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* Plot Informaton for Scelt

Scelt is a Territory in turmoil and peace is tenuously held together by the Sceltic Queens. Rivalry between the Clans errupted into horror for the Territory that resulted in many dead, on both sides, and culimated in Clan Sheane being outlawed in the Territory. Further troubles plague the Territory in a variety of manners - Landen villages are raided, Courts are attacked, and no one seems to be safe.
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Author Topic: We Bought The Farm  (Read 260 times)

Description: tag. Morgan THREAD CONTAINS MATURE CONTENT PAST POST #8

Offline Molly O'Kerry

  • Character Account
    • ss2bo
    • bw
    • Role

      Head of the Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

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      [Link]

    • OOC

      Petrichor

    • Posts

      35

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We Bought The Farm
« on: Oct 08, 17, 11:51:32 PM »

A Black Widow of Dark power, if their ambition so desired, could see themselves flush with wealth before their jewel of rank passed a full turn of seasons. Like so many of those rights tied to their caste Black Widows of Scelt rarely could work their gifts to such advantage. However, Molly O’Kerry? She was of the island but hadn’t always called the island’s shores home.

During her years of study in Dhemlan, Kaeleer the ambitious witch was able to take full advantage of her soul’s nature and gifts. She wasn’t wealthy in any fashion worthwhile to the caliber of long lived aristocrats her education made sure she was in regular contact with. The Head of Scelt’s Hourglass was nevertheless possessed of coffers fuller than many of her sisters of caste and Craft. What was hers quickly became theirs when the Coven agreed to stand behind her in a plan that was - depending on the speaker - brilliant or destined for failure.

It was Molly’s luck that many who couldn’t or wouldn’t support her plan’s spirit lent their strength to her cause solely because of the certain discomfort, displeasure, and general frustration it was to bring Loreniel Killan. Spite wasn’t the noblest of motivators but she and her coven were, and had for years, been at a place of needing any port in their Territory’s storm of hate.

Thanks to hope, their people’s propensity for revenge petty and grand alike, and Clark’s amazing knack to take woven dreams and plot a course for their realization Molly stood proud upon the land she was betting would bring Scelt’s Widows their bright tomorrow.

The purchases had been made two weeks before but official transfer of deeds only happened that morning over mediocre tea and watery porridge. Dunkirk was a district that was as poor as she was beautiful. Happy as the family from which she’d purchased a long barren neighboring farm had been to take her marks she was still a Black Widow and they were still the people of Scelt most used to being given the short end of every deal save for those of her caste.

Subsequently Molly didn’t begrudge her hosts their poor hospitality and tried to instead be glad they’d put on even the barest of niceties for the exchange. Destitute as the district’s population was she’d still faced many, many rejections in her search for land on which to see her and Clark’s dreams for Scelt’s Black Widows realized.

Many hours passed since all things for the farm she’d see become a school and a safe place for her sisters (and brother) of the Twisted Kingdom’s songs and future’s webs were made official. Molly sat in a kitchen full of things needing fixing, cleaning, or replacement with a thermos of proper tea and a pipe full of spiced tobacco which she puffed thoughtfully. Her blue-grey eyes the colour of the sea when it rains traced the curls of smoke through the air after each exhale.

Rarely did she relax but what her afternoon was set aside to hold meant she needed it if she was going to face Morgan Clery, whom she hadn’t seen since Desmond’s father’s funeral, with any amount of composure. The male Black Widow was coming to see for himself the place he and his sister, whose Jewel of Birth promised her a power Molly couldn’t help but envy, would learn in full their Craft. Prince Clery’s gifts were ones she was going to need on hand when it came to hiring their budding school’s staff.  Though light of Jewel, Morgan had a knack for moving through the corridors of consciousness that often surpassed those of deeper power but less talent for the art. It was a gift she intended to see used when it came to choosing those allies whose salaries would at first be coming straight from her private accounts.

She felt his approach before his shadow graced the small home’s threshold and so it was Molly met him facing the entrance with a diplomat’s smile. Her pipe rested in its stand on the table, smoke still curling from its bowl and mingling with that of the fresh pot of tea she’d readied in anticipation of his arrival. “Afternoon Prince,” she said whilst moving to greet him in the manner protocol required from one Black Widow of rank meeting one who served below her in power as well as station within the coven. Hot pulses of electric energy tried and failed at least at first, to ruffle her professional demeanor as niceties were exchanged. “It doesn’t all look like much yet I know but that’ll change after we get some carpenters here and Lady Lyon’s makes her firsts gifts to our land.




hope is a thing with feathers

Offline Morgan Clery

  • Character Account
    • yellow2rose
    • bwprince
    • Role

      Black Widow Adept

    • Faction

      Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Bowie

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      16

    • a secret unbound

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #1 on: Oct 09, 17, 02:57:04 PM »
It was not a short, easy trip, but it could have been worse, and he was bolstered - and conflicted - by the cause for the trip. He traveled with all haste when she sent for him, promising Brigid he would return with news of whether it was safe and good for her to come. But there was so much more storm brewing in him than merely an appraisal and a short few days visit before a return home. There was much twisted in his experiences with the elder Widow, and he felt his mouth all but dry with thirst for something no water could sate, his lips growing only more parched as he approached the estate upon which his next few years might depend.

She appeared at the doorway and his chest, and more, tightened. A smile blossomed, tentative but certain, as he neared her. She offered the first pleasantries, and precision and study ensured the Prince returned them.

"Good afternoon, Lady,"
he greeted in response, his head bowing, and shoulders angling forward to pronounce the slight affect of such a bow. It helped lower himself, as was right the variance between her authority, prominence and jewels compared to his own. A moment later, his head rose, but not before his eyes trailed up over every inch of her, the clarity of his appreciation of her not even remotely hidden. If anything, it was intentionally telegraphed.

The Widow Prince moved closer, not even looking into the house she welcomed him into. "I think there's certainly potential," he agreed without sight, raising questions of his meaning. Fingers rolled against his thumb as he regarded his old mentor and pen pal, bringing himself purposefully close through the threshold into this farmhouse that was meant to serve some entire new purpose; though he suspected the kitchen was still meant to remain one of those.

"I appreciate the 'our land',"
he offered, smiling, looking away from her to try to bring himself back to task. His breath quickened, but he fought to repress those dark instincts that blossomed when he was near her. She called him here for something entirely less lascivious than his desires sang to answer. "It's a good sell. Makes me feel invested," he teased, lips curling well in mirth and amusement.

"And I am invested,"
he promised. In truth, he would've gone anywhere, done anything, she asked, for the chance of further education of what he was and could be. It was her written guidance alone that had given him what skill he had beyond mere natural talents, and the only reason his hand and his tooth were saved. But a proper school was especially appealing. As was, for him, the fact of being able to be so near her, as distracting as it was for him.

"I brought some things. Do you have some place you'd like me to put them?"
he asked, lifting and lowering the bag that doubtlessly contained clothing, hygeine goods and all other accoutrements needed for a man's stay.

Offline Molly O'Kerry

  • Character Account
    • ss2bo
    • bw
    • Role

      Head of the Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

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      Petrichor

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #2 on: Oct 09, 17, 09:41:22 PM »
The Dark Prince, that’s what the Clery’s called Morgan. Molly scolded herself beneath layers of psychic shielding for allowing the unkind moniker cross her thoughts as the Black Widow Prince made his greeting. Like the night of the funeral, he made no effort to hide the way his caste’s appetites swelled at sight of her. Champion of politics that she was the Coven’s Head did well in pretending as if his broadcasted interest existed beneath her notice. What sort of leader let themselves get ruffled by an awkward boy she’d tutored from afar?

Sharply she reminded herself that he wore a Jewel of Rank and discounting his hunger as that of a boy and not a man would be folly.  He moved to close the distance between them and though Molly meant to hold her ground she couldn’t help but take half a step back to enforce some of the space between them. ”I think there’s certainly potential, I appreciate the 'our land.’ It's a good sell. Makes me feel invested,”, Morgan all but crooned with a grin in a voice suggesting his words weren’t entirely to do with the modest farmhouse he’d not given a second glance since crossing its threshold. "And I am invested”

It,-it,"  She began to speak and stuttered. With a bashful smile Molly cleared her throat and reached for her mug of tea. “Apologies, the morning’s poor weather seems to have gotten into my throat. Nothing a strong cuppa can’t cure.”  As she went on the witch effortlessly used craft to pour a second cup for Prince Clery. The magic seemed to work itself for her gaze never left the Prince’s countenance and the mug rested itself at the table’s edge nearest Morgan’s reach.

Molly took a sip of her honeyed brew. She used the moment to smooth her flustered composure by focusing on the sweet heat warming her in a manner more wholesome than The Dark Prince’s hungry stare. “As I was saying, it’s not much to look at but we got more for our marks spent acreage wise than we would’ve from any of the estates with buildings easier on the eyes that were willing to sell to us. Not many were keen on being the reason a group of Black Widows moved to Dunkirk.

When Morgan raised his bag and asked about his place Molly gave him a smile wide and bright. Her eyes twinkled with excitement that drowned out the anxieties and appetites of moments before as she sat down her beloved mug and clapped her hands together in excitement. “Oh brilliant I wasn’t sure you’d be ready to stay on my word alone. Would’ve been understandable if you weren’t but it’s delightful that you are. There’s much to be done to ready the dormitory, which isn’t where you’ll be staying but I was hoping you and Dez might be willing to help get through some of the simpler building and chores that need doing but I’m getting ahead of myself. C’mon.”

The witch gestured in a way that spoke without words for the Black Widow Prince to follow. Though in disrepair the farmhouse was sizeable. Its walls hummed with the secrets of big families that spanned generations of love, loss, victory, and despair. Stone and wood held stories of the homestead’s lineage of tenants and in their echoes Molly O’Kerry took comfort. Many had grown and loved and prospered beneath the leaking roof her Coven now owned. In truth, the home hadn’t been the cheapest of her options but it had the best energies and in a place meant to heal, teach and see many young Black Widows prosper? Such details were of the utmost importance. Down two hallways and one flight of stairs the pair moved. Molly talked as she walked, tracing her fingers across the walls and letting herself get familiar with her new homes tales. “You’ll be staying in the hearth witch’s quarters since hiring one of them for our endeavors is as of yet a luxury we can hold out on. When one eventually comes she can stay with our girls since I won’t have anyone working here who can’t see them as the bright, special children and witches that they are.”

That was all Molly had time to say before they reached the servant’s quarters which Morgan would be able to call his alone. It wasn’t as if Scelt had any other male Black Widows she knew of and if the island did they were going to great lengths to hide from scrying eyes. “It’s not much but at least you won’t have to share,” she added after pushing the door open and stepping aside to allow Morgan passage into his new bedroom.

hope is a thing with feathers

Offline Morgan Clery

  • Character Account
    • yellow2rose
    • bwprince
    • Role

      Black Widow Adept

    • Faction

      Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

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      Bowie

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      16

    • a secret unbound

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #3 on: Oct 18, 17, 09:32:47 AM »
He was not Dark in Jewel, but he was Dark in spirit; a cloud which hung over his family and over the troubled community of Aberly. A community which has had its community suddenly less troubled by the news the Clery Widows might just find a new home elsewhere. But it only meant the cloud that was the Rose’s birthright hung pregnant and heavy over the house which Molly sought to build. A cloud that threatened to break, his eyes purposeful and deep, cheeks taut with a predatory anticipation, gaze pulling through her.

The darker, ranked Widow took a step back when he took a step forward, and every instinct in him roared. She showed the hesitance of prey, as if she might bolt, and he yearned to pounce. His body ached with intent, which he reined in with absolute force and years of studied practice. She stuttered, and he yearned to entirely bring her silence, or the very opposite thereof, but counseled against himself in equal enough measure to withhold action. Action which burned to be taken, his gaze making such intent nakedly clear, even as he did not act upon that very clear purpose boiling within.

Closing to the table, he stopped beside it, inches from her as he lifted the mug, and let his eyes cut free of her to the drink, and he focused on it as he let it swirl and shift in his grip. The heat distracted, and he forced himself to breathe and just find solace in the movement of the drink inside its container, trying his best to center himself and not find use of the privacy they enjoyed. A void of company he yearned to fill with more than awkward silences or discussions of this school’s future. But he managed to yet temper himself, and let his gaze find her again, eyes less molten while she continued to explain her plans. The man nodded along to her explanation of the price point, while his bag laid by his side.

“My only hesitation is if Brigid is ready for a world apart from her own. But I would go anywhere you’d have me, on but a whisper,” he assured her, the appetites he held seeping through against his better intention. She urged him to follow, and he set down the mug after two sips, and moved to follow behind her.

“Desmond's coming out here? Really?” the Prince inquired, brows furrowed, distracted for a moment by that fact, but only a moment as he found himself behind her, letting her lead him, knowing what would be at the end of this tour, even if he had no idea of what he would witness upon it. Eyes trailed over the storied years hidden in grains of wood, the eyes of a son born to a fishery keeping aware of the strength of construction and the gaps in planks that’d let through breezes. It would need loving care to make it a home again, he knew, but it had once been just that.

They moved towards the Hearth Witch’s quarters, and he thought to ask why he got special accommodations, but he suspected a few reasons and, besides, wouldn’t complain about the fact. Male dormitories, he reasoned, being the most likely: she knew his hungers, from when he had found her on the grounds outside at the estate previously, whispering darkly in her ear as his hands slid over her hips.

She pushed open the door to allow him inside, and every instinct in him demanded he instead settle beside her, or behind her, and drop his bag, before urging her into that very room. The whispers he would insinuate into her ear flew through his mind, one overture after another that he knew would well send shivers down her spine and heat her core. It was all he had to bury these demands, the reaction in himself physical, but he did not grant it the gift of action. Stepping past her, too close, cloth brushing her own, was the closest compromise he granted his desire.

Dropping his bag, he looked about the place he would call his own, contemplatively. His back to her, he breathed deeply; perhaps to take in the room. Perhaps to center himself yet again, to guard against his own desires.

Head turning over his shoulder, he looked back to his superior, his mentor, his guide. “Do you have private chambers, as well? Or do you plan to bunk with the rest?” he asked, the fire in his eyes blazing as he all but willed her inside this room. Facing from her, the distance he kept, was the best he could do for the moment to protect her from him, and he yearned for her to endanger herself.

Offline Molly O'Kerry

  • Character Account
    • ss2bo
    • bw
    • Role

      Head of the Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Petrichor

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      35

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #4 on: Nov 03, 17, 11:31:50 AM »
Molly believed in boundaries. A Black Widow’s sanity hinged on the ability to hold barriers. Barriers between herself and the minds of others. Barriers between herself and realms of madness and dream. Barriers between herself and damned Morgan Clery, a man who seemed quite fond of breaking that which inconvenienced his want. She wanted to slap the lustful gaze from his face but managed to keep herself still. If he came closer without her call she’d remind the boy she’d train exactly who between them had control. The witch’s Birthright Jewel outranked that of The Dark Prince’s Offering. Lady O’Kerry demurred because it pleased her to be reserved in her affections. There was little room for play in the ambition fueled agenda that was the Coven leader’s life.

Her time was tightly scheduled for there was much work to be done in Scelt on behalf of her sisters and their wayward brother. Morgan wouldn’t find the object of his longing easily diverted from the work ethic driving the witch’s determined course. He’d find it more difficult when after but two sips of a tea he returned to eyeing he fretted over his sister’s wellbeing. Brigid was a Black Widow who wore the Opal as her birthright. It bothered her the way Morgan seemed to underestimate the girl whose power outstripped his by scores. Molly’s nose wrinkled in response to the words that struck her sour and she briefly considered firmly reassuring Morgan of his sister's gifts and promise. Instead, she smoothed the expression off her features. As ever her scent was masked as her heart, beating faster than a cup of tea in a drafty kitchen warranted, could manage. Had she allowed Morgan the privilege of her company with those shields lowered the Black Widow Prince would've sensed irritation and attraction in equal measures.

She wore a purposeful smile and began to walk focusing, as she always did when in need of grounding, on a problem she could solve and the question posed. “Yeah he is. He’s an honourable one your Laird.” Soothed  by the house’s foundation coated in years of constant love and life Molly centered on her expansive to do list instead of Morgan’s uncomfortable turn of phrase. She admitted to herself she sought any reason to make the Adept an even more inappropriate choice as a bedmate. Complications like a dalliance between herself and a man of Morgan’s rumored proclivities couldn’t end well even if only the kindest reports of his character were accurate.

Morgan’s want rose fresh as his eyes studied his quarters.They were feet apart and still it felt like somehow shadows of his hands were all over her. Molly felt flushed in the places his eyes lingered most. She wished for the tea she’d abandoned to her warming spelled coaster to hold and focus on rather than the tempest of a man she’d swore to teach. She grew warmer still as the heat of their bodies and energies flirted in the Black Widow Prince’s passing to better study his den.

With terrible timing the memory of what happened at Nolan Clery’s funeral in a dark corner of a lovely garden took hold of her thoughts. The encounter played at the corners of her conscious mind. Needful of reprieve from an event as crowded and formal as a Laird’s funeral she’d cast her senses out to find an empty space. Molly wished to hold close the night and its quiet. She found that in a space between the hedges against the estate’s southern walls.

Prince Clery found her not long after and gave his teacher promises of what he craved to do away from propriety’s shackles. Lady O’Kerry, to her shame, hadn’t put a stop to it quick as their roles in each other’s lives made proper. It felt so good to be so very close to life after being steeped in so much death. But put a stop to it she had, murmuring promises of returning to Desmond’s side to offer counsel and hurrying back towards the shields of light and obligation before the charming devil could further pursue her conquest.

The Darkness answered her prayers when instead of advancing to make good on purpose made clear that cold, somber night Morgan kept his distance and asked of business. Molly suppressed a flutter of disappointment she’d later deny to keep herself locked tight to the present instead of unacceptable possibilities. “Lady Erskine and I will be placing two beds in the master suite and, as funds allow, adding measures to grant us each a modicum of privacy until we can afford to make it two rooms.

Molly O’Kerry took a step nearer the threshold to Morgan Clery’s  bedroom but did not cross its boundaries. He was, for many reasons, an inappropriate choice for a bedmate. Her caste’s physical urgings the witch treated more as a chore than pleasure. The bulk of her sensual indulgences were taken at Red Moon Houses with men efficient and dextrous of tongue. Capitalism made easy work of her body’s sensual demands. There were many reasons the Head of Scelt’s Hourglass abstained from romance but primary above all was that her life’s plan held no room for the mess of heartache. In her world the day’s were planned sometimes years in advance and almost always weeks.

Placing a hand on the door’s frame she smiled as her focus turned to what it meant to have Morgan and Clark ready to dwell beneath the roof that only sometimes leaked. The Prince’s mind straddled a dichotomy that gave him pain but Molly’s mood rose so that felt joy above all in their private moment. “Do you know what this means Morgan? This house? Lady Lyons being willing to gift our crops?” It was clear her questions were rhetorical in nature as she rushed on with no pause. “We’ve really got a fucking chance!

The gravity of what she’d convinced the Coven to do under her guidance came and went in waves that brought either joy or abject panic at the scale of their goals. Just then she felt elated and her curls bounced for the enthusiasm with which she went on. No one ever accused Molly of being terse not once since first finding her voice as a babe.

Clark’s come up with a brilliant plan to make up for some of the money we lost in all the false starts on the road to buying this place. My budget foolishly failed to account for how unwilling sellers would be to turn their family homes over to buyers such as we.

I budgeted thinking we’d get some planting done for harvest but…
” Molly shrugged, acknowledging they were closer to Winsol than the thinning of veils between worlds. “To tell you the truth I was starting to worry we might be subsisting on watery porridge and thin stew the whole winter through but Clark’s found us a crop we can grow and sell through the freeze.

It’s nice to know that unless a student is strangely determined none of us will have to suffer through scurvy for our siblings to thrive.”
She wanted to ask if he thought they’d succeed and if he held hope in his heart for the future she saw but Molly was acutely aware her position left little room for showing doubt. The price of leadership was bearing those insecurities without allowing them to shake resolve or spread their anxiety.

The curriculum’s been broken into three groupings for students. Those without Jewel of Rank, those who have made their Offering but have yet to transcend the ranks of an Adept in our Craft, it’s those classes to which you’ll be assigned, and a final grouping for witch’s whose chalice has been damaged by the Twisted Kingdom, solitude, or worse. 

We have so many siblings lost, near lost, or in hiding and I’ve a friend who specializes in rehabilitation from such injuries coming in from Dhemlan. Won’t be long ‘til we’ve got a full house and then some.

Do you think you might be ready to move in within the month?  We’re going to be needing to hire some outside help and your knack for seeing the mind’s secrets would be a great boon in the process.
” From the safety of the space just beyond the Black Widow Prince's den a smiling with waited on his answer relaxed but with a careful gaze on Morgan's carefully held stance.


hope is a thing with feathers

Offline Morgan Clery

  • Character Account
    • yellow2rose
    • bwprince
    • Role

      Black Widow Adept

    • Faction

      Hourglass Coven

    • Territory

      Scelt

    • Character Sheet

      [Link]

    • OOC

      Bowie

    • Posts

      16

    • a secret unbound

    • View Profile
Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #5 on: Nov 10, 17, 07:33:15 PM »
She praised the Laird, his cousin Desmond, the man who made their acquaintance possible, and he smiled warmly. Whatever else may exist darkly within the light-jeweled man's soul, a fondness for his family always remained. His cousin, his sister, even his terrible parents, garnered in him a protectiveness that exceeded any concept of strength or caste. The man seemed eager to see Desmond come out here to give it his thoughts and his blessings, and that allowed him some modicum of peace in his mind as she addressed further interests and concerns. The appetite that demanded to be sated with the touch of her skin and cries of her soul was abated by the occupation of the thoughts of family, and of the awareness of her attempts to remove herself from his influenced lust. He was not unaware of her discomfort, and focused on the family ties that kept his mind otherwise occupied. There he tried to remain, as he drifted closer to her, remaining in an orbit that he knew would only degrade.

"If you need help with the work, I'm no Warlord like my cuz, but I grew up in a house of work. I know my way well around hammer, nails, and framing tools. Could help make separate rooms, or add on to the place, should it be needed." Her exulting joy in these moments both enamored him of her, and helped push back that quiet voice that screamed to torment and to use, and he let it do its part to quiet his soul's darkest thoughts. The solitude here with her is what was the most difficult; just as the silence on the Clery grounds let his hands wander, brush, and urge her on. Company helped dull his edge, but here, he could feel its sharpened sides cutting into what restraint he placed upon himself, even as he used the joy and the visible discomfort both to help push the creeping thoughts ever back.

It was the simple but dangerous work of fighting against a constant and insistent current, steadily trying to pull him back to sea. "If I didn't realize the potential of this place, I wouldn't be here. I turned down a court role because I knew, here, in this place, I could finally learn who I am, what I am, and hopefully become better than I was when I entered those doors," he assured her, earnest on many fronts of his noble intentions, and his hopes for the house, the crops, the future that these walls meant. She was excited, and he was less so, but he was still enthusiastic for the possibilities arrayed before them and felt satisfied in confirming he understood that they really had a fucking chance here. She had every reason to feel joy at those prospects, and every reason to feel panic at what a failure here could mean.

She spoke more, at great length, as to the plans Clark had for new resources in the wake of the excessive charges they incurred purchasing these estates from reluctant sellers. The crops of Lady Lyons, he suspected, would be critical to Clark's plans, but he did not know much of what Clark had planned until told, and so simply waited and nodded during Molly's enthusiastic appeal as to their options. She wished his counsel and support, but did not ask it, and he did not seem psychic enough to offer it unbidden. Instead, his deepest well of support seemed to be restricted to just nodding his head in at least feigned understanding. His eyes did not light up again, in truth, until she began to explain the curriculum. For all else that he wanted, and he desperately wanted the Widow before him and his scent did nothing to hide it, his true reason to be here was the same genuine reason for their prior letter correspondence: he was hungry to learn what he was. Every piece of information she dangled as to the prospects of education thrilled him. She assigned him Adept as a title, and he nodded his head slowly, understanding as she laid out the other two curriculum focused groups that he would not be a member of - one of which would see Brigid in its ranks, and the other would horrify him to know it existed. But here in Scelt, of course it did. It was a fear of his, but he'd met so few of his kind... his heart sank to expect to meet those here. She spoke on about the lost and damaged siblings of the Webs, and he nodded his head in solemn understanding and worry.

It was her final queries that caught him smiling, and he nodded slowly. "I brought everything I need to move most of me in today. I've a bit more... but I reasoned I'd get that when I went back to bring Brigid here," he explained, happy to have been more readied than she seemed to dare to hope. This was, as soon as it could be, his home, or so he had hoped and prepared when she asked him to come out in her letter.

"I'll take care of anything, and everything, I can. You just have to ask. I owe you the world. And I would adore repaying those favors however you like," he promised, not unaware of the hunger sneaking back into his words, fighting against what control he had held on his desires to bleed through the elements of lust that always stayed as an undercurrent between him when he saw the redheaded Widow before him. Her influence in his life had given him a strange attention to her, it seemed, and he wished himself to stop it, to kill that yearning, but the pit in his soul did not allow him to cease his hunt so easily. Still he tried to push it all down, but his eyes burned as they watched her, his hand pressing against the doorway just inches from her now.

Offline Molly O'Kerry

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #6 on: Nov 27, 17, 11:26:41 PM »
Molly strengthened her psychic shields to allow Morgan, less practiced at the control she’d been refining since her earliest days of her study abroad, a measure of privacy for his tempestuous moods. She considered then, as he seemed to relax and draw nearer as their conversation turned to the grounding subject of work, how to best shield his less wholesome shifts in mood from impressionable students. He’d have to be taught better mastery over concealing his longings. “Before you offered I was already volunteering you for the major overhaul our barn needs to be more building than ruin and from that become a place a group of young Black Widows can feel safe calling home.

Instead of offering more barely veiled advances, Morgan focused his attention admirably on his shared enthusiasm for the soon to be school and safe haven that began as a lonely teenage girl’s dream. From there she rambled in her common way and didn’t seem to need more from the Dark Prince than his nods of understanding. Molly O’Kerry’s mind ever raced from problem to solution and back again. Even her ideas of leisure involved precision, planning and intellectual rigor. Fun was a vocation for which she'd never known the knack. Luckily for her, that failing was often an excellent trait in a leader and a headmistress with a mission

Not until her wandering thoughts turned to questions for him specifically did Morgan add his voice to the stream of chatter for which Molly felt no shame. She wasn’t one to talk over people. However, silence between herself and a friend left her feeling compelled to connect with her quieter companions by speech and force of will. Language was a gift from the Darkness and she used it frequently, with intent, and exercising little reserve among friends. Given the verbose nature of her letters and lessons, it was likely no surprise to The Dark Prince Clery that his Coven’s Head was something of a talker.

His answers made the warm excitement she felt walking the farmhouse’s halls bloom brighter across her countenance. Still, his gratitude made her ache for all that would come to the school who shared similar pains. One day basic courtesy and education wouldn’t be cause for such gratitude. Until then, she’d use everything in her power to be someone deserving such trust.

“You don’t owe me all that much, Morgan. What you do here, whatever that is, do it because you want to. I just did what should be standard and it’s not our fault that it isn’t common treatment for folks like us. Besides, it’s like giving me the moon already that you can start moving in today.” Molly took notice of how the expression of gratitude closed the formerly purposed distance between them. Each stood inches apart on opposite sides of a fragile barrier built of wood and held in place by iron. She stifled the urge to cross the threshold dividing the bodies. It was a reckless want. It was a powerful want, and like all others she experience Lady O’Kerry did her best to refocus the fervor to matters productive and, unsurprisingly, continued talking. 

I need that eye that grew up around work to help me get a proper estimate for Dez about how much love, attention and sweat this place needs to be ready for our purpose.” Molly spoke warmly towards her first student. It seemed she felt safe relaxing a measure of the formality she’d clung to when first knocked back by the force of his yearning and her body’s traitorous reciprocation safe enough at least to stand her ground beneath the safety of her psychic barriers.

Lust was easier to navigate when it existed separate, not mingled, with that of another and the witch had plenty of her own want to manage.  Currents of desires more primal than proper weren’t uncommon between members of the Hourglass. Molly just wasn’t used to them coming from a man of their caste let alone one with whom she shared a history. She resolved that it was silly to act as if his interest was singular or the chemistry exchanged in their work out of the ordinary.

Getting a rise out of witches was what handsome men did and there was no harm feeling flattered by the attention without defining the want by untoward actions best left to fantasy.“Are you ready to tour the grounds or do you need a bit to get acquainted with your space and maybe a meal? Oh shit, sorry. I should’ve asked that when you got here.” Molly chuckled and looked down to shake her head. Her gaze rose quickly enough to take the measure of Morgan’s response before hastily adding. “I get excited. You’ll get used to it. So what’ll it be?” she asked as if she’d given him half a chance to answer yet, “Rest? Food? Right to work? Five minutes to yourself and a shot of whiskey? Don’t have a lot fancy here I’m afraid but we’ve got plenty essentials if you’ve got a reasonable need just tell me what it'll be.”

Lady O'Kerry was quite aware of the potential innuendo or suggestion that could be taken from her cheerful offerings and she spoke them with reserved intent and a hint of jest to the way the word "reasonable," fell from her lips. There was something about the way Morgan pushed that made her want to remind him he wasn't the only one in the small space they shared sharp as they were lovely. In other words, disciplined as she was Molly wasn't one to turn down the fun of teasing a posturing male just a bit. It was a dangerous game but ultimately one in which she felt confident, perhaps too much so, in the protection of her Blood Opal Jewel.


hope is a thing with feathers

Offline Morgan Clery

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #7 on: Dec 03, 17, 03:39:18 AM »
She professed he owed her nothing, or close to it, but he demured, smiling acceptingly of her words without truly agreeing to any of them. He knew he felt deeply in her debt for all she did, for saving his hand and his tooth, for guiding him through so much of his craft, for preparing him to help his sister, she was a savior. While she couldn’t protect his family, or his older sister, from the pain and death that would come, she at least mentally prepared him for much of it.

In his better mind, he owed her greatly. In his lesser thoughts, he knew just what he wanted to do to repay her. The proximity was not an accident, and he opened his senses as she did not retreat, seeking if he could get an unfiltered sense of her own thoughts, wishing to know and twist them further. These were actions he thought better of, but could not bring himself to withhold. Nothing’s happened yet, he’d tell himself. I’m just testing the waters, he’d decide to deceive himself into believing. He knew all too well his goals, here.

She continued on at a run, his lips twisting into a smirk as she continued, asking a flurry of queries he would ultimately dismiss all of, denying his interest in any of her food thoughts. “I had a nice loaf on the way. I’m blessedly light of jewels, so the darkness in me is all me, and requires only a modicum of unreasonable eating,” he assured her with a smile. “I can wait until you’re ravenous to sate myself,” he assured her, with a smile that spoke of far more than just that idle assurance he did not need a meal just yet. His desire was never far away, and as she grew more comfortable and close, he grew exceedingly in other ways, finding his instincts difficult to deny.

But he had thoughts other than rest, food, work, alone time, or a shot of whiskey. “Tell me about your reasonable needs,” he implored, and then took his first, bold, decisive action. She was confident, she was at ease, her defenses up by craft but her essence unguarded, and he reached forward to slide his hand against the side of her hip, and waited to see if her hand grasped his away, or if her body froze with terror rather than merely surprise. His hand would drift, then, lower, along her thigh teasingly, beginning to cut inside.

“Because I’m very interested in just how excited you can be, teacher,he teased, lips curling as his eyes flashed. Part of him worried at his thoughts, wished to come to the surface, to urge him against action, but he felt his own arousal flare and knew he’d find it difficult at best to even contemplate stepping back from the edge. Not unless she denied him. He prepared himself for the rejection, but hungered to feel the relief of her mere sighs of unspoken agreement to the torment he wished to impart upon his subtler, restrained, but no less lustful teacher.

Offline Molly O'Kerry

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #8 on: Dec 17, 17, 01:29:17 AM »
Molly O’Kerry’s mind was carefully guarded but her passions persisted despite being silenced. Morgan found himself able to get no closer her psychic palace than its outer walls. The blooms contained within the  garden of possibilities that were behind his superior’s shields remained obscured. However,  the Black Widow Prince so adept at ferreting out secrets was able to place his ear at the wall of will bound in Blood Opal strength to hear whispers of wanting where a mind less skilled would’ve found stony silence. There was longing in the Dark Jeweled witch made sharp by appetites tamed but rarely sated. One crystallized thought was loud enough that Morgan, who pried with such focus, heard its call. It wouldn’t be proper.

Propriety and prudence were cornerstones of Molly’s countenance. Neither were overly common to the caste shared between the unlikely friends. They were separated only by a wood framed boundary that, like much of the witch’s formal bearing, was necessary pretense. The virtues she carefully portrayed were cultivated traits worn by necessity. In order to thrive in Scelt she’d watered down her own ferocity and hungers to better fit the island’s bigoted notions of virtue. The facade was consuming and she’d carried it so long and with such dedication that she had even herself convinced the affectations were natural pieces of her bearing. “Tell me about your reasonable needs,”] Murmured the Clery boy in a voice that left nothing vague about the nature of his curiosity.

The Coven’s leader felt a flush creep up her neck and into her cheeks. It stifled her words. In absence of a response from her, Prince Clery continued and his speech obliterated any budding hope that his query was chaste. “Because I’m very interested in just how excited you can be, teacher,” She swallowed hard as if that might send the blush back down from where it came and cast her gaze down to the scuffed floor in need of refinishing in search of her suddenly shy voice. Unwisely, she didn’t retreat from the closeness they shared. The foolhardy act born of pride and instincts too long denied saw her rewarded by a brazen move. Morgan’s hand found her hip and though she stayed put Molly lost sight of her better sense.

Against reason, Molly leaned into the caress. It was the funeral all over again but neither had the excuse of grief, wine, or moonlight to pardon their dalliance. His touch was insistent and full of implied command. This time she didn’t turn away and there was no party full of family and friends in which she might retreat. They were alone. She realized, full of heat and shame at her own participation in their budding indiscretion, that part of her had hoped their day together would lead towards such a moment.

In her surprised stillness, he sought to part her thighs and her traitorous flesh submitted to his curiosities. Her eyes rose to meet his own  He was younger, troubled, and she held a measure of power over him that made her feel sick as if somehow she’d forced his palm towards the seat of her yearning. A stream of possible refusals tried to rise to the surface of her thoughts but they were drowned out by instinct and want. All she managed in a wavering voice was an unconvincing, “We shouldn’t,” it was followed by a, “we can’t, it isn’t right.” made equally hollow by how close they remained. She placed a palm against his chest as if she might push him away and met his hungry stare. Her gray eyes searched his face for mercy that might save them both in the face of her failing will.


hope is a thing with feathers

Offline Morgan Clery

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #9 on: Dec 31, 17, 12:41:41 AM »
She let the pretenses fall away, and his face shifted far, far away from the modest, thoughtful young man he sought to be. "Maybe," he conceded, when she asserted that they should not do this.

Her voice stumbled, to inform him they could not do this, in fact. "We can," he contested, as his hand dared higher, brushing underneath her skirt.

It isn't right she finally protested, and he shook his head. "It isn't," he agreed.

That hand pressed higher; he could feel the heat radiating as he dared all, eyes flashing as they pierced deep into her own, the desire in him not only unconcealed, but now flagrantly projected so she might know it. "I do not take what is not given," he told her plainly, matter-of-factly, wanting to give her another thought to bear, while she weakly and falsely protested the fate that this night would become.

"But your hand against my chest is straining not to fist in my shirt, and bears no effort to push," the Widow Prince observed wisely. "And your power, to mine, assures us both that I could never do anything you did not want me to do."

His hand slid, then, up into the heat that he had begin to risk nearing. There was no gentle brush of her thigh now; up under her skirt's tail did his hand venture, before sliding to the core of her need. Warm and needful, he growled in desire at the feel of her own want, wet and hot and bare against his curious hand. Sliding his hand back and forth against her wanting flesh, they both knew that he had stepped past a barrier that they could not simply wave away.

"Let me simplify what can and cannot be,"
he stated plainly. And without her stopping him, he stepped in, forcing her hand to either resist him or to clench into his shirt like he had expected and welcome his closeness. The young man's lips would steal against her own, the man who so yearned for his teacher claiming her lips in a hungered, fevered embrace. The passion of his kiss was incendiary, as if the brush of her lips against his own was the sparking of a match left readied against the scoring, its use long in waiting. She sparked a flame inside of him, the man's very essence blazing for the connection of this kiss. His tongue sought hers, ravenously, wanting nothing more than to feel the rush of her own need.

A single finger sheathed inside of her, before its second followed. His palm ground against her needful mound as he deepened their kiss, the wooden barrier of an entryway long forgotten as he stepped beyond his side and into that barren hall where only one person waited. There was no one here, to this place she welcomed him, hopeful for his arrival and his approval, when she needed neither. He suspected there were other things she might secretly want of him.

She was so very many things to the Prince before her. The lady he discussed with his cousin, as to whether she was one he had his eye set upon, a Friend of the Clan, the woman who nursed his infections clear to allow him to keep the widow's tooth unrotted, the woman who guided him into the man he was. But most of all, she was the woman he had yearned to fuck since his hand first ever dared to touch his spurring childhood needs. The want suffusing him overflowed his scent, and his need would be apparent to even the slightest brush against his thigh, his body primed for all that might come of this unthinkable indiscretion. At least, unthinkable to her. For him, it was nearly all he had imagined for years.

Offline Molly O'Kerry

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #10 on: Jan 06, 18, 03:19:47 AM »
This Post is NSFW and contains sexual themes.


Morgan Clery’s hand traveled a dangerous road beneath the folds of her skirts even as he admitted their dalliance wasn’t right. Searching his expression Molly’s stormy eyes hoped to find mercy and found only unmasked hunger. She found only words that gave her power and left her no less uncertain or eager to cross boundaries placed with good reason. I do not take what is not given. The Dark Prince went on to explain all the reasons he was certain she wanted very much to give all and more of what delight’s his fingers teased and swore it was safe. He played modest as if anything carnal between two gifted by the Darkness such as they could come down to a battle as banal as her Jewels against his.

You speak carefully,” she murmured in a voice laced with longing as the hand beneath her skirts continued its daring trek towards debaucherous trouble. “But I’m smart enough to know that it’s exactly what a man like you can make me wish for that should worry me.” Sweet as the Coven’s Leader could act she was no stranger to the sorts of dangerous games lovers might favor. She was, after all, an avid reader and had gone through her University years surrounded by attentions drawn to her caste’s needs instead of repulsed by them. Molly herself hadn’t explored many of their offerings. However, she knew enough to be certain nothing wholesome would come of the ways Morgan’s heated, too welcome, advance weakened her knees.

Everything within the witch churned as if beneath flesh nothing remained of her being but molten yearning that would burn her from the inside out if not sated. How had their attraction gotten so far?
She'd told herself and told herself after the funeral nothing would, or could, happen. All her hard won reasons to avoid exactly what she kept encouraging between them were eclipsed by how good it felt to be so near the adept's heat. Morgan’s curious hand moved to explore the seat of her need. She swayed into the touch and loosed a soft moan when the cotton of her underthings was slipped aside so his flesh might find slippery proof of the lust inspired by his pointed attentions. ”Let me simplify what can and cannot be," offered the Prince. He spoke the words with the same strength another might a spell. Some charms opened doors. In closing the distance between them the Prince found the hand that had weakly protested his attentions transformed into the pull of a woman eager to erase any jealous space keeping them from being entwined.

When Morgan’s lips found hers, Molly felt reason and resistance sublimate into need. They were transfigured by a kiss like none she’d ever known. Nearly all of her adult forays into her caste’s more deviant hungers had been transactional and practical in their natures. What student and teacher did just past the threshold of the latter’s quarters flew in the face of all her careful planning to avoid inconvenient complications. The Black Widow didn’t care. Just then the only things that mattered transpired between their forms. Her body fell into his as their lips shared secrets no words could convey mattered. His tongue sought hers and in the dance of lips, teeth, and tongue she gave and gave of her own yearning.

They kissed and her body writhed, unabashed in pursuit of his friction. She ground herself into the hand that teased against her ever slickening mound. Her body begged for his intrusion. The witch’s free hand, suddenly remembered, raised to run itself down Morgan’s arm. It quickly continued to explore the small of his back and next side of his thigh to find the space between them.  Through cloth dexterous fingers explored the hardened proof of desire she’d so shamelessly rubbed her still clothed form against.

Her hand moved over his stiffened, still hidden girth in concert with her desperate squirming. Molly’s moans vibrated against lips that slid across hers as if trying to claim and devour every slip of wanting that rose from her throat. Easy as if it was returning home, one of the Prince’s digits explored the cunt that ached with need. She cried out but the sounds were muffled against Morgan’s kiss. “More,” she begged when given chance to gasp for are. “More,” she repeated as her fingers fumbled in their excitement to gain access to the full flesh and heat of the cock she’d soon beg to ride.

Prince Clery had succeeded in stripping away Lady O’Kerry’s artful mask and for his efforts found the appetites of a wild thing never tamed, only chained, and desperate for commands to take it to heights of pleasure too long denied

hope is a thing with feathers

Offline Morgan Clery

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Re: We Bought The Farm
« Reply #11 on: Jan 17, 18, 11:59:12 PM »
For a man as certain and decisive as he was, she was right to find him immodest of his command he held over her. She might be able to overpower him by the Craft, but he had spent years indulging the very sins she had refused to do anything but brush herself against in the lightest shadowed touch of their taint. He had bathed within them, and his touch whispered to her that she should step into those shadows, and allow them to drag her into their full, drowning depths.

"I could speak less carefully," he warned, as she confessed to knowing just what a man like him can make her wish she could have. His fingers were certain, and they were not unskilled, as they sought her already slickening folds, which promised such wickedness surrendered up to him at long last. Quickly, with her bidded urgings, he captured that needful little point, and began to roll it carefully between two fingers, the pressure and motions chosen carefully based on how her hips swing and what her lips sing.

Her hand tightened against his shirt, as he had expected, pulling them closer together. The kiss that followed was incendiary, as she felt the wealth of his need boiled to the surface and unleashed upon her entirely. His tongue was far more than exploratory, as he claimed her kiss like another might seek to conquer an opponent in battle. It was a fight, and one he sought to see her surrender. She gave into him without protest, both of them transformed in this tempestuous moment as they crashed upon the other. Years of longing, of ardent want, of his hand imagining her as it rushed along himself, was unraveled into the desire she felt burning upon his kiss that devoured her own.

On instinct, in prayer for transactions made, her touch sought him in turn, hand traveling to find the concealed shaft she had felt several times already. Ground against her weeks before, and during these last moments, it had inspired dark thoughts she had insisted she did not possess for him. But she stopped that self-delusion as she moaned into his kiss at the feel of the promise for what her body would soon know. She tried to speak, to plead, as his fingers, practiced and merciless, stoked her passions in ways she had not known another's touch to bring.

She broke their kiss to demand 'more', and he smirked wickedly, while she stayed there, gasping. His other hand moved down, to ease over the hand that was now cupping and working his cock through his fabric. "I could tell you just how I wish to play you like a symphony, here in this doorway, play you until my fingers bleed and you finish peeling the old paint back from this place's walls with your screams, learning just how to strum every strand of the music your moaning throat wishes to make for me," he continued, his eyes ablaze with the confident certainty of a man who knew damned well that she was not going to stop him now. He let his every word punctuate with the dark appetite that burned for her alone. That gaze was afire, as it stripped her down far past her core, his voice promising a torment that was just as much a promise as it was a reality in this very moment. His touch was unrelenting, and knowing, instinct, practice and perhaps a touch of Craft foresight guiding him to where she needed his touch. He wished her knees to buckle and her voice to break upon him as he turned her into the very doorframe she had escaped.

The hands of a strong man who worked all too often at deeds better assumed a Warlord than a Prince, much less a Widow, grasped her hand up from his crotch, and guided it above her head. "Hands, both, now," he ordered, not brooking argument in the sharpness of his tone. When she obeyed, his strong grip closed around both wrists, holding her there against the wooden frame, keeping her up even as his fingers worked her clit with just a little more forceful motion than she might find wholly comfortable; he wanted her pushed past the realms of ease and of normalcy. He wished to leave her panting and wild, indulging her request for 'more' as he held her fast to this barrier that left her half out of his room and half inside of it; she was just footsteps from escape and just footsteps from finding herself bent over the bed she had prepared for him.

The bed she had perhaps foreseen holding more than just the student who would follow her anywhere.

Leaning forward, he bit at her lush, moaning lip, dragging it into his mouth briefly, before freeing it again. His eyes smoldered as he looked down into her own gaze, thoughtless even as he drove her on, his touch tireless and wanton for only more of the peeling cries she might just grant the boy who had so distinctly become a man since the last she had seen him. But that gaze passed her, as he leaned in, his chest pressed to hers, his lips curled to her ears as he fingered her only more furiously. "I could tell you that I will make you live on this maddening oblivion until you beg me for the privilege to wrap your lips around my cock, please sir," he warned, not quite ordering, but purporting to be offering the notion of what he might do were his words less cautious.

But neither of them were deluded enough to believe there was any world where this hypothetical were not explicit demands that she would obey or be left to thrill and cry at the relentless drive of his fingers working her to a madness so far beyond the Twisted Kingdom's reach.

"Were I not so careful when I speak, were my hungry words not so well controlled," he warned, smirking wickedly in a way she could likely hear, his teeth turned to drag along the lobe of her ear, his head brushed against her own as he pressed himself into such tight and promising quarters with his mentor.

 

 

anything