King

Hello.

Model kits, collectibles, figurines, and trading cards (Pokemon, Magic, Yu-Gi-Oh).

Girl, you'll never meet another man like me.

In a room full of failures, I feel out of place.

In the beginning, the water nymph presented herself as little more than a childish entity for the sake of the loving, darling children that had introduced her to the world of man. It had been years ago, ages before Port Caelum surrounded their current grounds, and longer still before the Empire it shouldered on its large, stout shops, tall spires, and webbing streets had even existed. Now, it was for the sole pleasure of the man she called Lord Master, the mountainous young prince that mounted her on his firm leg. All the same, she was sharp of wit and keen of eye, more than even her depraved master openly acknowledged. Paris mirrored the priest’s signing, a bold, distinct difference in the nuances between them. Of course, the prince was elegant—suave, even. To the nymph, whose eyes were able to instinctively perceive those finer details that oft’ eluded a mortal’s gaze, the authenticity of his predatory disposition would, in these moments, be as explicit as when he penned the story into her supple flesh. There was a stalking quality to his movements—almost as if his hands were harassing the senior man’s in wordless communication; pressing further, testing his prey’s boundaries, as the priest’s quivering and discomfort flourished. There was blood in the air, and Paris tasted it. And yet he relented, smiling as he pulled his arms back from around Shinguri’s small body. It was always more enjoyable to play with your food, to let the maimed beast stagger off, hoping, but knowing death was looming over its slumped shoulders. “Mm, yes, little one,” he purred into the nymph’s ear, nuzzling the sensitive appendage with the stubble of his squared chin. “A mistake, indeed.” The priest hadn’t stumbled with the error, but rather, it was fluent—proper, even. Even without word and sound, it was akin to a man referring to themselves as a woman. It simply didn’t happen. “But… I suppose we’ve seen stranger things since our arrival here, no? Like the masks our hosts have been providing the people here, which lets them change into whatever, or whoever they want.” The priest’s cover was all but blown, but Paris was in no position to make a scene of it. Who knew how the Port handled its legal affairs? He might be beaten to death if he decided to throttle the truth from the girl; no, that would not do. Not at all. “Well, my darling antelope and I will not keep you for much longer.” For the second time, the Lorean prince took the priest by the wrist. It was a firm, demanding touch; a slowly tightening vise that, if she had attempted to flee, promised more than discomfort. He turned her palm up and placed a heavy purse of gold ingots in the center. “Thank you for the entertainment,” he whispered in a voice much too soft; inappropriate, some might say, if it were spoken between two men—but deliciously perfect for a man expressing his gratitude to a young woman. “You’ve made my first encounter in this strange land a rather pleasant one.” The purse clinked as he placed a larger medallion atop the bag. It was flat, onyx, and inscribed with the depiction of a lion doing battle with what appeared to be a dragon. “If you ever find your way north of the Barrier, this medallion will afford you great luxury in my kingdom. It is the mark of my family. You’ll be received well, as a royal guest.” Paris smiled and gave the back of her hand a slight lift, letting her feel the resistance in emphasis of the purse’s weight. “If you care to earn more of this, however, I would be grateful for your company still.” Returning his attention to the precious nymph in his lap, Paris kissed his way down her ear, past her plump, cherubic cheek, and kissed the corner of her mouth. “That is,” he breathed, licking the nymph’s lips when she turned to offer more of her sweet honeypot, “If your company could afford to wait somewhat longer. If not, I bid you an excellent night, miss.” @Wanderlost, @Nox

I would have tagged you.

PS4.

She's from that universe. It's one of my favorites. Her Ghost will make an appearance soon. By her lore, she was gone before the Tower retook Thorn and started mass producing it. Otherwise, I would, because Thorn is love...

“This is stupid.” Efrideet sighed as she leaned against an upturned boulder, far from the head of the troupe where her Lady delegated orders, but close enough to know what was happening. Of course, she was one of many that hadn’t agreed with the plan. Raveena was much too important, too precious, to be willingly turned over into servitude. The Countess was asking her soldiers, her guards, to go against the very nature of their beings—the selfishness of it didn’t sit well with her. “I understand why,” she continued sharply, before Rowan could respond with one of his witty quips or barbs. “It still feels unnecessary. There are other ways to win a people’s loyalty. If the king is as tyrannical and unsavory as reports suggest, well, it will be especially easy. She doesn’t have to throw herself into the lion’s den to do it.” Raveena had been her ward for a little over three months, and already, she’d lost track of how many times they’d butted heads. Efrideet understood the need for politics, the need for diplomacy and the like, and when the rare occasion required a softer touch, she was, contrary to the suggestion of her intimidating physique, quite able to apply it. But she was a soldier at heart, forged in the Light. There was a time for silver tongues, and then there was a time for the roar of gunfire and the clash of steel. This, she felt, was the latter. Efrideet’s armored right hand lowered to her hip, brushing over the sterling piece that hung there—Hawkmoon—as she often did when irritated, or anxious. “She’s too pretty,” she said gruffly, glancing toward the head of the convoy. More were crowding the area, leaving the Guardian where she stood. “That isn’t the kind of face you raise a hand to.” Efrideet’s honey colored eyes darkened with grim reflection. “I swear on my oath, I’ll blow his dick off if he hurts her…” The Guardian's words trailed off as she considered the statement, then added: “Too bad, that is.”

Never can say goodbye to my friends. I will always keep you near.

@supernal

... I was wondering if, after all these years, you'd like to meet.

Good to see you are still around.