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Lords of the Land & The Troubled Woman

"Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them."

 

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Maneiok , Jerborgiv
South.

Sea birds squarked and a Royal fishing boat named the Screaming Whore landed at the dock beside the sanded beach of the South coast. Mild weather made for good fishing and with the news that had just reached the splay of sailors, no doubt it make the King be in an especially good mood.

The King, Barda Von Baer was quite the close call of the interpretation of bear of a man. At least seven foot in height and half as wide with a rustic mane and a riotous beard to match that reached his chest, the aging Monarch was a sight to behold. He was rough around all of his edges with hardly ever a kind for anyone, least of all the lesser sex: women. Females were meant for homely duties, baring sons and shagging while the wife wasn't looking - That was as expansive as their role went as far as he was concerned. Fierce from the offset and stubborn beyond comprehension, the man was one of the last Legendary Warriors that struck fear into even the most brave men.

Situated on a slight hilltop a quarter of a mile from the beach, a grey castle known as the Iron Fortress stood amongst the flourishing countryside. The interior was bare in comparison to both the Anclean and Ifrean castles with its monotone brickwork and servants all serving the same qualities: being blonde women with large breasts and little clothing. Although there were a couple of minor exceptions living inside the main building, three of them being the bookkeeper, his best knight and His Highness's close-kept boy-slave. There were no fancy pieces of decor, nor no boisterous laughter, only family portraits and suits of armour from defeated friend and foe alike lining the dull corridors and the Grand Hall.

Sat in the dining hall with his closest servant stood to his right and a pace behind, Barda dined on rich red wine and smoked cheese as he unknowingly waited for the important word to reach his ears. Off in the far corner, a lone young female played a lute and sung of the Legendary Era. Not even five minutes had passed since the ship had docked when a sailor bound into the cool hall. Dropping to his knees as if he'd been shot, the employee panted for a decent breath and held out a parchment.

Hunched over himself on the cobbled floor, the sailor tried to steady his reply but the King's best snatched the note from his clasped hand before he had a chance to open his mouth. Stood tall in his armour, a stout man with stoic expression read from the parchment. "M'Lord, word of the young King Bastian going on a crusade has reached us." He told as he read over the scrawled letters.

Gesturing for the boy barely a teen to pour him another jug of wine, Barda gargled the slosh in his mouth. "And their army?"

Stood rigid, the Head Knight relayed the information of the enemy army. "Approximately 9,000 will go with him."

"That leaves..." The King's mind wandered off in recollection.

Unmoving, the man in vibrant plum cloth and polished silver stated the fact. "Around 18,000 will remain, your Highness."

Skimming a finger down the teen's bare leg, Barda hummed half heartedly. "Yes, boy. 18,000." He nodded, off in his own world.

"M'Lord..." The man second in command cleared his throat uneasily.

"Yes?" Answered the aged war figure becoming more vigorous in his feeling of the lad by his side.

Wanting to pull his helmet visor down and ignore the act happening before him, the knight sniffle and tried to avert his gaze inconspicuously. "The Dragon's Daughter and the King's bastard brother, Rowan, will be taking joint leadership whist the King is away."

Slapping his servant on the thigh, prompting him to move back at least five paces, Barda growled in disgust. "What?"

Tightening his grip on his own hand clasped behind his back, the man relaying the news as he readied himself for an outburst. "The Dra---"

"I heard what you said, you fuckin' imbecile!" With a smash of plates and the spill of fine wine as the King swiped the contents of the table onto the floor, the barbaric man shot up in anger. High backed chair toppling to the ground with a crash, the music halted at the same old eruptive behaviour. "Get my horse, armour and 7,000 battle-ready men."

Swallowing back the horror on the tip of his tongue, the Commander of the knights lowered his head in compliance. "Yes, Your Highness."

 

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Elsep, Dagro
North-East

Twenty minutes from the infamous Red Light district of Glaztonia, Elsep was full of bountiful fields to the East and a life-taking mountain rage to the North-West. The latter part of the region was winter all year round, but the majority of the land was fertile in producing everything from wheat to plump Spring lambs - 80% of which was shipped off to Central to be sold and then the profit was to be kept under the scrutinizing eyes of New Hezmeln's Keeper of the Coin and Head of Council, Benedict.

Surrounded by a small town of constantly armed guards, Terrin's castle was on the milder side, preferring to be under the complete protection of the country's military force. Just in case.

Terrin was a man of expensive taste despite his home's design, something he inherited from his uncle, the previous ruler. It was a wonder that New Hezmeln had managed to separate itself from the old land with the way the Monarch spent his way through the royal funds with lavish gifts for Kings he was trying to win over and his exotic whores - all at the same time.

Being wafted by a dove-feather fan by one of said whores, the young King sprawled out on a day lounger made from Far East silk. Shoes off and Court wear undone, the opulent male drank his expensive Nectar and dined on his freshly hunted boar, and when news of the land's unofficially names Capital came, he barely even stirred from his triflings with trollops.

"Are we supposed to do something about it?" The young man took a grape from the bunch playfully swinging above his mouth.

Hands clasped in front of his chest, the Head of the Council urged his words. "Your Highness, this is an opportunity."

"An opportunity to be slain." Swallowing down a gulp of wine as an exotic beauty rubbed his barely toned chest, Terrin sung without a care.  "How many men do you think are heading for Ancleo right now?"

"T-thousands?" The official stuttered.

"A lot."  Terrin glowered at the man near three times his age. "I do not wish to be hacked at by a ghastly man's anything." Turning his attention back to his feminine company, the young King chuckled at the two females fighting for the front seat. "We'll wait." He lazily flapped his hand twice without averting his gaze.

"But y---"

Appearing annoyed for the first time, Terrin pouted at the Benedict. "Make yourself useful and bring me some more wine."

Bowing his head, Benedict retreated backwards. "Your Highness."

Returning his line of sight to the auburn and brunette, each half over him, Terrin grinned his usual.  "Where were we?"

Pushing the brunette out of the way, the Southern Auburn haired woman hastily shoved the petite girl onto the floor and smiled at the King. "I was about to sit on your cock, my Liege."

"Very good; get to it then." He wafted his hand, hurrying her to fulfil the statement.

Gripping golden hips with slight hands, the winning female slid down on to the stiffened member, throbbing with anticipation. "Yes, my, Liege." Hazel eyes rolled back as the whore was fulfilled by the fanciful King of the North-East. Groans of pleasure filled the hall used for commonplace duty overseeing.

 

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Weapons packed and saddled up, the group from Ifrel lined up in uniform, waiting for commands from their Leader. Western wind blew on the rabble gathered surprisingly quiet. Around three hundred men had been called to arms, each picked specifically by the two Captains.

Traipsing out of the tavern a little tipsy, the red haired leader swung a jug of Hote, local brewed rye and Acacia bark - a deadly mix of alcohol and hallucinogen. Sloshing through the slop, the redhead in a leather rag skirt barely skimming her thighs and an old cloth shirt of Merek's left mostly unlaced down the centre to reveal the plenitful cleavage of the female's full bust, Josselyn, the leader of the Mercenaries, stood with one hand on her hip. Inspecting the faces she knew, she bobbed her head in agreement at the choices. "Tobran?" She called out in her 'leader voice', which just so happened to be much louder and even more intimidating than her indoor voice.

"M'Lass?" The addressed spoke as informally as he always did despite clear prior threats from the two Captains.

Hearing the stark reply from the group, the redhead was content. Along with her two Captains, Josselyn was also utterly confident in Tobran's skill. He was initially an escapee of his homeland, just like Vinashri and Merek, but he had also saved her ass on more than one occasion with his bow and arrows hitting impossible targets. His purpose didn't stop there; he was the best she'd ever seen when it came to falconry. The teen that had brought word about the Centre earlier was his eldest boy and had been waiting atop a hill for nine hours straight for her cause and eventually caught the news thanks to his Father's impeccable training.

With her two Captains and the man she was planning to make one, along with a handful of her best, the redhead came out with the brief idea that had hatched within an impulse. "The brat Bastian is going off on a goose chase with around a third of his army. We're going to Ancleo to see what trouble we can cause." Lighting the pipe she smoked every time they set off on a conquest, Josselyn inhaled a deep puff of smoke and grinned at her men. "We could make it big this time." The battle cries of her soldiers caused reverb throughout her frame. A smile of readiness spread across rouged lips and body hair stood on end as the redhead took a final drag on her secret mixture. Chucking her pipe to the young boy working as her stable hand, the Leader gestured for him to pack it away.  "We'll win this." Wetting her lips and convincing herself, the female took a deep breath. "Say your farewells to your family and collect what you need. Be back here by nightfall." Throwing her hand up, Josselyn made back for the bar.

Vinashri and Merek went to follow the female as the others turned away, but the tall woman held her hand up, signalling she wanted to be alone. Hopping down the single step and into the darkness of the establishment, the redhead didn't dare to look back at her most loyal. Turning a corner to the right and sitting at her usual table, a pitcher had already been placed out along with an array of dairy product and a leg of ham.

"Freiciana," An old Western name used for Queens, especially ones of great beauty, were address this way by locals. "We thank you." The Landlord and his wife knelt on the dull floor, their heads lowered and their hands up as if they were praying to a God.

Staggering from her seat, the redhead pulled the older couple up. "Don't lower yourselves to me." Brows furrowed in distaste, the Leader of the offensive group held a hand of the owner and his wife. "Feed the kids well and we'll be back soon." Inclining her head, the woman encouraged the couple back to the bar.  Lowering themselves again, the owners thanked the woman before leaving her in peace.

Retaking her seat, the redhead downed half of the hug of Hote. Reminiscing what she could, the leader travelled back through the memories she thought she'd forgotten. A long time ago, Josselyn had come to this town; a town of mud and botched wooden walls which were filled with uncoordinated teen rebels, Knight murderers and dangerous exiles. She didn't know how, and to be honest she never really cared, but along the way she'd become one of them. Until the time when she turned seventeen, she spent much of her time just watching the others, gathering secrets and measuring the status quo. Upon the morning of The Match to decide the next decade's leader, the foreigner had stepped forward and accepted the frightening rules that could never be taken back. Training day after day by herself and not neglecting her literary studies, Josselyn was well equip and ready to take on any of the half-wits around her. Easily, she breezed through the masses. Even the two top contenders had called it quits upon once they had gauged the girl's level. Or moreover, her passion.

Three days before her unofficial birthday - which was the day she arrived in the West as a child - The town elder granted her and audience. She was granted the title of the next Commander. Two days later, their home was ransacked and burnt to the ground by a bunch of stragglers from Old Hezmeln after they heard a woman had become the leader. Along with what was half of Ifrel's fighting force, most of the town's kids and the elder had been caught up in the trice - men, women and children were indiscriminately murdered for no good reason other than the dislike for the power assignment. The following day - on Josselyn's birthday - The new Leader attacked Old Hezmeln at full force. Borrowing warriors for the New State with what little gold they had and inevitably returning them to bankrupt status, Ifrel and its new leader annihilated what was left of the once-holy land, repaying the favour of voiding all mercy despite who crossed her path.

On that night, in the darkest part of winter, Josselyn had forsaken her humanity. Giving up all rights to any humane emotion beside lust, infuriation and intoxication, the girl pledged her allegiance to one thing and one thing only. There was no price too high. Come rain or shine, battered town or even the Great Ancleo, she would win.

A long time ago, Josselyn had come to Ifrel under the war torn cape of an exiled knight she didn't even know. Without reason - at least one he hadn't told her - he had saved her. She had no name, no parents, not even a real birthday. She was  a sheep amongst wolves and yet, with what little training she received from her saviour and pretend Father, she had grown into a woman responsible of thousands of men, women and children. She was capable of snatching the gasp of the Six Kingdoms and least of all within her power range, more than porficient at safe guarding  the same town that had burned in her name, the same town that had still stood strong and granted her a chance to grow up while calling her Freiciana.

No matter who she had to exploit or slaughter - Peasants of foreign lands, knights, or even Kings - she would pay back her debt.

 

 

 

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Freiciana; Pr = Fray-shee-anah

Updated: 4th Jan 2014 - 01: 54