King

There was little variance in the ways the Lorean people greeted their monarchs. From the small, insignificant farmsteads to the larger, more bustling cities sprinkled throughout the kingdom, they filled the streets with smiles and cheers and grabby hands. The crowds were always different, Paris noted, as he looked upon the people that amassed to greet him, but the overwhelming adoration—even if only faux and ephemeral—remained constant and unchanging. Like a river on a stone, the crowd parted dutifully to avoid the grim warrior ahead of the crown prince. When their eyes did not loom on the darkly armored figured, they watched the dreadful axe in his hand, its wicked curves and notches alive with sunlight. Behind him, Paris bathed the crowd in his touch, running gloved fingers across their hands, over their faces, and through dark beds of hair and shocks of silvery manes. Solomon brought his mighty stallion to a halt before the eldest of the crowd. Paris pulled alongside him, a smile lightly penciled across his face. “Your Majesty,” the elderly man said, bowing his head. “You have our sincerest apologies for the lack of a proper welcome. We were not aware of you arrival.” The prince’s smile turned salacious. “Your people greet me with love, affection, and open arms. I can think of no more proper a welcome.” Paris craned his neck, inspecting the throng of townsfolk surrounding them. They were fifteen strong, twenty if you counted the babes on their mothers’ teats or still growing in the womb. Then his gaze swept over the town itself. The buildings were modest in size and rudimentary in make, most comprised of wood, straw, and sunbaked mud and clay. Only a single building—the largest, Paris noted—possessed any stone to its structure, and sat on the top of a small hill at the north end of the town. It was a small, quaint community. “You seem to have done well since the Whispernight,” Paris continued. “Was your town spared?” The old man frowned, his displeasure a reflection of the crowd at large. “We were not, my Lord. We may not have suffered the worst of it, but we were certainly not spared. We lost good people.” “How did you survive?” “The caves,” the old man answered. “They’re to the west of here, not even a half day’s travel. They have always been a haven for us during times of strife, dating back to the first men.” Paris tilted his head. “Is that when you lost them?” The older man nodded. “Yes, on the journey there. Gave their lives to make sure the rest of us would make it.” Paris looked away, searching for something. “Where are they buried?” “My Lord?” “The men and women that died,” he repeated matter of factly. “Where are they buried?” The elderly man’s confusion thickened on his brow, darkened his eyes, but he pointed to the east. “A small cemetery that way, just beyond the last stable, my Lord. It isn’t fancy, but we prefer to keep our dead close.” Paris dismounted from his mare in a smooth, seamless motion and flourish of his heavy cape. At his full height, he stood head and shoulder over the village elder and taller still over the women, children, and more able-bodied gentlemen than seemed to gravitate toward him. “Solomon, mind the horses,” the crown prince instructed as started toward the cemetery. The crowd instinctively followed the prince, murmuring and whispering their confusion and speculations. They were nearly beyond the square when he saw her, silent and perched on the bench, pencil in hand and pad on her lap. She had hair whiter than fresh snow, with eyes darker than settled amber. Strange red tribal markings covered her face, and a lifetime of journeys and adventures he could only imagine had sculpted her full, striking figure. What a beautiful little creature, Paris mused—and then they were beyond her, moving closer to the burial grounds. I’ll have to introduce myself when I’m finished with this.

Ezekiel smiled, unbothered by the haze of her eyes—she had to be tired. “You’re a young woman, Camila. You’re changing. By tomorrow, you won’t be the same person you were today.” Even stitched and bandaged, the pain of their journey weighed heaviest on the rider. He was slow to check himself, slower still to rise and even then required the assistance of his blade. “That’s a good thing.” There was an extended pause as he tested the limits of his body, shifting, moving, bending and flexing various appendages. Leg isn’t as bad as I thought it would be, he noted as he paced several steps, his limp not nearly as noticeable as he expected. This stitching is good, as well. Limited range of motion aside, things could have been worse. “You’re right though, it would probably be best to get you home.” Three days and three nights, he reasoned as he tried to figure out just how long their journey had taken them. That mountain—it had been such a terribly strange place. Ezekiel set to gathering up his items and filling his rucksack. “We’ve no food, no water.” He didn’t seem troubled by the revelation. “Fortunately, Blairville isn’t terribly far, and after everything we’ve been through… I don’t think a little bit of thirst or hunger is going to kill us.” The rider’s stomach growled in a loud. “Let’s go.” They exchanged the lantern several times on their journey, each taking their turn admiring the object they had fought so fearsomely for. It was an old, ornate looking thing of wrought iron and light. Its light burned hot and bright even in midday, and the warmth of its rays soothed the aches of a long journey. Then he fastened it to his waist, letting the lantern click and clank against the steel plates. “You might have nightmares,” he said abruptly. “It happens sometimes, after going through a thing like that. Don’t let it worry you.” Amber eyes swept over her in quick surveillance. “You still have the knife I gave you, yes? Keep it somewhere nearby, whenever you go to bed. Yes, sheathed, of course. But hold onto it. It will help.” Ezekiel found having his sword in hand often helped him with conquering his own nightmares. Craning his neck, the rider did his best to see down the road. “We’re making good time.” For a half-dead man and beat up young woman, he noted privately. “How are your friends?”

It was a rare occurrence for Paris to travel without his entourage of beautiful and exotic lovelies. He was always eager to show the world his newest acquisitions, his living, breathing masterpieces of obedience and pleasure. But alas, there were even matters his desire were subservient too: being the face of the impending monarchy and learning his people and reinforcing their faith and belief in the Du Chevalier rule after the devastation of the Whispernight was one of them. “I wonder that they’re doing,” Paris mused openly as he brushed a gloved hand over the furs of his saddle, still thick with Helaine’s musk. The scent had strengthened since that night some handful of weeks ago, becoming one of the more enjoyable aspects of his traveling. Then he sighed, looking at the long road ahead. “I miss them.” “I’m sure they will be there when you return, my Lord,” Ser Solomon replied. “It’s not a question of if they’d leave,” Paris explained. “I still miss them all the same.” “Miss them, or their cunts?” Paris feigned insult. “Can’t it be both?” Solomon scoffed through his nose. “I suppose it can, my Lord.” Paris sank a hand down to the pommel his sword, smooth, intricately shaped, and set with a single large winterpearl. The steel and bone of Medivh’s hilt shimmered in the early daylight. Ser Solomon took a keen interest then. “My Lord,” the guardian said. “Yes, Solomon?” “May I ask you something?” Paris raised a dark eyebrow. “It isn’t often you ask permission for things, old man.” “Why have you abstained for so long?” Ser Solomon’s eyes dropped to Medivh, then rose back to Paris. “This will be the eighth summer the true king does not sit upon the throne.” “Do you think I would make a good king?” The guard did not respond. Paris pursed his lips. “I’d not ask you a question I do not expect you to answer truthfully.” “No,” Ser Solomon finally said. “Nor do I,” Paris answered with a shrug. “I have no desire to sit upon the throne and wear that heavy crown. Not yet, at least. It may not be the way of things, but things change. If we do not adapt, the world will leave us behind. My father is a good king and I am a good prince. I shall ascend, but only when the time is right.” Ser Solomon nodded his understanding, rather than speak. Paris laughed. “Oh, come now. You call me arseling and lecture me as if you were my father. Do you think I would have you executed for telling me your thoughts on a subject I inquired about? I value your honesty; it only reaffirms, in my mind, that I’m doing the right thing.” “I’m happy to have helped,” Ser Solomon grumbled. Paris flicked his chin northward. “It looks like we’ve arrived,” he said as the silhouette of a town emerged through a thicket of trees and brush. “I’d prefer we didn’t linger. We’ll stay an hour, perhaps two if something interesting catches my eye. Make sure I don’t get distracted, will you?”

So, we've got four people right now. I'd like to at least get four more, because a six-man league is just... pathetic. If you have any other friends, let me know! Anyone else from the site that is interested, post here. We've got about another two weeks before the regular season starts.

A studious acolyte of pleasure and all of its many facets, the crown prince was no stranger to the tell-tales signs of euphoria. It was thick in the kitten’s voice, now a seductive blend of lethargy and lucidity; written all over her face in soft, sensual cursive; and draped over her body, now just slightly sluggish, like thick furs to keep the warmth of her release trapped tightly inside her. Even in the settled darkness of the new night, he could see the shimmer of her wet thighs between coils of dark, midnight curl. Beneath her, the lion’s mane coating his saddle was slick and matted low, wet and darker than ink with her arousal. Paris pursed his lips in a satisfied smile as he imagined her scent (which would likely be permanently saturated into the fur by the time they reached the palace, lest he spent hours washing it), no doubt bold as cinnamon and sharp as the summer wildflower. The crown prince returned to his nymph’s ear, sucking, chewing, and tugging on the dark pins and fanning her ear at his leisure. It was naught a second later that he felt the small Naiad’s body go rigid, tensing against his stiff pleasure and all but writhing in a mindless dance of ecstasy. Unaware of the kitten’s attempt to empathize with the nymph and the mass of pleasured ebbing and flowing between them, bounding and rebounding, building, growing, the crown prince suspected Shinguri’s impending release to be nothing more than the result of their usual antics. With a sharp pull on the webbed flesh of her ear, and his large palm cupping, squeezing, and rubbing at the apex between her thighs, Paris ushered in the crescendo of Shinguri’s song. It was as delightful a sound as it was wet a feeling, pattering against his palm, running through his fingers, and splattering about the saddle as her the tension and pleasure drained from her split. What remained? A slumped, satisfied little Naiad cradled in her master’s arms. “Spectacular, wasn’t it?” Paris purred, a salacious grin curving his lips. Juicing the Naiad with a final demanding squeeze, Paris slithered his hand from between her thighs and painted a wet, glossy trail of palm and fingertips up her naked body. One by one, he cleaned the sweet nectar from his fingers in a pointedly erotic fashion, moaning his delight at the salty-sweet flavor blooming along his palate with hints of leather. Half-opening and eye, he inspected his kitten, still drunk off what was only the first of many explosions of pleasure to come. “Would you like a taste of this, Helaine?” He presented the gloved hand to her, glistening like the fur and saddle between her thighs. “It’s much sweeter than her hand, I promise.” Even the scent itself would likely be alluring to her heightened senses, a damp, heavy aroma that smelled like rain.

You'll never be by yourself. I'm always with you, Raze. Always.

@Pasion Pasiva Orisia was no more exempt from Raphael’s cruel, oppressive love than Gabriela, herself. Just as the deposed Black Queen bent the knee in service to her undesired lord, her forced master, so too would the lovely Summer Isles. Just as her body bore the bruises and cuts and scars of his strange affection, so too would those enchanting islands. This was not one of the stories he would read her when she was but a child, happily deposited on his thigh as she absorbed the tales of heroism, chivalry, romance, and endless joy. There would be no knight in shining armor to grab her hand and pull her away from the jaws of despair, to slay the beast that clutched her now and deliver her to peace everlasting. No, this was a story of another kind: one written in the ink of sacrifice, pain, servitude, and the blood she shed in his name. Raphael was the author, Gabriela the muse. They were inseparable, one meaningless without the other. “You know that you will never be rid of me,” he whispered into her ear, wrapping his arms tighter around her in glaring emphasis of his point. Raphael ceased with his endearing rubbing, his tender coaxing, and instead groped and fondled the curves and edges of her body with angry, possessive hands. “How far have you run, Gabriela?” he asked teasingly. “How hard have you tried not to end up here, in this very position: in my arms, hm?” A wayward hand squeezed her inner thigh, stirring the ghosts of old wounds still haunting her legs. “He was here, you know. Mhm, yes, your beloved champion stood not fifty feet from where we are now. But now he's gone, without a trace. Why didn’t he come to you, Gabriela? He saw you leave, knows you’re here by my will. “Why doesn’t he come save you from me, hm? Why does he not come and take back the woman he claims to love, claims belongs to him before anyone else?” The elder paused for a long, pensive moment. He wanted her to ruminate, or perhaps, taste the air for the Patian king’s signature. Roen had a unique smell – pungent though Raphael called it – and even more exotic aura about him. Humble and unassuming though the devil oft’ presented himself, he was a quiet storm. Better yet, he was the eye—a small measure of peace, surrounded on all sides and at all times by the devastation and ruin wrought by his very presence. Even without any manner of bond to the Outsider, Raphael could feel the devil whenever he came near. Surely, one as accustomed to the intimacy of his touch as Gabriela could do the same. Of course, it had been a test of sorts. What manner of reaction would it yield, with the emperor’s curse so thick in her veins? I wonder… Satisfied he’d been more than generous, Raphael continued. “Because even he knows that you are mine now,” he insisted with a pointed squeeze of the hand, higher upon her thigh. “You cannot fight destiny, Gabriela. You cannot fight fate. Every single choice you’ve made—every step you’ve taken—brought you here, to this point, and even the man you believed would do anything for your love is powerless in the face of this truth.” Did she believe it was coincidence that he found her here? How many worlds and universes spanned the vast infinity of existence, and of those, how many had she visited? The elder took Gabriela’s face in his right hand and craned her neck, arching his wrist ever so slightly to slant her gaze back over her shoulder. So sad, so tired—those expressive golden eyes, wet with tears; her soft, silken cheeks, flush and rosy and bright; and her lips, those full, pouty pillows, trembling with emotion and red with his blood. “Why won’t anyone save you, Gabriela?” Raphael smiled, charming and sweet; sincere. “Because all is as it should be, my sweet love. No one needs save you from paradise,” he nearly whispered. A dark paradise, perhaps—but paradise nonetheless. Releasing her face, but still cradling his beloved empress in his arms, Raphael rose to his feet and carried Gabriela along with him. “I’m not cross with you,” he breathed the lie into her ear, kissing behind it, then just beneath the lobe. The elder nuzzled his nose into the bed of her luxurious hair, taking in a long, slow breath and holding it in the depths of his chest. “Our guests are more than understanding of your condition and how turbulent pregnancies can be on a mother,” he explained with a noted appreciation. “It doesn’t help that Corvinus has a rather potent air to him. It was easy to pass this little spectacle off as a bad reaction to it.” Fortunate for you, he added privately. A hand sunk down the column of her body, resting on the slight swell just below her navel. Raphael stroked the hill of flesh fondly, as a father ought to when expecting his firstborn. Turning her to face him, Raphael worked his hands up in sides in a slow, seamless motion. Both palms brushed over her swollen breasts, over the lines and ridges of her collar, and then over the supple swells of her shoulder and up the tall, slender column of her neck. He cupped her face in both hands, paddled at her cheeks with his large palms, thumbed the corners of her pretty mouth, traced the sockets of her molten, accusing eyes, and smoothed his fingers over her handsome brow. “You are so beautiful.” A flat, mirthless smile creased his lips. “So terribly beautiful, Gabriela. One day…” his voice trailed off as he collected a final strand of her dark chocolate hair, tucking it back behind her ear and away from the masterpiece of her features. “… No, nevermind.” Tilting her head forward, he placed a gentle kiss upon both her eyelids, and then a third at the center of her brow. “Our hosts have been kind enough to lend us a room so that you might rest and collect yourself.” Snaking his arm around her, Raphael once against planted a firm hand upon her hip. Deft fingers worked through the dense folds of her dress, hooking a strap to her garter. Snap! “I’ll stay with you,” he promised with a kiss to the corner of her mouth, and then started across the balcony. If there was one thing she feared more than the heaviness of his hand, it was the nightmares that waited for her each and every night her emperor was not by her side. “I’ll make sure you sleep well.”

@Aleksei @Alexei @Pasion Pasiva @The Hummingbird Raphael couldn’t help but lean into the Lion’s touch as if testing the strength of her grip, the weight of her being. She was unusually warm for a mortal, but it was not with the faith, fervor, and passion of religion as he was. This was something different: graceful, lovely, and inviting. It was the welcoming smile of an old friend after far too many years had passed; the tender, silken caress of your lover after the trials and tribulations of the day. It was the sun rising when, in the depths of your despair, you were certain it would not. The Empress spoke her peace – to which he acknowledged with another of his charming, devilish smiles - and then moved on to the next soul in a long line of guests, all vying for her attention with sweet promises, gifts, and countless well-wishes. How fortunate, then, that there was only one gentleman competing with Raphael for the darling princess’s affection. With a speculative, almost pleased shade darkening his merlot-hued eyes, Raphael glanced up at the guardian as he so graciously supplied in her stead. He studied the man for a long moment, quiet, reserved, his judgments far better hidden than the man’s own. That kind of ire – it gave off a particular taste to the atmosphere, hot almost like a spice far too intense for any reasonable palate. But there was something else there, festering behind the well of rage bubbling inside him. Disgust? Shame? How that Corvinus would allow such a man to shadow his daughter so closely. “Mm, it must be difficult…” To hold such bold opinions of those surrounding you, but be so utterly powerless as to find yourself a slave—a pet, even—to one of them. “… I’m so sorry.” he added with a salacious smile, thoroughly amused with the subject. As if she had pried into the elder’s thoughts herself, Olympia, the precious flower she was, made a show of her status as a princess; and all at once, reminded all those close by how far beneath her the guardian truly was. With a calm and almost dismissive pat to his hand still firmly planted on her shoulder (which every bit appeared a paw against the small girl’s figure), the princess asserted herself as royalty ought to. “You needn’t apologize for him,” Raphael replied smoothly. “It’s a guard dog’s duty to protect its master, even if that means being disruptive with their barking at all hours of the night.” The elder’s hallowed red gaze flickered toward the girl’s guardian, almost in challenge. “But yes, I’m quite sure he means no harm. They may bark, and they may even show their fangs, but they know better than to bite without their master’s command. And that, Your Grace, is the difference between a well-trained hound and a wolf.” Raphael’s mockery bled away as his expression turned serious. Instinct turned his eyes aside, his gaze following the path his wife had taken just moments ago. “I am rather excited,” he answered the young princess with a touch of distance to his baritone. “I have lived my entire life for this moment, Your Grace. I am more than willing accept any and all responsibilities that are tethered to it. But I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t scared. Pregnancies can be… Complicated, something I am sure you will learn when you are yet a woman.” His eyes returned to Olympia, and for that moment, she was all that he saw. “Men like your father and I—well, there is no shortage of people that would seek to cause harm to us or those we love…” The elder felt it again, sharper this time. With a nasal scoff, and all but forcing a smile, Raphael rose to his feet. “Unfortunately, it would seem one such complication has arisen, and I must tend to my wife. But I will be sure to return, even if only to continue our conversation. You are such pleasant company, Your Grace.” Reaching out toward the child with his pale hand once again, he rolled his fingers above her right shoulder, just beyond her peripheral and close enough to her ear to feel the air weave around and between his fingers with the gesture. Presenting the same hand just a moment later, he held a gorgeous rose pinched in his grasp, its petals blacker than ink and shimmering like starlight. “For you,” he explained as he handed it to her. The moment its stem touched the skin of her fingertips, a petal flourished a dark, vibrant red. “By the time this rose is wholesome and properly red, I shall return with the hope you’ll find it in your heart to grant me a dance.” He glanced at the Kadian Emperor, nodding. “Corvinus.” Then he was off, making his way through the crowd to find his beloved. Raphael found his empress out alone on the balcony, curled over a potted plant and retching her dinner into its soil. A frown creased the elder’s thin lips as he watched in mute displeasure, now committed to seeing her punished for this blatant waste. Raphael’s blood was a precious commodity, not some common feeding Maiden's or stag’s crude bounty. Gabriela drank freely from a deep well of practice, knowledge, and power, only to squander it over her pitiful sentiments toward the animals of the realm? How terribly ungrateful you can be, my love, he mused morosely in the privacy of his thoughts. When next the elder moved, he gathered up the thick, luxurious tresses of her raven hair that had fallen free during the violent spasms of her body and tucked them neatly back into place. Then he settled both of his large, smooth hands along the curve of her back and rubbed gently, lovingly, easing her into the motions. The tapered pressure of his nails easily pressed through the dense fabric of her dress, raking at her skin as they glided to and fro. “Shh,” he cooed sweetly as she continued to sob and heave. There would be time to spend his ire, when next a more appropriate venue presented itself. But for now, the elder played his role as the concerned, loving husband that he was. “Shh, my love. It’s all going to be alright, I promise.”

Welcome aboard. Enjoy your stay.

Volume 1:4 — The Everlasting Dragons “Nightmares of stone and fire and unending malice. They believed themselves the eternal masters of this realm. Ariendal proved them otherwise.” — Odette Kalise Du Chevalier The Everlasting Dragons were among the most powerful beasts during the Age of Creation, and considered the universal masters of the time. Worshiped by some as gods (such as within the long-dead Arlesian Empire), these creatures were notably malefic, enslaving all lesser races to their desire and annihilating those than dared defy them. Everlasting Dragons are said to have stood several stories tall, with broodmothers being described as flying mountains. They were said to have many horns and four mighty wings, and their scales were often compared to stone. Their two mouths-- one residing within the other --were lined with large, razor-sharp teeth, and their claws were said to be sharper than steel. The societal structure among the Everlasting Dragons was notably matriarchal. Because of their considerably larger size, females dominated the males, with even the lowest ranking of females being more dominant than the highest ranking males. At any given time, there was only one alpha female (referred to as “the broodmother” or “archdragons”) to a flight1, with other females referred to as high dragons and males as drakes. Because of her status, the broodmother has her pick of all things regarding the -- mating, food, location -- while the high dragons and drakes are left to compete amongst themselves for such necessities. However, shifts of power within any given flight were quite common and notably violent. When a high dragon wished to challenge a broodmother for her position amongst the flight, it was said to be a vicious affair, and more often than not to the death. Conflict between flights remained a consistent theme amongst the various flights, and proved detrimental to their efforts in the Brood War. With flights requiring obscenely vast territories for feeding, mating, and dwelling, struggles between the varying groups often erupted into violent - albeit brief - skirmishes. With the death of Sylaenyr and the end of the Brood War, the Everlasting Dragons are believed to be extinct. 1Ancient Lorean texts indicate there was at one time an eastern flight ruled by archdragons, Tanit and Tanith. They were said to be twins. Tanit was slain during the first year of the Brood War, with Tanith falling in the fourth.