, he kept his darker secrets to himself. But for tonight, Arien had other plans.
Radescu still looked a bit dazed in the lamplight, and Arien smiled fiendishly to himself. How appropriate! And soldiers didn't care - they would take anyone for pleasure - sometimes the humiliation was more fun than the sex. With much coaxing and help, he got Radescue to his feet, and walked him toward the barracks quarter, as if out to show a comrade a good time.
Phillipe sat with the coachman, waiting impatiently. His master had said shortly - and they needed to be on the road soon or they would have trouble finding lodging by daybreak. He smiled broadly as he saw Arien's graceful trot across a wide alleyway, and the former Count Armaine jumped lithely onto the coach and settled down.
"Let's go," he told the driver, as Phillipe slid down to join him in the back. To his surprise, Arien was cordial, but not really looking at him.
"Are you hungry, milord?" he asked hopefully. His eyes opened wide as Arien laughed.
"Ah, no, Phillipe, I have eaten tonight already." As if relenting in his coolness, Arien lifted an arm and let the boy snuggle against him as the carriage rolled past the barracks toward the main gates and freedom. As they past the Campanian barracks, Arien laughed again. It sounded like a party was going on...
rev 1/1/04