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Author Topic: Precious Divinity of Love  (Read 621 times)

Description: Tag: Tarn//Winsol 192, Before 193

Offline Charisma Larethis

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Precious Divinity of Love
« on: Dec 30, 17, 03:17:53 AM »
Location: Iris Hall; Forested Archer's Arena

Linithor Valley, Devinos Border
All three wanted to wed him, so what does he do? He scorns false pomp and and artificial beauty, choosing innocence and virtue ...

Just more than a full year had passed since the daughter of the Smiling Queen's had been recovered, and more than half of that had been spent in a still eerily quiet comatose state. She had not roused from the still, fearful and tenuous state until around five months prior, and much of that had been spent under the furiously watchful gaze of her mother's Court Healer. It had not been pleasant, yet Charisma Rilindisil had been true to her word and vows: that she not travel anywhere, even in distress if possible, without a proper escort. It meant of course, unless her sister were free from her duties as Court Seer (Thorn's health had been precarious though not nearly as much, after a mere eight weeks of rest, the fierce Black Widow had returned to her duties, and then some), Charisma had endured her convalescence at home, at Iris Hall. News of the realm had primarily passed her by, though she was aware that Prince Ruse's village now had a Queen appointed to it. That small good news among the considerable unpleasant tidings one could become accustomed to in Dea al Mon, warmed her heart.

Thus, the choice to make for practise in the Archer's Arena a full two months after the Healer had cleared her for it, seemed a fair one given the pleasant weather. Linithor Valley travelled for some extensive miles, and though her family and five others Charisma had blood ties with owned the land the "village" Queen tended to rotate among the families. Given the number of times Charisma had declined to follow her mother as Queen of Linithor and would inherit the lion's share of the very, very rich land and paired with Charisma's capture and rescue it was her niece, Cherish, whom had finally been accepted to follow her own mother as Queen. It meant that Charisma could maintain her place as free of ties that kept her in one place, with the exception of the lands she owned. It suited well, she felt, for the Queen of the village to as well be from her own bloodline; the daughter of one of the brothers she had been bonded to, once.

The pang that tore through the lady stole her breath, and once more Charisma closed her eyes to offer a prayer forth. Being comatose and working her body back to full health had also, not changed her faith just as she had promised Wraith. She had still told no one of her experiences, even though several had cajoled, demanded, begged, and even a few friends and family had approached her in anger. Truths of the feelings opened within her would have once been facts Charisma would certainly have told Silver. Her Red Jewelled Warlord Prince, father of the children.

Sapphire whirled around the Archer's Arena, sealing it against all that were lighter Jewelled than her, and given that Charisma's Red Jewelled half sister was well away in Nieste, she did not expect an interruption. Pain upon her heart swelled, but with the therapy she had been receiving, it did not make her want to curl into a ball and cease to exist. At least, not lately. The time would come, Charisma understood, where it would make her feel as though she lived to love, emotionally heal others, and take in all of their hurts only to be left to wallow in abject despair.

Yet the lady could endure.

Rows of black recurved bows rested upon a long wall of various ranged weapons for practise and sparring. While the greater presence of Rilindisil traditional weaponry was in the Armoury, a fair number well-maintained weapons were specifically kept in each sparring ring to keep those that lived in the Valley well protected, even when the men and women fulfilling their duty to both the Ebon Guard, the Red Cloaks and various Courts within the one and a half provinces the Dea al Mon had left to them. The silver white-lace of her gloves contrasted with the rich ebon hue of the Craft imbued wood that had made these bows. Most of the ones in this tree covered Archer's Paradise had been created with her Queen's Gift; even now, the earth pulsed when her nearly bare feet brushed over the heavily packed soil. The shoes Charisma wore were Silver-wood living heels; the base of which was Craft Imbued to increase her connection to the earth, allow the bridge between the skin of her richly tattooed feet and shoes. A blood channel that allowed her to very marginally pierce the skin of her feet for offering to the Land while immediately healing over the marring with specific healing spells inlaid by her mother's Court Healer were also, an important part of her footwear.

Moonlit hued strands of silk wrapped as thinly in on each other and formed to look like dragon scale and lace made up Charisma's bodice and gown; she never went anywhere anymore with attire that was not Craft Enhanced and Enchanted. The fabric was designed to stop several armour piercing arrows, and even poisons. Yet, the cost of the chains of said attire reflected in Charisma's expression, thoughtful sorrow. Silver hair remained as long as it ever was, while being braided enough and wrapped to avoid brushing the ground, and lay hooked neatly into the back of her belt.

Shoulders rolling with a slender, deadly sort of strength a Queen would never be expected to possess, not especially even within Dea al Mon, Charisma lifted one of the recurved bows that was small enough to suit her tiny presence. Full lips twitched with amusement, before with as smooth and efficient as any Red Cloak Shieldmaiden or including Ebon Guard Major she tugged a practise bolt from the bucket. Charisma, Queen of nothing, bonded of no one nocked, drew, and aimed.

Thunk.

Solid sound as the practise bolt hit the central of the moving targets formed of tree rounds woven with enough Craft that they could be reused and repaired nearly endlessly. A shiver rolled down Charisma's spine; she pulled another practise bolt. Nocked, drawn, aimed, fired. An unguarded half smile softened the Queen's expression while not releasing the deadly presence of the Sapphire Jewelled Dea al Mon as she pulled a third bolt and shot it free. After the sixth practise bolt, the woman loosed a low contralto laugh.

By the twelfth, she had begun to sing between firing practise bolts, and had formed the shape of a rose in her careful, efficient violence.

"Once upon a time there was a king, who was alone and bored of being alone. So he searched and searched and found ..." While it was as perfectly pitched as when performing for others, this was for herself alone. Charisma reveled as best as she could, given the circumstances.

Offline Tarn Ysillidore

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #1 on: Jan 01, 18, 02:44:45 AM »
192, Winter, 192/193 Winsol: Linithor, Iris Hall, Forested Archers Glade.


Tarn Ysillidore walked slowly along the grounds he’d once protected so determinedly. The Rilindisil name was synonymous with service, and so Tarn, forbidden by Caste and his family from joining the Ebon Guard, had studied at the Court in Linithor directly. Since the Fall of Kassel the deaths and disasters that had plagued this Court had been so solid and consistent that he’d not felt he dared visit. He could not disrupt their grief for no more reason than to check on the welfare of the matriarch of the Clan.

But a full year had passed since a death, dismemberment or kidnapping in the family, and Winsol was the perfect excuse to visit. Yet the empty halls haunted him, for too many of the faces he’d known were lost forever. So shortly after his audience concluded he’d found himself wandering the once well-known grounds, down to the Archer’s Glade. There, a mystery awaited; a Sapphire Shield banded about the forested place.

Likely, Tarn would have left that Shield undisturbed, save for the haunting, exquisite song that emanated from the other side. He closed his eyes, and listened; the voice wove around his soul, and woke his aching heart. Some fever gripped him, then; he could not say what.

Red Shields encompassed the Sapphire. With gentle yet implacable patience he sliced a doorway through the Lighter Shields without crashing them. His intent was that he neither startle the singer, nor silence the song which drove him.

Once through the barricade between himself and his Heart’s Dream, the exquisite voice reached him in all its unfettered passion and glory.

No, Tarn could not say what she truly looked like; could neither have sketched her nor given an answer that made sense to anyone who asked. The magical creature he beheld seemed made of mist and magic, a mythical woodland sprite come to comfort the grief-haunted Ebon Wood. Tiny feet seemed to be born from living wood. Moon-lit hair served as gossamer gown, though the dragon scales that formed the curves of her body were only partially veiled by its glory. Lacey white gloves and an Ebonwood bow framed a sensual mouth and eyes that gleamed like stars.



Offline Charisma Larethis

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #2 on: Jan 01, 18, 06:03:19 AM »
Location: Iris Hall; Forested Archer's Arena

Linithor Valley, Devinos Border


Given that she was cleared to wander her home, yet not leave unless under careful guard, Charisma's sense for noticing Jewels was still somewhat dampened. That this was an experienced Red transfixed in her chosen space, and not one familiar to her, she did not notice, no doubt-just as her mysterious to her, but known to her family-observer had carefully intended. As such, none of those on duty around the Archers Glade would have ever requested Prince Tarn's credentials, they knew him, just as well as Queen Periwinkle did, and even though now deceased, Charisma's father Shore had as well, known the Red Jewelled Warlord Prince.

So too, whether he had known her or not, bonded her or not, would they have never dreamed to interrupt. Yet the news was already travelling back through the Iris Hall lands and beyond. A tale could hardly be more romantic and joyful; that their precious Queen, one known for all of her selfless work especially in the north, having lost all of her children and grandchild too, after being rescued from the Brood had finally bonded another male and one stronger than her to even think it. Or so it would be said, with such hope that all the Dea al Mon could have used to help their own individual grief. For now however, it was simply a private song for a Queen with a Warlord Prince there to drink it all in. 

Simply and perfectly, it was the case that Charisma had not been born to be a fixture at the Iris Hall estate, and by the time she was, Prince Tarn of course, had married and returned to his family, tending to expected duty. As such, that Charisma did not notice any discomfort from her guard, paired with the gentleman's very incredible skill especially given the darkness and danger of his Jewels and Caste, more than a welcome was permitted. Once he wrapped a careful shield around Charisma's Sapphire, some tension in her relaxed enough that the tiny space he had sliced in her shields, gently reformed once he stepped through.

Steps of her Healer and Queen Craft imbued heels were beautifully, deadly silent as she moved while waiting for the next target to ease forth from the moving circle of rounded living tree pieces. The silvered scar upon her face was vivid in the light, while the Queen's eyes moved in familiar motion as the whole of her body went so very still. Truly, it was a motion a Warlord Prince would understand with delicious intimacy: that of the hunter. When she moved the black recurve bow and lifted a practise quarrel from the barrel of them, she did so with the natural movement of both one well trained, and someone that had killed at least a handful of times with said weapon.

Rarity of that alone, a Queen that had richly taken life as well as she had given of her blood, and birthed children spoke tender, needed wonders. Not many, of course. Just those rare times she had needed to defend herself, but it was enough that it was heavily present in her psychic scent. That she was perfectly willing and able to carve a man's eye from his face with a relish that was damned near sexual pulsed from her too in pulling back the bow and releasing it with vicious energy. The laugh that eased from the Sapphire Queen was as dark as one could possibly manage from one of her Caste that hadn't been turned Brood, was still mentally whole, nor a green youth.

Yet, she could not only offer violence and have it not wilt some pieces of her if not properly cared for. Hence, the shoes. With the tap of her heels, there was a sharp zing, and three drops of blood from either foot fed the earth here. Men would eventually come to practise would feel enriched and blessed by the time the Archer's Circle was cleared for use. Enhanced shoes were so strong, that the hint of blood in the air was sucked out of it almost too fast for anyone to truly react. It made clear a Queen that had practically thought of everything, tragic, in the sense that she had to do so herself. Eventually, her song cycled around to the beginning once more.

♪"Once upon a time a king, was alone and vexed of being without compass to guide his heart."♪

Charisma rolled her shoulders to ease the wondrous burn of muscles in use, grinned before she sighted down the next shifting target, and fired with the happy ease of a woman having known love, but the wisdom of one that has lost more than one mate of her soul. Thunk.

♪"So he searched and searched and found,  ... that all three ladies wished to be his bride."♪

Silver haired beauty she was, Charisma sang on as one not only in love with her music and her activity, but akin to one that knew it so well, they breathed, ate, and made love to it as though each time were both the first and last combined together. When the time came to draw again and fire, the Sapphire Queen did so with the knowledge she had all the time in the world to shoot. Thunk. It spliced through the last shot she made so neatly as to form what looked like the innards of a rose in detail.

♪"All three wished to wed him, so what does the king choose to do?"♪

In her movements, the lady stepped almost near where Tarn stood transfixed and hidden from her, and even there was oblivious to why her senses seemed so terribly alive in that moment. Next precise shots Charisma released were mathematically precise around the first two. Thunk, thunk, thunk.

♪"He scorns false pomp and circumstance to their dismay."♪

Blissful delight settled in each motion, she continued the song and story, infusing every vowel and consonant with a wealth of love and passion, each controlled too by training only possible by her precious mother, one of a rare people that had parents whom had been alive before the Purge, whom had known what it was like to belong to a Dea al Mon whom had true religious faith in Mother Night. To whom the stories of being one of the Elder Races was more than just words. Charisma believed, and that too pulsed in the space, saturating it with the furious weight of a woman with a psychic scent that was was close to a nature spirit as one could get without properly binding one. Thunk.

♪"Artificial beauty is as well shown the door of departure."♪

Sandalwood, fresh river waters, rain, rose and iris flowers, and the essence of elder trees paired with several newer, well balanced pieces present in Charisma's psychic scent. Her ordeal last year and the ongoing healing from it had given her iron, whiskey, sage, aged leather, and healthy honest sex. Many people had simpler psychic scents. Charisma's was a curious blend with no scent overpowering the last. That she sang of false beauty while taking a round of shooting made clear as well the Queen's severe, unforgiving standards. Thus one would bear no fool, nor liar easily, and would have no trouble killing a man simply for touching her without permission. Thunk.

♪"To careworn, beloved innocence he turns slowly in shock."♪

However, there was innocence and tenderly bound, there. Life, though she had lived it with passion and deep, soul-shredding depression that she still endured, had not been able to strip her of what most Dea al Mon lost before they had even turned to the age of their Birthrights. Charisma had warred with the world to keep the tattered pieces of her own, as well as healing as much of it as one possibly could. Being captured by one of the Brood had not broken her as some might have expected.

Rather, she had taken the harrowing experience and learned from it, grown beyond delicious measure. When the very song she wove made her sad, she loosed her own Emotional Healing, and turned it in upon herself, a task that was well beyond difficult, and nearing the impossible. It spoke of a level of self-understanding and self-love that was truly precious. The arrow that followed the excising of her own pain sank true and bit deeply into the living wood that parted to accept it. Thunk.

♪"Drawn in so purely by a sweetest virtue spun of dreams."♪

To sing of dreams however in following such an act, did cause Charisma's violet eyes to fill with tears. After all, just because she had healed a little of her pain did not mean that it was gone. Once the Lady Rilindisil had so many dreams, for each child she had birthed and named precisely in the tradition that Loku had begun for her people. It was hard to remember them and think happy thoughts, even as her voice never wavered, a delicate raspiness had joined the loving contralto.

Could then, as a woman, a Queen, and Dea al Mon only hope that her sweet babies had joined either starlight in an endless sky, or turned to have their souls one day reborn in a world with ever so less pain. Whether that was true, or that Loving Darkness had embraced them, she believed as fervently as one could. That unstoppable belief that had all but caused even one of the Brood to near fall in love with her, also allowed the Sapphire Queen to follow through with three pristine shots. Thunk, thunk, thunk.

♪"La la la la, li, li li li, la, la, la, la."♪

Notes rang in the air and held, even after silence gripped the space. Charisma laid down the bow in the place she had removed it from after checking it over for damage, replaced the practise bolts she had used while removing each bolt from the target, and thoroughly repairing the ones she had broken. Not even a single feather was wasted by Charisma, each piece even of flayed wood deemed too precious to be thrown away. Tested she did, each of the arrows repaired to be sure they'd withstand use by her guards and the other males that used this space, then began to cleanse most of her heady Queen's scent from it, enough that her presence having been here would never serve as a distraction for those needing to use the Archer's Glade for real life and death defense training. Once done, she both dropped and cleansed her Craft from the space, allowing finally silence for the fallen in the traditional way.

Only when choosing to turn to leave that Charisma realised she couldn't. Lady Rilindisil had not felt a bond since long before her last Consort's death; it had been easily twenty or thirty years. It hurt. It hurt so much! The loss of thirteen males, even if that part of her was being carefully and steadily maintained at all times by a variety of people, screamed through her senses even as the new bond filled the space of so much of that pain. "No, no. Don't, p-please. Don't try to hold my ... d-despair, it is all right, it is p-part of me ... as much as the colour of your eyes are you, d-dear Prince."

For they almost to a man tried to do it; one of her last bonded had died trying to help hold the despair for her, and no one, no one could do that save for another Queen, and particularly, darker Jewelled than herself. Chances of finding one that could both resonate with Charisma's own skill, but not be shattered by the depth of her pain were slim, so she had long learned to live with the aches. Twas unknown if this beautifully dangerous Warlord Prince would follow the same path, but still, she had to warn him just in case, even as her shock and delight filled the new creation rushing through. All of that wild, ancient Craft tattooing of roses, irises and vines and thorns glowed a soft silver, giving the Lady Rilindisil's skin an entirely ethereal quality, and for the Dea al Mon, that was truly speaking to the rare.

"I am Charisma Rilindisil-Larethis ... d-daughter of the Smiling Queen of Linithor, and heiress to Iris Hall.  T-tell me your n-name and family? You must ... clearly be known to my m-mother, Lady Periwinkle, if you are this far upon our lands." Despite having bonded this male she could not see so well for his active Craft, she did not approach, choosing the safe route of waiting for him to act. Turning up her palms, she allowed him to see she was neither armed, nor wounded, or physically hurt in any way needing care.

True that if he had been there even for a moment, she did not wish to cause stress in an unknown Warlord Prince that was stronger than she was. Tears filled her eyes, as well, which had entirely blinded her for the present. They were good, precious tears, and she did not dare wipe them away for that fact alone; the Craft that could be woven with the happy tears from a Bond were myriad. So she busied herself in collecting them, which only made Charisma cry all the more, for his first words of hearing her speak were flawed and painfully hard to give, unlike her song.

Where it would not be the first, nor last time she felt dismayed by her stammer, even though it was fairly well controlled. "P-please don't go. P-please don't laugh. Oh, by Mother Night's deepest love, please s-stay." She had not meant to speak aloud such a personal pain, but it was as if it had been compelled forth out of her by the mere presence of this unknown male. Charisma decided if he was still here in two minutes he had to be lovely, of course.

Offline Tarn Ysillidore

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #3 on: Jan 01, 18, 09:52:07 PM »
192, Winter, 192/193 Winsol: Linithor, Iris Hall, Forested Archers Glade near the Devinos border.

Tarn Ysillidore was not aware of the Guardsmen patrolling the elegant grounds, though had he stopped to think about it, he would have assumed their presence. Yet now there was no room in his heart or mind for anything save the way that voice reached the deepest pains of his soul. Had he known it was Warlord Prince Shore’s own Queen daughter he beheld, it would have pleased him. Yet in truth, he did not even register her as a Queen until her Blood infused the air, adding a new layer of Healing to her voice. Even as the ground healed and grew from her Craft, that Gift sparked new growth and Healing deep within the Warlord Prince.

The Sapphire Shield behind him grew closed once more, though he no more associated Jewels with the creature before him than he did Caste. She was like quicksilver, ever changing. Passionate lover, avenging ghost, tender mother all at once. A creature of the Ebon Wood, bound to nature as a man might be to a Queen. Emotions assailed him, too strongly and powerfully for him even attempt to analyze the Psychic impressions shaping the world around him.

Silver moonlight became traceries of silver upon the forest sprite’s face. Song of dreams drew forth tears, ancient grief and new, mingled.

But that was nothing to the anguish that enveloped his forest sprite as his own need captured her, and compelled her to take mortal form. His body bruised from the intensity of her pain. His stormy eyes held her violet ones; he did not flinch, or withdraw; instead he embraced the pain and claimed her with his mind, heart and soul. Each pain-filed, tormented step towards her a promise of possession. Her pain melded into his soul; he knew he was killing her to force her to be, yet he also knew he could not turn away, and release her.

Not and keep breathing.

Coppery blood appeared in his mouth, seeped down out of his ears, yet he kept firmly moving towards, drinking the pain and grief, knowing he had to touch her before her grief took her from him. He was Tarn Ysillidore, with all of the strength and endurance of the mountain lakes he was named for. The vast strength of him grew, and grew in her soul; no, he did not attempt to take from her the pain and despair. She was the Ebon Wood, her pain was every death suffered since the loss of Loku. No mortal could wrench it from her, or carry it for her. But he could layer himself over and through that pain, so that she could not touch it, without also touching him.

“I would not dare to try to remove it from you, beloved Spriteling,”

Somehow, she was his love, his lover, his dearly beloved; everything he’d lost and all he stood to gain. But at what Price? He’d nearly killed her forcing her into a physical form. That he must needs make right. Tarn knew another Queen, who to his mind was also far from mortal, who might be able to address the well of grief.

“Not without your permission, and my Pumpkin’s help.” He blinked; a smile curved his lips, an odd note of joy amidst so much pain. But surely she thought him mad, for such a comment?

Reverent hands cupped her beloved face, and his thumbs foolishly, fearlessly, traced the scar upon her cheek. His lips brushed close and sought to capture any of the tears her busy, anxious fingers failed to find. What magic that was in a tear was more than for Craft, and he silently told her so. Nor did he chide her for tears, or tell her not to weep. He had sisters, daughters and one a beloved mother; he did not fear tears.

Or grief.

Unless her hands rose to stop him, the soft exploring of the glowing tattoos upon her body would not end with the mark upon her face. His fingers would continue to find and explore each rose and leaf, gently tracing down to her neck and shoulders. There was something implacable in the touch, a hint that he would simply remove her clothing from her body in order to fully explore that tracery of Craft and Pain upon her body.

“Tarn Ysillidore.” An ancient family line, likely well known to Charisma, boasting one of the Darkest Jeweled Priestesses in Dea al Mon. Yet it was his deceased wife’s name, not the one he’d been born to.

“The Smiling Queen is dear to me; I served her in my youth.” She and Warlord Prince Shore had turned an ardent, dangerous youth into an accomplished young man. A man worthy of such trust as a marriage, and children.

“I was born Tarn Galasrinion, to the Province Queen of Bremen, in Kassel. I lost all of my close family save two sisters and three daughters during the Fall of Kassel. We shelter now in Glory Glade.”

P-please don’t go. P-please don’t laugh. Oh by Mother’s Night deepest love, please s-tay.

The soft burn of her presence within him did not fade, though he very much feared she might vanish altogether if he took his hands off of her. The brush of his lips, tender rather than inciting, moved to her ear.

“I swear to never release you.”

Offline Charisma Larethis

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #4 on: Jan 02, 18, 02:58:46 AM »
Charisma had thought of the men, but they were only a distant consideration because she'd had to re-teach herself to consider guards and to keep them close. In truth however, her eyes and all of her soul whispered this man's name over and over now that he had been so kind to permit her to have it. If she had known he believed her a forest spirit in truth, the Sapphire Queen would have begun to cry again. Tarn. The Warlord Prince's reaction to her pain, and that he stayed, but more that she wasn't hallucinating his existence was a relief. She plucked forth a tiny pocket square of Craft enhanced silk to tend his ears, needing to stand on her toes to do so, even in her elegant heels. Lady Rilindisil hadn't considered yet how handsome Tarn was. She simply did not want her pain to further hurt him.

Yet, Charisma understood Tarn's immense need to tend her, touch her, never let her go.

"It is all right," she murmured. "Like this," she offered, bearing her heart to him in a much safer way through the filter of their very new bond. Charisma was very skilled at this, had once bonded a full circle's worth of males before Waste and the war against the Brood took them all from her. The last several men to touch or even speak to her had belonged to other Queens, including her own brother, so this experience was especially brilliant and rich. Also from her pocket, she pressed a healing tonic into Tarn's hand. "Drink this, I beg thee. Even if you can indeed bear it, I know you are very strong, I feel it, but it would ease my worry. You are my fourteenth male to Bond, but the other thirteen have long been ripped from me. That is what you feel, and I am sorrowed for it, though blessed to have you, Prince Galasrinion-Ysillidore. One of my dearest loves shares your birth surname, and I am familiar with the Priestess by reputation only whom shares my Offering Jewel of the Ysillidore." All while she spoke in response, she delighted and marvelled in the hands that carefully wandered her body.

Words. Only halfway of importance, perhaps not even that much as Tarn, her Prince, touched her. She sent a thread immediately to the guard on duty, which for several moments took her focus away from Tarn, but she kept guiding his hands, while shifting closer yet. It was so intense, that save for leaving her home, Charisma knew she would simply bend to anything he wanted. Heart pounding and being fraught with excitement and love, the Lady of the two houses did not know what to entirely do with herself. *Away from this place, and send word to my mother's Court that I have Bonded our guest. Leave food, drink, and healing tonics in the chambers close to the Glade. Tell her I am better than I have been in half of my life. Tell the Smiling Queen she may tenderly laugh, for her passionate mirror is no longer alone.*

Attention however was soon enough shifted back to the Warlord Prince holding her close in such a way that he seemed terrified he might shatter her to a thousand pieces. "Glory Glade. Those are Prince Aelysar's lands. He did tell me, before he left that I should look in, but I ... have not been cleared to leave home yet. I was pleased to know the place has a Queen now, is that whom you refer to?" Her cheeks reddened with a furious blush once more, as she simply marvelled again and found herself so overwhelmed with so many feelings over this man before her.

Mine.

"The Queen last year that was stolen from Nieste by the Brood. That was me, it shames me to say still. My sister is the Territory Court Seer. You should know that her beloved male, the Master of the Guard for the Territory is as well my lover. He is not mine and belongs to the Lady Galoneth. I would have you keep touching me, but there are rules, my Prince. The small house near this field has been prepared for our use. Will you take me there? It is but mere steps away from here, you remember? I need to eat, very furiously, after all of that. My half brother, Major Rilindisil, taught me to fight, and is one of many. So you may have brothers once more, if you wish them to help you remember those lost to you." Lovers or no, it was plain that Charisma was truly starved of touch even as she explained that certain people would, and could touch her other than Tarn himself, but none so close as he was, now. She all but fell into his hands, gasped when his fingers brushed over her face. The house she referred to was only small by the standards of considering homes in and around the Black Castle; typically housed the Keeper that maintained the Archer's Glade, but her mother had yet to appoint a new one after the last had passed on from age.

To ensure they might actually get to their destination, Charisma did not choose to kiss Tarn endlessly as she wished just then. Given that he was darker jewelled than she was the Lady Rilindisil wished to take particular care. So she gave Tarn a second task that would focus all of that ferocity on two very specific things and a location. "Would you carry me? I am finding myself more tired than I would like. It is twenty six normal sized steps to the east and thirty five more to the north of where we now stand." Through that Bond, she impressed upon him where she wanted to go, all laid out, perfectly precisely, without extra emotion that wasn't needed to have him tend her in the best way that would fully serve a considerable amount of what she knew he would have been feeling: feeding her, helping her focus, gaining them actual privacy, and putting her in a place that she could be still, and not leave him.

"Yes, that is exactly correct, my Prince," she murmured softly. "You belong to me. Only me. Mine." Once she could however, see his face clearly, Charisma startled and swallowed slowly, then immediately stamped to death the desire that rushed through her. "I am yours, do not worry. Food first." Whatever way he would have chosen to carry her, Charisma did it for him. Strong legs, both muscled and well rounded lifted to wrap around his waist; the Sapphire Queen shifted her weight as well so that in movement, she could be balanced with him. Silver and blonde braids of her hair flowed around them both.

"Tell me of your children, my beloved Tarn. All of mine are returned to the darkness, including my only grandchild. That you have some left, soothes my soul."

Offline Tarn Ysillidore

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #5 on: Jun 04, 18, 12:35:19 PM »
192, Winter, 192/193 Winsol: Linithor, Iris Hall, Forested Archers Glade near the Devinos border.

Tarn Ysillidore angled his head down, that his Lady might tend to his ears a touch easier. The press of her slender body against his made him ache with the need possess. Even so, he held himself to her will, and let her sweet voice soothe him. The complexities of her Psychic scent would take a lifetime to fully untangle, though he breathed it in with greedy intensity. What he first understood of her, from that pain-shaped melody, was that she was indeed a child of nature as he was. As Pumpkin was; he thought perhaps they were kindred spirits, and that filled him with a fierce impatience to unite his family, at once. To have them heal each other, as only Queens could.

The skill with which his Sprite eased the Bond between them, bringing him back from that deadly precipice of self sacrifice won a fierce grin. Tension eased in his shoulders as things balanced between them, without in any way distancing her from him. She offered him a tonic; he drank it without ever taking his hands from her body, or interrupting their careful tracing of the silver upon her sacred skin. He drank  simply because she asked, expecting the tonic to be overly mild, something appropriate to a lady...

A very fierce Lady; the stuff had a kick to it, burning all the way down. Tarn nodded his approval, and listened intently to her explanation of the sharp, jagged places of her soul. His hands soothed over her endlessly, moving aside troublesome clothing, seeking her skin as if he were tending her wounded spirit directly. He listened closely, his grip becoming fierce at a particular phrase.

“Dearest loves?”

Which of the surviving Galasrinion mob had won her heart? Jealousy was the wrong word for the storm that threatened. It wasn’t nearly large enough to encompass the fear-of-loss that simple phrase triggered within Tarn. He battled within himself, for his mind knew better even as his heart raged.

A huff of laughter, however, was her reward for referencing Ruse as a well timed distraction. Impossible not to see the flush spreading across her silvery skin, though Tarn was unsure if it was due to Ruse flirting, embarrassment at being ... uh... grounded, by her mother, or dismay that she had failed to look in upon Ruse’s village.

“Ruse! Aye, he built that place out of nothing. He’s a charming rogue. I hope he did not distress you?” a pause, for her response, before he continued, his voice whiskey smooth, stormy eyes intensely focused.

“Lady Epiphany Estinara was assigned to Glory Glade. I’ve taken her under my protection, claimed her as close kin. I have been educating certain of her courtiers in how to tend to a young Queen; the lass is only just past her Offering.”

“She shares my Jewels, and love of wild places.”

“She needs us, Sprite. Will you help?”

One hand (powerful, battle-hardened and yet perfectly tended) moved to cup her face tenderly, even as she spoke of a complex tangle of family, loves and yet another lover and rival for this amazing creature’s heart.

Luckily, before he had time to do or say anything stupid, she requested shelter, food, privacy. She claimed him, body, mind and soul with the simple words, you are mine. It eased them both past the moment, skillfully enough done that amusement flickered in his eyes and his grin returned. She climbed into his arms and for a few moments he simply held her there, against his heart, murmuring praises in her ear.

Yet the spell of those tattoos would not be undone, and he thereafter moved swiftly towards the promised shelter. She would indeed need food, water, and warmth. She’d been both mourning, and using a good deal of Craft before his tumultuous arrival in her soul.

He spoke not another word until he had her safely inside the house, skillfully triggering any protective wards that were in place. The food was wafted in beside them with Craft. Rather than tolerate distance between them, he settled them both together on a large couch, and then set up the food in easy reach of her. Once there, his hands found themselves starting at that remarkable tracery upon her face. With care, he followed the lines and curves of the pattern, quietly encouraging her to eat and drink while he memorized her.  After the worst of her hunger was eased, Tarn addressed her questions and comments.

“The Major is known to me; I’ve never served in the Guard, but I trained here, at your home in my youth. I was Master of the Guard for my mother, in Bremen, before ... everything. The Major ran missions from there on occasion. I would be honored to count him amongst my close kin.”

She leaned into his every touch and careful caress. Mindful of her stated wish for him to keep touching her, he vanished his shirt and jacket. The skin hunger of the Blood ran deep, but for one so torn in soul, he thought ... he thought only the living touch of her Bonded could ease her. He offered it; no, he claimed it. Claimed her, from elbow to finger tip, nose to ear, sweetly moulded shoulder to curving waist.

His voice remained smooth, almost hypnotic, as he soothed the deeper instincts of her body whilst answering her many subtle questions. 

“Most of what remains of the Galasrinion Clan make their home in Eddersea, though they plan to move to Glory Glade, now that it has a Queen. I try to look after them. The young Queen who helped Ruse with Glory Glade has a risky job. The youngest boy, Lynx, is still in the Guard, the youngest girl, Apple, a Healer, just finishing her time in the Red Cloaks. The twins, Hero and Heron, roam wild. Innocent ... ”

“She is healing, I’m told.” Innocent didn’t speak much about what had occurred, and spent much too much time alone, but all concerned insisted she was healing.

“The Ysillidore Clan yet clings to their doomed temple and library; Surreal spends more and more time at the Black Court these days. Her sister yet lives, and an aunt. That’s all that’s left of my lady wife’s family.” He shook his head, trying to banish the ghosts of the past.

“As for my household, my sisters Panther and Cougar Galasrinion are with me, in Glory Glade.” a fierce grin lightened stormy eyes, and a deep warmth colored his voice. “They will tell you that they look after me.”

Tarn paused to order his thoughts; it was vastly more difficult to find a way to explain his children tok her.

“Aurora is a brilliant, vibrant sixteen, a Healer not quite to her offering. She is gifted with Shielding Craft, and loves to dance. She saved the twins, Phoenix and Jasmine, during the Fall of Kassel. They are only seven, preparing for their Birthright next year. Phoenix is a fierce young Queen; she talks with a regal bearing that breaks my heart, some days. Jasmine is a dreamy witch, a creature of cool moonlight and vast silences. All three adore song, as most children do.”

“They need to meet you, as soon as possible. please explain why you cannot leave here?”

Offline Charisma Larethis

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #6 on: Jun 04, 18, 05:42:40 PM »
Charisma did not speak again until they had arrived at the small but very suitable cottage; her eyes had closed, lulled to Prince Ysillidore's voice. The weight and strength of it brushed every part of her mind and emotions in a fashion she had almost forgotten what it felt like. Particularly the very possessive streak in a Bonded Warlord Prince. Tarn's hands tightening upon her would have pulled a gasp from Charisma had she not controlled her reaction. Indeed, she waited until he had her settled upon the pleasant sofa, and there was food for her to reach, to which the Lady Rilindisil did so, picking at the fruit and sliced vegetables until she had partaken of enough to restore herself from the considerable expenditure of Craft. It was a slow process, as Tarn's hands were endlessly, startlingly, beautifully distracting; by the time she finished the perfectly sided repast, the laughter in the Queen's expression had eclipsed most of the sadness. Not all of it, but enough.

Of course, even while she tended her need to eat, no one wanted to waste away from Craft use, after all, Charisma listened keenly to everything Tarn said, about his family, Prince Ruse (of which her expression seemed particularly intense even in hearing the Red Prince's name), and Glory Glade. While she continued to listen, Charisma eased only so far off of Tarn's lap to grab a soft unrefined silken black cloth from a stack on the table nearby, activated the cleansing Craft within it (as this was an Archer's home after all, there would be many such items to tend to wounds and blood), and finished tending to the man's ears. The Queen knew more than enough Intermediate and even Minor Advanced Triage taught to her by Lady Periwinkle's Court Healer. Her fingertips were firm and light at once, and only once all trace of blood was gone did she check for swelling or more, then test the man's delicate hearing with a series of tracking whistles, afterward, laughing.

"Forgive me," Charisma finally said with twinkling eyes. "I can be exceedingly single minded when it comes to various tasks. Though I am not fully familiar with your siblings, those names are ones I have heard before. However, I believe you were here in service to my mother before I was born, since, we had not the grace to meet previously. Of those you mentioned, the Lady Innocent is the one that I consider even closer than family, she is my dearest love." Though tears did not fill the Queen's eyes due to emotional control and focus, they were certainly evident in her voice.

"Without her ferocity and focus, and that of Prince Valor Tanithil, Lord Baelfire Elendhen, and my brother, Flair, I would be dead or turned," the Queen said very bluntly and plainly while smoothing one hand along Tarn's cheek. "The last of my sons perished, and in my grief, I wandered into one of the parks in Nieste without immediate Escort. I bled myself in running away barefoot; they told me that my Chalice is not well, and I have considerable physical weakness, but one would after a Healing sleep stretched out half a year, and mine is not yet completed, yet, they had to wake me so as not to risk never waking." Charisma kissed Tarn's forehead, the sensation sliding through her whole body like a brush of tenderness long missed. "Do not worry overly much. You may, of course, speak to the Court Healer, whom is the same one that attended my birth, long ago. She can tell you anything I have forgotten, and of course, there is Flair as well you could speak to, given that he was there."

With violet eyes, Charisma studied Tarn, running her thumb over his lower lip, tracing the man's ears in a whisper of skin contact one at a time, brushed tiny, barely-there kisses over his brow and cheeks. She had just explained a considerable amount of traumatic information, but she could not dare think to hold it away from him, certainly, the male had the right to know why travel was not permitted to her at the present. She knew the Court Healer would likely try and tell him that he could not stay with her, but that was another tangle for a different day. As was the idea he would need to return to his family. Many a Queen would not want to share a Bonded with whomever was already in their life; for Charisma she considered such concerns on a case-by-case basis. Tarn's blood family was simply a given, as was a young Queen with courtiers needing guidance to some extent; much as she did not impress too much upon Prince Valor for the grace of his bond with the Queen ...

"Prince Ruse is counted among my best friends, so no, I only worry about him because he is gone, but his mission is a blessed one. Once I am well, I am happy to help the Lady Estinaria, but make no mistake," and here, she shifted with absolute flawlessness to the Old Tongue and passionately flashed the deadly sharp canines which marked Charisma as a member of a very old clan line.

"Prince Galasrinion-Ysillidore, know it in your soul, your heart, your mind, body, and blood, you are mine." Charisma did not intend to growl the words as his name, but she did exactly that being very weary of finding males already belonging to other Queens. Over the many years that she had been without any Bonded, the sense of loneliness was particularly intense. She did not concern herself that the way she spoke was damned near a martial challenge to a Dark Jewelled Warlord Prince, and this time her grip on him tightened not just to a feared loss, but a fighting possessiveness that most Queens hadn't had the losses paired with actual combat skill, and desperate experience to embrace. Lady Rilindisil shared along their Bond the image, memory, and distinct satisfaction of stabbing a bandit in the eye whom had dared touch her without permission, all those months ago, while being sure to hold tight the leash gifted to her by Mother Night. It was important that Prince Tarn understand that Charisma would not cower behind defenses if the Brood became a problem to the edge of death for the safety of his children, his sisters. She had encountered them more directly than most of the Dea al Mon, particularly and especially given her Caste.

*I am a survivor like you, and you are mine; I am yours. Please, I beg of thee with endless graciousness, love me.*

Violet eyes glowed with Craft, and the ancient tattooing covering her skin flashed a brilliant silver before a soft passionate chuckle reigned her in, but only barely. "In short, I have waited for you some twenty years, it seems, if we are generous," Charisma loosed a quiet, tired sigh and her lower lip trembled. "So if you could do your very best not to die, run into a duel, or end up grievously wounded," she requested with a politeness and grace well deeper than mere Protocol even as her voice cracked with the weight of restrained anguish, "I would be very appreciative." Fierce wasn't the word when it came to the firecracker in his arms. Yet, having explained her expectations, she dropped her gaze and pouted. "Flair calls me Hellchild, and you said ... Spriteling. I believe I like this sobriquet."

Psychic scent of her sharpened as Tarn vanished the upper layers of his attire and for a very raw moment, Charisma burned and seethed, fighting for control of her own senses. Quickly, the Queen found something to discuss before she was tempted to destroy the sofa trying to have him. A light, very bemused smile flickered across her face. "Before ... everything went so poorly, I was the one tending to Lady Innocent. I found her, much like I find everyone," and as she began to speak, and tell him more of herself.

"They call me the wandering Healer of Hearts. Some call me the Queen of Hearts." Her nose scrunched in thought; Charisma possessed a curious way of turning it up while thinking, as if her gaze had snared an imaginary bookshelf all for her own, though even then, her hands never stopped wandering his chest, so deliciously bare. "I remember now, you called this youthful Queenling, Pumpkin. A more revealing name at her capability than many might suspect. Wise to place our hopes and dreams at a linchpin of defense," Charisma murmured, though nodded. "It is appropriate for sisters to look after a brother's heart and soul, especially one that was not Bonded. I will hug them in gladness for keeping you safe as I have done for my own brothers who went to find their beloved Queens. No differently than you have protected Lady Panther and Cougar with your strength." Charisma shivered each time Tarn's hands brushed her face, and the scar along the left side of her face in particular. She turned her cheek toward his touch, sighing with long awaited relief and delight.

"Your children, each of them that remain," as Charisma recognised the grief of loss entangled with the relief and desperation of wounded survival, "from youngest to eldest, sound a blessing as sweet as a wild spring. I remember ..." Charisma began, before her expression crowded with a weighted pain that stole the breath, before the Queen skipped neatly to repeating the names of Tarn's children, rather than discuss her own losses just then.

"Aurora, Healer, delightful dancer, in her first blooming, skilled like her father in shielding; yes, I noticed ... afterward. Phoenix and Jasmine, they are hardly babies, darling, but a tender Queen, and a little spry witchling, how blessed, and with a love of song," and in seconds, she had calculated the losses of the rest of his family, and continued to neatly lace Emotional Healing into each of the children's names and her repeated description of them, so that every single time from this moment that he thought of a child, a grandchild, his beloved lost wife for the grief of her lay in what he did not say, a warm, shimmering Emotional Healing would overlay all of it, every memory, every screaming and searing pain, until it would seem as though he had never truly been without her, his Queen. When she was well for travel, she would have to coax Tarn south to meet her sister, Rose, for healing, with Valor's permission.

Desire and compassion blended together in her expression, and Charisma began to sing for Tarn again, but this time, wrapped her Queen's Touch and Emotional Healing into a single gift. ♪"Once upon a time a king, was alone and vexed of being without compass to guide his heart. So he searched and searched and found,  ... that all three ladies wished to be his bride,"♪ as the Sapphire Queen sang, she very slowly kissed his forehead and cheeks once more, before continuing, ♪"All three wished to wed him, so what does the king choose to do? He scorns false pomp and circumstance to their dismay. Artificial beauty is as well shown the door of departure. To careworn, beloved innocence he turns slowly in shock. Drawn in so purely by a sweetest virtue spun of dreams. La la la la, li, li li li, la, la, la, la."♪

Afterward, she allowed for Tarn a piece of mind, and silence before speaking once more. "May I have you to myself for the remainder of this day, and then if it is sensible to you, invite your children and sisters here that we may meet tomorrow? I did not want to ask for too much from you." With the firsts of an introduction made, she was content. "Beyond that, tell me what you need, what are your demands, my beloved Prince?" Charisma waited for Tarn to make his own desires of her known, as she was certain he would have at least a few. Charisma herself had a list, but adored gentlemen first. The only thing Charisma held back now, was real sensual desire as she was deeply aware that a single twelve hour period would not be enough. The ideas beneath the enclosure of her thoughts would set the poor man on fire.

Once I kiss him, I will not stop. Better that he leads this dance.

Offline Tarn Ysillidore

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #7 on: Jun 06, 18, 08:48:00 AM »
192, Winter, 192/193 Winsol: Linithor, Iris Hall, Forested Archers Glade near the Devinos border.

The house was comfortable, safe and warm. The food was well-measured to the Spriteling’s needs. Yet for all of that, she still seemed a nature spirit whom Tarn’s need had summoned to himself. The sweet, satin feel of her skin and the cool, craft-enhanced caress of her tattoos both seemed to settle deep inside of him. As her eyes slowly lightened and the faint, exquisite pain of her tears faded, so too did his own grief come into balance. It did not fade; such wounds never left their hosts. But the vast lost and failure he’d faced in Kassel no longer seemed the defining point of his life.

This was.

This beautiful creature, who tended to his ears with a single-minded intensity his Healer daughter would fully approve of, defined him now. She knew an impressive amount of Triage Healing, which fact lodged firmly into his mind. Her laughter lightened his heart, her touch was an addiction he would never get enough of. Each caress she offered he leaned into; each word she spoke, he attended to, deeply. He strove not to interrupt, not to make what she had to say any harder than it already was.

The intensity with which she spoke of Ruse, even calling Innocent (innocent?) her dearest love, were assaults to his claim on her that he could barely tolerate. But no more could he bear her tears, and he heard the tears in her voice. He pulled her close against him, brushing his lips along her cheek bone between each word, because he could not, yet, loose himself in her lips.

Not and have them still be speaking to each other in a few days’ time.

She flashed over to Old tongue, and laid a firm claim upon him. Anxious, perhaps, about his Pumpkin? Or simply fearful he could not love her? That he might die stupidly, and leave her alone once more? Just as she’d packed about a year’s worth of trauma into a few sentences, her intensity and her claim were powerfully and ritually spoken.

And he was more than willing to take advantage of a concession she might not even realize she’d made. But he waited, a skilled hunter, until after her exquisite gift of Healing. After her song. After her confession to being so lonely, and tired of men who perforce loved someone else before herself.

Ruse had wounded her, he thought. And what of Innocent? Why was that determined and skilled healer not here?

His lady requested time with him, her very hesitance a final goad he could no longer bear.

Tarn’s arms folded around Charisma, and with a skillful move he rolled her off of the couch and onto the deep rug. He made certain she landed upon him, despite the bruising to his back, before he spun them a half turn more, pinning her beneath him. His teeth grazed over skin he’d only ever touched with his hands. His bare chest pressed against the thin chemise that had lingered beneath her jacket and shirt, and not yet been discarded.

Soon. Very soon.

In Old Tongue, he answered her; if not so naturally as she.

“Accepted. I am yours, mind and heart, body and blood, spirit and soul.” Using Craft, he carved a slice of his Red Jewel into a ring, and slid it on her finger.

“Accepted. My children are yours. I trust you even with that. You have full maternal rights to guide and protect them.”

“Accepted. My young Queen, for your Prince and Healer. All three loved and accepted.”

Accepted. She was his, now, and would never escape. Ceremonies and legal documents would come, but held no power compared to that of her eyes and heart.

He could not stop himself, from that point, and claimed a fierce kiss.

It was nothing like a proper first kiss; there was no hesitation, no wondering. For his Heart had kissed her a thousand times. His Soul had known her through endless lifetimes, and always would. So he was fierce, and possessive, claiming thoroughly and utterly. Only when he could not breathe, did he release her mouth from his captivity.

“My heart, my love, my Queen. Tomorrow we will send for my family, and let them meet you, as you wish.”

“I will not die carelessly or stupidly, that I can promise you. If you desire it, I am wiling to bind our spirits together, so that one of us will not outlive the other.” A canny move; he held no post more dangerous than her life had been this past few years, and could endure far more damage than she. Sharing wounds seemed a good way to keep his own Queen alive a bit longer. He traced her face, curious where the damp upon her cheek came from.

Only to realize a tear had fallen from his own eye, and baptized her.

“My demands.”

His voice softened; his whiskey smooth voice making what he wanted seem almost reasonable.

“That you ask for all that you want, is my first demand. It may be that I cannot give it to you, that we must come to a compromise. But if you won’t ask, I will take you over. And that will hurt you.”

“My second demand - aside from those already covered in our marriage contract - is that any lover either of us seeks is shown too and approved by the other, before any intimacies. I don’t want to share you, at all. But I can, if I know you are safe and won’t be wounded. I cannot promise said lovers will survive if they do hurt you, to any degree.

“My third demand. I need to see you, every day. I need at least two hours just the two of us. If some occurrence of duty or violence separates us for a day, I will need more time than that to gain my balance.”

“My fourth demand.”

Entreating.

“Sing for me, often.”

His whiskey smooth voice made it almost seem reasonable, what he wanted. He set his teeth carefully into her skin, just enough for her to feel the pressure, without - yet - leaving his mark.

The time would come.

“I want to keep you safe from everything ... and I cannot. For you cannot be caged, or trapped or lessened. You cannot be only mine. and you must love me enough to get me through it.”

“I do not share well. Unlike most Warlord Princes, I do not have casual relations; I cannot, because of my intense possessiveness.”

Offline Charisma Larethis

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #8 on: Jun 06, 18, 07:54:34 PM »
No indeed. She imagined that this man would probably remove the spine of a would-be lover that crossed the line as far as he saw it. Charisma was lightheaded and intrigued; that feeling added in an even more intense arousal once Tarn flipped them to the floor with such violent grace, before pinning her. A curious emotion, too heady for words in the moment, began to fill her senses. It would do well for her to not miss a single detail. Despite having experienced the sheer miracle of the Bond thirteen previous times, every single one of them was unique and precious.

It had been enough that he leaned and moved toward her every touch, but not once did the Warlord Prince interrupt her words. So of course, the very same courtesy was offered. The kisses to her cheeks were like a brush of fingers down her spine, but that he tolerated her possessiveness ought to have been a warning to the fiery Queen. She could feel very keenly the difficulty he had in even listening to the idea that she had others he must share her with, but even they were folded in with Prince Tarn's incredible ability to manage his own ferocious presence.

When he spoke in kind in the Old Tongue, there was a halting presence to his speech that told her she would have to help him increase that skill. It was by no means a language, like their precious Priestesses and the lore possessed, that should be lost. Yet, it was the words and action, the fact that his movement had not remotely disturbed the tray near the couch which yet held a little more fruit and slice vegetables. The action expressly. Charisma's heart all but seized, she could not have predicted a man so prepared for his eventual Queen that he would propose Consort status not even hours into knowing her in truth. Lady Innocent would tell her to follow her heart.

As such, Charisma was stunned to stillness beneath the Warlord Prince as he used a chip of his own Jewel was the way he professed his devotion to her. Yes, he might well have wept a single tear upon her face in speaking, but it took real, and honest effort for her not to simply say yes to everything Tarn demanded. The Sapphire Queen shivered beneath him, vanishing the living wood heels she wore before dragging one tattooed foot up the back of one of his legs. In her head, she began to count backward from six thousand to gain some further control over her desires, which were many. The slow rolling baritone of his voice wrapped around her senses and turned Charisma head over heels in the space of seconds. In a moment, her heart overflowed with love, the Queen's breaths came much more swiftly as tears slid down her face, cheeks and the tip of her nose turning pink.

Really, what Tarn asked for was far more lenient than the arrangement she had possessed with Silver. There had been, over the course of their being Consort and Queen more than a few men that he did not like nearly maimed before they could so much as think of hurting Charisma's feelings, and a few of those had been communication errors. She sniffled, and peered at the ring and its considerably sized Red chip. Given with Maternal rights, that promise of teeth the skin he had teased her with, an acceptance of all of those she cared for. It was complete, except for one considerable issue--

Then Tarn kissed Charisma, and her mind all but folded in on itself. She growled and lifted herself into that kiss, absolutely desperate to have it and not let him go. As thoroughly as he gave, so did Charisma take and give in return. But the time he had pulled back to breathe, the Queen had vanished her vest, corset and the pretty gown upon her own volition with her Purple Dusk Jewel, and only the fact that they both needed air was enough to stop her from pulling Tarn's mouth back to her own. He offered her riches beyond compare, and in turn, they were such small demands.

"You have surprised me," she murmured, in a halting and emotional voice. "You have not asked me for difficulties to give, my beautiful Prince. I would add one small matter however. Before we permit others within our arrangement, it is important that we meet each of them together. Both of us with your Pumpkin, and you particularly to join me in speaking with the Lady Innocent, and Prince Valor, whom is soon to wed one of my maternal sisters. Prince Ruse is ... I met him at a particularly vulnerable moment. He eased my loneliness when I had none to do so. Though I certainly have thoughts, one would have to be dead, not to, but out of respect for the two women in his life, our relationship is not ... sensual." Charisma tucked her head against his neck then, simply reeling in everything Tarn was and would be. It took everything she had to keep her hands still upon him, to not wrap her legs around his waist; the tension of desire was akin to lightning crackling in the room with them at least for her.

"As for potential lovers beyond these that we have named, truly ... I would prefer to share, if you would allow me, and there is a compatibility. I am so weary of being alone, that I think I would do anything to have you, my Prince," she admitted, and pressed her lips to the ring he had given her. It would need to be resized by a proper jeweler, with protective Craft laid in, she expected, warning tracking and safety Craft, but like contracts, those things would surely wait.

"I would beg, love, and bend upon knee to anyone you asked of me, so long as they were kind and good ... please, see me, all of me," on which note, she allowed herself to open, falling into more than half a thousand memories where she had simply wept, raged, or sat, staring at nothing until exhaustion claimed her mind and body. Charisma shared select of the strongest memories of her own children, many lovers, all nearly dead. But then, she shared specific important moments of Prince Ruse, the lengths Valor and Innocent had gone to save her, tracking her on foot nearly to Kassel and then back around to the recently captured Bad Wildungen, where she had almost been convinced to join the Brood. It was important because it had been the rare, unlikely possibility of a man like Tarn that had saved her life.

"If you could still love me, knowing all that I have faced, I would happily accept you, Prince Ysillidore, as Consort for the present, more being contingent upon how well we work together and hoping for the blooming of trust." The crest of her cheeks turned a bright pink. "I have never been truly married before, though some in my family do choose that path." She brushed her cheek against his, and shivered. "It would be odd for a Queen, but given room left for potential other Bonded males, I could consider it. You have not spoken a word that I do not like or do not see compromise in ... may I kiss you, my Prince? May I kiss you, and not stop once you have said your piece?"

For all of the lovely words he had spoken to her, Charisma always asked permission, especially in dealing with a new Bond despite how terribly long it had been since the last. Tarn Ysillidore had thus far been ever so worthy of the wait, and then some.

Offline Tarn Ysillidore

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #9 on: Jun 18, 18, 07:12:22 PM »

192, Winter, 192/193 Winsol: Linithor, Iris Hall, Forested Archers Glade near the Devinos border.

It was hard to listen, not because he did not love the way his Spriteling formed each word, the way her full lips plumped and softened. The way her mystical eyes glimmered with power and compassion as she spoke each syllable. No, what made listening hard was this odd, unnatural sense that time was running out. That when midnight struck, his Spriteling would be swept back into the forest, gone forever. Even though the pulsing, powerful love in his soul assured him otherwise, he could not shake the fear of loosing her.

He did address it, by touching her. By tempting her to touch him, brushing small kisses along her flesh whenever her fingers strayed near to his mouth. He listened, though, mind and body; focused, intent, he used a brush of Craft to fix each precise phrase into his memory.

And yes, his speech in the Old Tongue was both less polished then her own, and woefully out of practice. But he understood it more keenly then he spoke; when pressed or distressed his late wife would revert to her native tongue. It was so unbearably beautiful a gift, to him, like a secret permission from his lost love, to love again. A single, brutal spasm took his body, but he forced himself to stillness, to listen, rather than to drown in the silvered perfection sent to him by Mother Night and the Ebon Wood.

His Lady soothed him, her heal brushing over him, as he’d stolen her hands, to place his ring upon her. Silvery tears slid down her beloved face, and he once more Tarn gently kissed them away. He was almost sure they were healing tears, but he soon sought out her gaze, and the place their souls conjoined, to be sure. It was hard not to kiss her again, and the way his gaze kept falling to that tantalizing mouth was pure evidence of it.

He listened, but that need to trace every inch of her skin broke his hand free and explored the sacred, holy skin bared before his gaze and touch. He traced those tattoos, drinking them in, but his focus was ferociously upon her. He listened. Because he’d been married a very long time, and had several daughters as well, he also wrapped the memory in perfect Craft. Because ladies were subtle things, using language and shading in ways he did not. So he found it best to study such things, closely. And to ask her, from time to time, to speak on the matter again.

Yet she surprised and honored him beyond measure; invited him not merely to hope he understood her needs, but to see them. His barriers opened to her with a rusty slowness that had nothing to do with his desire, but that he had not permitted anyone in deeper than Psychic Threads since the death of his wife, almost a decade ago. He attended, closely; he assumed each memory to be a crucible moment for her, those that shaped her, or helped her to be her best self, even now. Yet it was not easy for him. Seeing her pain and loneliness was both a goad, and a cause of pain all on its own. He was no Queen, nor Black Widow, to screen out excess of emotion or ordered his own memories as she had. He had not the skill to choose memories for her, and stitch them into a tapestry that made sense. He could not return the gift, and felt that lack as failing her, somehow.

Only when she’d fallen silent, and he’d had a few moments to really digest all that he’d experienced, was he ready to answer her spoken questions. Even then, he had to carefully review the frozen memories of those that he’d made, lest important things be swept away by the shear emotion of the memories she’d shared.

“You should never be alone, my heart.” he spoke slowly, tension bleeding off of him. He feared for her, if left alone too long; enough so that he forced the second half of his thought into the outer world, where he could not take it back.

He wanted to, before he spoke it, and that reluctance was in his voice. “When I cannot be with you, you should choose one of Ours to ... be ... with you. Have sex, if you desire it. You should never be alone.” he reached down and growled into her skin as he bit her. “but then I get you to myself, for a while, when i get home.” He’d do his best to make her bored with those others when he wasn’t there, and he had no doubt it would amuse her mightily.

But not wound; never wound.

“We should indeed have a stable, formal arrangement, my heart. You, I beg you, for my Wife. For those you know that you wish in our arrangement, we will meet and warn ... I mean, court each one. Let them know the expectations and rules, the vows to be exchanged, that they know what their rights and privileges are, which you will set, not me. From under wife, to Consort, consort, or simply lover. And if they desire it, and you still desire it, then we shall invite them in.”

He thought on what she’d said, and he noted the particularly that preceded his Pumpkin’s name, and after a brief internal battle, chose to speak.

Tilting her head so that she could see his eyes and leaving his barriers firmly down, that she might Delve as only a queen could, he sought to work past even the threat of pain.

“Epiphany ... helped me hope again. To Believe in myself again. She has needed both a sexual education, how to be safe with a Red Jewel, and ... to find a new family. She had no siblings, and lost both parents abruptly. The nature of that loss scattered the Blood who would normally have come with her to her new posting. Scarcely of age, heartbroken, lonely for family as well as a Court that was full of old friends, meeting her felt not like a Bond. Nor even like a need to serve. It felt like finding some of my own lost family, wandering alone. As if she’d always belonged in my family, under my protection, but was misplaced for a time.”

His gaze met hers, and he grinned fiercely. “But she is not the other half of my soul, you are. You need never fear coming second to her, if ... that is what you feel.”

“I am ... jealous of Innocent. But given what you’ve shared, I owe her your life. I can’t say I’ll easily forgive her for coming first in your heart, and I will do my best to replace her in that appellation.” He spoke with absolute certainty and determination. Almost as if pulled from him by force, he allowed, “She’s worthy of you.”

“Prince Valor I do not know well; I was here, by the time he rose to his high post. His Betrothed ... must of course be part of that discussion, yes?” He supposed that if she did not oppose Valor marrying her sister, he, too, must be a worthy sort.

“Ruse ...” the Red Prince was impossible to explain, to anyone who had not met him. What Tarn could say with certainty, was “He will not fail. But only the Darkness knows by just how much he will have exceeded his orders. He always had an excess of initiative.” still, a faint frown lingered a few moments; Tarn was not sure the volatile Ruse was a solid single match for either of his ladies. He was one better suited to a poly arrangement, but utterly, romantically determined upon the fairy tale.

Tarn leaned in close and breathed in his Dream-made-flesh, letting her presence soothe him. It was a mistake, because he could not help his lips tasting the bared flesh of her shoulder. He nibbled his way to her ear, and then murmured, “Aye, love ... meeting together. Discussing the outcome. Sharing. Even requiring I pleasure you, before I ever touch anyone else we invite to our bed. And after. Or a set number of times ... or we lock them away for a full day, only watching, whilst ...” His mind drifted afield of true discussion, for thoughts of or talk about others could never be as enticing as the woman in his arms. Teeth and lips worked their way up her vulnerable throat and finally, he claimed her mouth. He kissed her, deeply, almost desperately, before he could speak again. And even then it was only because of one horrid thing she had said. A faint frown furrowed his brow, as he studied her. Other Bonded? No. She was his. He battled with himself, because he knew better; Mother Night chose, not he, not his Spriteling. He allowed a faint lopsided smile to his mouth; if she was still watching his mind (as she’d been invited to do) she’d no doubt laugh with him at the instinctual battle. If not, he would explain his struggle with the notion of sharing that special bond with another.

“Of course I love you. You were made for me. I only love you more for knowing some small portion of what you have endured.”

“You may always kiss me. Anywhere. Any when. In front of anyone at all. But I need ever so much more from you, than one kiss. Or a thousand. Let me ravish you, my love. Let me write into your flesh that you are no longer alone, until every inch of you believes it.”

And then he claimed her mouth, utterly, without restraint or hesitation. He left the barriers between them open, so that if there was ought she needed yet to say, she might do so within his mind.

Offline Charisma Larethis

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #10 on: Jul 03, 18, 06:31:19 PM »
You should never be alone.

He knew. Charisma did not understand entirely how the Red Warlord Prince had put together the delicate details, especially the ones she had not shown him, but somehow Tarn had understood explicitly that the Queen's greatest trouble came when she was left entirely without other people, ones that truly cared, to tend to her. However, he left no time for her to cry, as those beautiful hands kept in tender motion, soothing her, easing the pain. More than that, he teased enough that she could not help but brush her own fingers over his face and down the arms, the bare, incredibly well muscled back. The way that the man listened was intense and indeed, sharper at attention than the hands he dragged down her body.

Biting her lower lip, Charisma winced letting Tarn into her mind at first but minutes on it felt practical, as though he belonged there. The lady pressed kisses to both his cheeks and shivered when he spoke very bluntly of sex. She had precious few partners for that. For a time, there had been none at all. She did not answer, as given that Tarn had yet to actually bed her, she expected he would be hard-pressed to hold up that specific bargain. She was certain he did not understand what he was giving away. She giggled when he spoke of warning all of those that might take interest in her. Or was it him? She dragged her thumb along his lower lip and tried to concentrate. Her brows furrowed when he spoke of the young Queen, and further still when he admitted to jealousy of his distant cousin, Lady Innocent, because Charisma loved her. Very gently, the Queen kissed both of Tarn's cheeks again. She could entirely understand why a man that had lost so much, would be afraid of a Queen's love for another. Charisma stroked his cheek, but still only continued to listen to him, restraining herself from a real, full kiss.

It startled Charisma when he explicitly laid out the types of romantic pairings. Her lips parted in surprise, simply because a man, of all of her Bonded, had never, ever done any such thing. "Tarn ..." was all that she managed to get out, while her fingers stroked over his face, carefully, lovingly and again the Queen's eyes filled with tears. She couldn't help herself. It was unbearably sweet and caring even as he spoke of being jealous and possessive, the Warlord Prince offered realistic, possible solutions. He did not speak of the people she loved and wanted as those inaccessible because of his issues. Charisma shivered. If she already hadn't been more than half wanting him, that would have sent her, or any woman really, over the edge. Trembling, the lady restricted herself to gentle kisses placed along the man's cheek and jawline, sighing with each contact to her skin. She groaned and glided the scarred side of her face along his. "So precious," she murmured.

To know that this baby Queen as well, had allowed him to hope again, certainly made her want to meet the young lady, which surprised Charisma more when he dragged out her fear. That she would be second, not loved enough, by her own Bonded male. It was an unpleasant, ugly emotion that she did not want to feel, but knew that she would until she met the lady. "Show me, her face, when she laughs ... and cries. It will help. From your perspective. It will help me learn her, to find her safe. I ... do not want to feel a negative emotion because of my own foolish, horrible past that this young lady has nothing to do with."

She went still, she wanted to give Tarn what he needed, a marriage, but the truth was that the idea frightened her. It was something she would need to love the idea of, to learn that it was safe. So once more Charisma simply listened while stroking her fingers over the ring upon her hand. For now, she used a little Craft to make sure it stayed on her finger. She smiled softly, with Tarn's words about Valor, finding herself relieved. She expected the Master of the Guard would already know everything there was to know about her Red Warlord Prince by the time they next met. The thought made her smirk. She blushed at the thought of Innocent.

"Actually we haven't ... I have never even so much as kissed..." then she trailed off because Tarn's mouth was wandering her shoulder, then her neck, and she couldn't think of what it was she had been trying to tell him. What she wanted to say ended in a series of moans, incoherent whispers and shivers. "She ... I ..."

When he said she could kiss him anytime, anywhere, Charisma stopped trying to explain, because in very short order Tarn had fully captured her lips. Her kisses in return were rough, near bestial with a desperation fuelled by two decades of loneliness. She bit his lower lip hard and drew blood, not really thinking through the consequences. With trembling hands she both tore her corset free of her body while snarling and forcing Tarn to let her have the top, where she straddled him, her ample breasts falling to his chest smoothly in the same moment. *I have never had the Lady. It is not what you think. Her heart was broken when I met her. She is mine. I have healed every crack in her mind ... she is not one to be jealous of, my love. The poor darling always falls in love with men that cannot be bothered to love her enough or are not free.*

The scent of a desire crazed Queen filled the room. Charisma all but inhaled his breaths, using a circular breathing so that she did not have to stop kissing him. Her nails bit into his arms where she gripped and drew blood before she took a moment and kissed every mark she made before returning to Tarn's mouth. She wanted nothing more to imprint herself on every part of his mind while working her hips to ease out of the skirt she wore. *I do not want her frightened away, and I am surprised that she has not lost her mind or died in heartbreak. She is very strong. I have desired her for a long while, but I fear that she will run if I declare what I truly wish.*

It was not an easy confession, but Charisma gave it, as well as every swell of pain, sadness, anger when thinking of the sheer number of men that could, and did use a woman and discard her for whatever reasons. Sometimes accidentally, other times on purpose. All the while, she kissed and near ravaged her new Bonded, so that he would not be confused, puzzled or misunderstand the differences in the capability of her love compared to his very real, and honest fears. *You are right. She is my precious love, but can you not feel how big my heart is? Just be you, sweet, wonderful Tarn. You never need to prove anything to me. I promise. Will you help me? She will be afraid because you are my Bonded, she will think that she has no place.*

With wild eyes, she slid down Tarn's body, whispering praises and sweetness as she went, cheekily vanishing the man's trousers. However, she did not start with sex, nor what one might have expected as the typical reaction to a man nude. She pressed slow kisses to every part of his body, then proceeded to massage him starting with his tired feet. Into the massage she worked him over with her Queen's Touch and Emotional Healing at once, snarling if he moved to do more than kiss her, making use of Social Craft and Persuasion to keep him still.

*I have been made for love, and I will show you.*

All very clever uses of Craft that would take Tarn more than a few moments to unravel. *My turn. You may do as you like after I am finished with all of you. All of your beautiful body. My perfect Tarn, my perfect lover. My sweet Consort.* With her words and hands, kisses, the wildness of her and experienced care, she tended him, tugging on the leash of the Bond every so often to remind him that she was real, that he was not dreaming. Charisma knew instinctively that he would need such a reminder, and would only thrive all the more for it.

*Do not worry. I will never, ever fail you.*

Some couples took what they wanted of sexual enjoyment before their partner or lover was physically sated and pleased. Charisma preferred to spoil her lover before the foreplay ever began.

Offline Tarn Ysillidore

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #11 on: Jul 09, 18, 03:37:54 AM »
192, Winter, 192/193 Winsol: Linithor, Iris Hall, Forested Archers Glade near the Devinos border.

Some people needed clear and clever words, to feel safe.

Others needed a gentle, caressing touch.

His wife had craved him to court her through the day, only to fall upon him the moment they were alone, while his first lover needed to be pinned against him, sheltered there, for an hour or two before further intimacies followed.

Spriteling? She needed to feel in control, and yet to be constantly reminded of his reality through touch, voice and mind. And he denied her none of it. Tenderly, Tarn’s hands moved  across her body, as he yielded to her will. It was easy, after all, when she delighted so thoroughly in him. No doubt, she’d feel his pride when she was amazed with his versatility and knowledge of how hearts arranged themselves. Sense the way his heart stopped, when her thoughts, words and emotions told him that she understood how difficult his concessions were.

Yet he made them, because he loved her.

Her hands were silken fire along his skin, each touch only making him hunger for her even more. When she traced his bottom lip, he pressed a reverent kiss to her fingers. And the adoring way she rubbed her cheek along his resulted in a sweet, tender hug. That their love and anxiety for each other tore at them so fiercely was the result of similar, hurtful wounds. When she needed to see and hear some of his memories of his Pumpkin, to feel safe, he cupped her precious face in his hands. It wasn’t as neat, and ordered, as her sharing; she’d feel the duality of the images he sought to share, and the emotions that accompanied them. The first memory he shared, was of seeing Charisma herself, seeing his wood sprite become flesh and blood in response to his vast need. Of how he’d known she was meant for him, falling helplessly in love, before ever she turned around and the Bond was formed, or he even recognized her Jewels or Caste.

Then he shared Epiphany; not as a Warlord, or a Prince, or a Queen might see her, but as the primal, protective Warlord Prince he was. How she asked to belong, without requiring his service. Her uncertain questions, and sudden laughter. Her tears, her joy. Her aching loneliness, and determination to do her best by everyone.

Images of Epiphany walking through Glory Glade alone, singing to the trees. The young Queen accepting Trout into service, even with his crippling injury. The gentle acceptance not of his Queen daughter, whom everyone adored, but of Jasmine, the young, fragile witchling too many Dea al Mon scorned.

*She understands those who don’t fit in, despite being honored and adored all of her life. She treasures the courageous, not merely the powerful. She knows a vast pain and grief beyond that of her years and circumstances, as if she mourns with the Ebon Wood itself. She would never, ever deny you or I what we needed. She will love you, because you are of the Ebon Wood, as she is. I want to tell you she will take care of you because I love you, but the truth is, she will tend to you most tenderly because you and she will fit together.*

Tarn let Charisma explore his memories, if she desired; let her follow any offered memory, forward or backwards. Yet even as he sought to gift her with that intimacy, he was thinking deeply on what she had said. Tenderly, his thumb would run along her chin.

“Your pain is not foolish. Your past is real, the wounds are valid. I will reassure you and comfort you as often, and in whatever way you need, because I am not your past.”

“I am your now, and your future.”

They kissed, most passionately, even as she attempted to explain about Innocent. He tried, he truly tried to follow the intricacies of her explanations, but Charisma’s desire soared to meet his own, and she tore her clothes off. At that point, he was done waiting, done talking, and wanted nothing more than to Claim his Queen, his love, fully. Her fierce, almost violent kisses provoked him; she drew his blood, with her need. Roused his Beast. She attempted to pin him beneath her, and for the moment it suited him to yield to her, though he checked her first, Jewel and body, that she might he know he chose the yield. From beneath her, his hands could explore more freely. He was not holding up his own, greater weight. And she weighed nothing; she could explore freely from that position. She drew blood, again and again, though Tarn yet bided his time, and handled her more gently, systematically testing her tolerance and pleasure levels. For all Tarn’s attention was fully upon the amazing lady before him, Charisma kept forcing his thoughts back to Innocent. He understood from Charisma that somehow Innocent had loved unwisely, but news of the Healer’s heartbreak clearly surprised him. Tarn could not connect why Charisma never having seduced Innocent was supposed to calm him, nor even why Charisma felt that anyone would deny her. He wasn’t really thinking clearly, but he did understand just how anxious his Spriteling was on the topic. Being asked to help his love, lover and Queen seduce someone else rather ... stunned him. But not so much as when she stripped him naked, and then checked his move to seduce her.

He was not a warlord.

He was not a Prince.

He was a Warlord Prince who had been deliberately enflamed and enticed by his Bonded Queen, only to be denied at the moment when he should have sheathed himself within her. The endemic rage of his Caste burned brightly; he suddenly closed the deeper sharing of their memories and feelings, to merely the Psychic Thread between them. His Beast clawed at the chains he kept wrapped around it, and he did not wish to wound Charisma with it. Had he not been with Epiphany recently, he may have reacted in a way that would forever wound Charisma. But he was no longer months without sex, and so not hair trigger. But she pushed, even at his finely honed control.

It was not fun; it was not a game. It was horrifying, to be so close to wounding that which he most cherished. To protect her, he sought desperately to explain. Though she used Craft freely upon him, clearing thinking it was enough to keep the situation from devolving to violence, it wasn’t. He did not need Emotional Healing, or Social Craft, or even Persuasion to keep from hurting devolving into a mindless beast. He needed her body. She had inflamed the lust of a Warlord Prince, and he would not sit still for hours of massage. He was not tired; his feet did not hurt. Her snarls were provocations, stirring rage, but nothing that could or would deter him. If it were not for her Queen’s Touch and his nearly unparalleled control, she would have been hurt in that instant.

It felt, for a mere heart-beat, like his sexual desire was being held hostage to his agreement to (somehow?!?) help Charisma with Innocent. Except she knew that would help her, he’d already told her so. The yield of her being on top was abruptly withdrawn; he flipped over and pinned her beneath him, Jewel and physical strength both holding her there. His own body was rigid, his hands iron hard, bruising where they gripped her arms in an implacable grip.

*You have two choices. You can clothe yourself and wait for a time whilst I go outside and wrestle my Beast under control via masturbation and violence. Or you sate my lust iwth your body. After one of those, I will be able to sit for your massage, and offer the same in turn. But I cannot, now. You enticed the Beast to the surface, my Queen; you drew my blood and tore your clothes from your body. Now is not the time for hours of gentle exploration, however much we both crave it.*

He’d have delighted in such, and offered the same and more in return, before she had so deliberately pushed and prodded at his control. Or after he claimed her. Indeed, it was only her Queen’s Touch and tugging on the Bond that kept him from stepping outside to keep himself from hurting her in his vast need. He wanted, needed, to give her choice in this. And he could because he believed her; she would not fail him. Her pulling on his Leash kept him aware that it was real, not a dream. It was a lifeline he clung to.

His voice was a low growl, as he leaned down to breathe in her Scent. “Choose.”

Offline Charisma Larethis

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #12 on: Jul 09, 18, 02:33:31 PM »
It might have initially seemed that Charisma's actions were an accident, or unplanned until the second that Tarn flipped her for the second time on to her back. Then the wild Queen exploded into laughter. A silvered brow lifted, twice as arrogant as one might have expected unless attention had been well paid. "No," she growled. She threaded her slender fingers through her Warlord Prince's hair. It had been far, far too long since she could indulge this way. He might have seen a play, but for Charisma, the way it was the way wild creatures played, a mere precursor to sex and darker things and barely tolerated at that.

The deeper Darkness of the forest in all its terrors moved through her violet eyes. She smiled widely, displaying those sharpened eyeteeth. "I have been so sweet to you that it seems there has been an error vastly made." She could all but taste his thoughts and they were aligned with her own, almost, but not nearly enough. Charisma was never one to play games with a Bonded, no less with one she considered potentially good enough to be truly half of her own heart. It would have been insulting at a minimum, worth having one's spine torn from the body whole as a mere warning. She growled, despite the fact that his greater Jewel strength was a warning that he could overpower her. But it seemed the beautiful male forgot just what held his Leash. Barely, had Charisma begun to make use of it.

Sharply, fully did she finally pull it with a beautiful, certain ferocity of a woman that had once maintained thirteen different males at one time, including the blessed terror that had fathered all of her children, realising at that moment he needed much, much more. Charisma had assumed, poorly it seemed, that Tarn was far less wild than he seemed. She would be unlikely to make the same mistake again. "Still. Be still. We do this my way, not yours," the Queen purred tenderly. "Mother Night has given me that right, and you ... forget ... your ... place."

Furiously enraged was her kiss at that point, in part because she would never permit a male to overrule her except in three things - and this - ever so unfortunately for her beautiful Tarn, was not one of those moments. Indeed. Charisma was keen to have her way in all things she could get. Holy perfection was allowed to have whatever, and whenever it wanted at all times, forever. Some women, even Queens might have been afraid of Tarn, but not this one. She giggled once her anger had passed, for how could she remain angry with him, her darling? More akin to the phases of the moon, was she, and the sun at once. Being second, to any Queen, was damnably difficult. Tarn was only learning, so there were bound to be minor issues. The laughter ended almost as soon as it began. Swift. Short. Done.

How tiresome. She wanted him perfect, now.

Furiously, with an unforgettable claim, Charisma kissed her Warlord Prince thoroughly, and it was just shy of savaging the man's mouth, but there were plenty of Healing tonics here for a reason. He might have gone months once without a lover, but she had endured much, much worse, and would do so a thousand times more, for him, without the question ever being asked. She had spared him from seeing the true horrors of her experiences because most males would not have been able to handle that it was all no one's fault. They would need to assign blame, be the executioner. Charisma didn't have the time or interest in any of that. She preferred to unwrap her Bonded male from the cotton preventing him from being as real as she was. "I am not so easily pleased with a cock. Too many of them are alike. You will have to show me why I should trust you in that way. What is special about yours, darling Tarn?" She turned up her nose.

Thoughtfully, and perhaps a thousand moves ahead of the Warlord Prince's mind, for now, Charisma watched Tarn beneath her eyelashes and grinned. "Yes, old one, I roused your Beast. I know what I am doing even better than you do. Show me, love. I hunger. I have for so long."

"The things I do have rippling, myriad reasons that you may understand the longer you know me, even if you do not agree," the arrogance in her flashed again in her smile, making clear that Flair's name for his sister, Hellchild, wasn't just an appellation as far too many assumed it was. She figured that it was just a sensual impatience to have what he wanted in Tarn's case, however, praying that the Warlord Prince was a little smarter than some of his younger counterparts. "I will take all the time in the world that I want to make love to you in the way I know that you need and have never had. Deal with it," she growled.

"I never choose. I just take everything that I have a right to," There was a damnable severe difference between bedding a Queen, and bedding one's Bonded Queen, one that she had come to know all too well over the passing of decades. The mere echo of a dark, terrible pain flickered through the psychic thread, and rather than letting him see what it meant she forcefully buried it, but only for now.

Not yet. I cannot risk you that way.

"Better that you see my stubbornness now, than be surprised by it, and I see your own, my darling Warlord Prince," Charisma smiled again, entirely comfortable with her own nudity as well as his, for that matter. "It means you will be that much better suited for me, but more? For yourself. I would rather see you break the couch than leave the room. Did you not think that your Queen would be perfectly suited for you? Cry, if you need to. A wolf does not question what he is," Charisma pointed out. "He does not have fits of uncertainty, he only is. You are safe here, with me, more than you have ever been in all the days of your life. Show me, Consort." He would scream, she suspected, when aware that he could not touch her, but the lesson was important.

There was grand importance in seeing the full range of one's Bonded so that there were no surprises once others were allowed near. It was the reason she had managed so very well without a single mistake among so many males being close to a ruling Queen, mother or not. She phased but decided not to let Tarn fall to the floor before standing to her feet and moving scant distance to the fireplace, where he would be able to see through her, and not touch. Craft she had learned through her time with the Brood. Instead, he'd float to the floor, heartbreakingly away from her touch and her Touch, away from the precision layers of Emotional Healing, the Social Craft, giving the man a sharp awareness of just how good she really was, what she had been doing for him. He had needed it. Matters were so dire that there probably wasn't enough therapy for anyone in Dea al Mon. They were meant to be so much more.

Mother please, wake this one up, so that he may see.

Part of Charisma was crushed to withdraw from Tarn this way, but he needed to understand matters more fully as far as she was concerned. There was a reason she did not accept most males as her Escort, most were too damaged, or shallow. A frown marred her expression, as she noticed it took a severe effort to interact with things this way, half in the world, but it was the easiest way without asking him to let her up, which she would never do. She could see already that Tarn was well past the point of asking. The difference being, that she was born the way he had become, and had only been honed and would even more so become. Charisma only did not realise she had been doing some lesser form of this in the moments that he had Bonded her, and thus, had already seen a lesser type in particular of this frightening Craft. She maintained the hold on his Leash so that he would understand that his mind was not leaping ahead of his consciousness, that what he saw and experienced was real. It was the only way she could escape him at that moment, and the weight of his Red.

Thank you, Wraith, for teaching me what the eyes are blind to.

Offline Tarn Ysillidore

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #13 on: Dec 05, 18, 02:23:53 AM »
192, Winter, 192/193 Winsol: Linithor, Iris Hall, Forested Archers Glade near the Devinos border.

Charisma laughed in Tarn’s face, and told him no.

It hurt, bitterly.

It felt as if she treated his own wishes, will and Caste as being of no account.

The room grew chilly, as Charisma continued down her own mental path. The darkly furious rage she’d summoned transformed the passion she’d instigated, then betrayed. The Beast she’d deliberately brought to the forefront changed it’s target form sexual to purely violent. Tarn’s body grew rigid, his balance where he pinned her ruthlessly beneath him altered from sensual to combat-ready. If Tarn attacked Charisma now, it would not be harsh, unforgiving  sex that she needed to fear, but a bloody mutual death. Her words were jarring; he felt almost as if she was speaking to the past.

Charisma suddenly kissed him; the kiss furious, as if using sex to punish. Frost spread upon the floor around her, from where his elbow held his weight and his knee braced and captured her. He endured it, but did not participate; he would not use sex so. It felt defiling. His lips were physically chilled beneath her burning hot ones, leaving ice crystals upon her mouth. He did not allow the taunting kiss to release his rage; would not again be called to the edge of passion only to have her decide his wants and needs. The laughter, after her insulting words and the angry kiss, was the most frustrating.

The next unsolicited kiss was burning hot and desperately lonely. It felt as if she attempted to claim what she had just so thoroughly rejected. Nearly, he Shielded her away from him; trying to distract from serious conversation with teasing never ended well. But she was new to him, and despite his rage he did not wish her to feel rejected. So he once more passively accepted the burning kiss to his icy cold mouth. If her past, her wounds, made this necessary, he accepted that; but nonetheless, he had his own pride and rules. Her following comments he endured with a stoicism learned from the grueling, years-long battle of Kassel.

Charisma somehow vanished out of Tarn’s Shields and arms; had she not bothered with Telekinetic Craft he still would not have fallen to the floor. He was both powerful, and skilled enough to have caught himself with either Craft, arms, or elbow; he had not been so cruel as to rest his full weight upon her tiny body. His Sprite was in an oddly suspended state, immaterial yet not in a Psychic Cabinet. He could, if he desired, tune his Shields to capture her once more, and his Beast howled within that he should. He missed her Queen’s Touch, and her physical one; he felt no loss when she stopped her Emotional Healing and her Social Craft. Unlike most in Dea al Mon he had two adult Queens who tended to him, and a child-queen that tattled to them whenever she felt his wounds tear open.

No, it was not Craft that would Heal Tarn. It was not even the Bond.

It was her.

His forest Sprite, who no more understood some constraints than a raindrop might. So there were things he might say to any other who behaved this way, that would be pointless said to his Spriteling. He did not respond to her insistence that he simply didn’t understand her reasons; that was obvious. She was female, Queen, and a fairy creature; he did not ever expect to understand her. But he could love her and accept her. She voiced her determination to never choose, though her retreat to the fireplace screamed out her choice far more powerfully than her words rejected it. A gift all females had, no matter their age. If he’d been filled to bursting with rage and love a heartbeat before; conflicted by the simultaneous sense of safety and homecoming whilst being desperately afraid he might harm her, now he felt the first touch of humor at her quixotic nature.

He lept to his feet in a single, smooth maneuver more common to a battlefield than a romantic encounter. Studied her in silence for many long moments. He did not yell, cry or break anything undeserving. There was only one creature in the room that provoked him; breaking the couch, the wall, even the world, would not satisfy, but would provoke him until Tarn broke or claimed Charisma.

“In matters of your safety, my will exceeds your own, my love. It is not the couch that is in danger.” 

He Vanished his scattered clothing, rather than attempting to clothe himself. He did not move towards the ghostly, beloved presence of his Queen. On the other hand, the Beast had not so far wrested control from him to kill his love where she stood, so he considered it a win. Yet he missed her Queen’s Touch, achingly. Missed her, in a way that tore at him.

“I do not forget my place, nor my Caste.” He thought there was at least a small possibility that she wished to assure their first love making was something he’d never felt before. It was her timing that was wildly off, for dealing with him - or any Warlord Prince, really. But how to assure her that he did not need grand gestures to know that she was everything he needed? Every time she used her Leash, it was a comfort to him. He did not know how it had been for her other Bonded, but for him her reach did not compel him or chain his Beast. But it did call the sane, rational man to the fore of the Beast.

And that man was pissed, despite his gentle words and enduring love.

“Now, in this moment, I do not need to prove anything to you, because you transgressed on me. You provoked my Beast and my passion, and now are insisting that your acts were not explicit consent.” He watched her, lounging there so calmly, still utterly naked. Without, he feared, a desire for him so much as for connection, both to him and to and those she had lost. He had not missed her attempt to hide pain, but this was not the moment to hurt her by pursuing it.

Around him the room was chilled, his heart torn in two with his powerful love, and his deep rage. The two could not coexist in a weaker man, one who had endured less loss. But the very strength that would be an endless burden to her, allowed him to stand there and speak so sensibly and calmly.

“My guess, beloved Spriteling, is that you have a wild, instinctual need to provoke me to my breaking point. That you fear you cannot be yourself, or relax if you don’t know my triggers. I have a need to never let you get that far. Once we know each other deeper, both your ability to soothe my Beast and my ability to trust your behavior if it slips off it’s chain, will be deeper. But we are not there now.”

Tarn gave her a grave bow of respect, despite the deep conflict between them, and the frost creeping up the walls.

“If you want me to earn your affection, I will do so, without a moment’s doubt or hesitation. But to tell me that I must earn the body you have been rubbing against me, whilst standing before me naked and roused, is unfair.”

“Right now, to grant you authority and power, I am leaving.” He held up a hand to stall her anticipated protest.

“Not for long, my love. Only to control my rage, and to give us both time to dress. If you are naked when I return, I shall assume consent to sex on my terms, not yours.”

And if she had any thought of sneaking out, or leaving in a rage, she would find the place thoroughly Shielded, beyond her ability to escape, even in immaterial form. he allowed not even a Psychic Thread past his Shields. They had to talk this out, establish ground rules for the sexual power between them. He would not let her run from it, but nor did he leave her without watching over her, and feeling along the Bond for her level of distress.

Outside, he would dress meticulously and mediate, tending to his own needs so he was settled and calm before returning.


Offline Charisma Larethis

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #14 on: Dec 07, 18, 09:21:07 AM »
Pulse of her heart, he was truly something special, even the Bond aside. It pleased her more than ever that he had resisted her kisses, and truly only made Charisma want the man more and not because he was her bonded, but because he was interesting and had many feelings all his own outside of her desires. Indeed, she had laughed in his face and felt not a single bit of remorse, while the violent side of him made her want to tug further still. The scent even, of the shift from lust to combat readiness had the phased Queen settled on the balls of her feet without a thought. She'd fight him, and likely win because he'd underestimate the woman he'd bonded. But never once in her life had she ever underestimated the pure, focused savagery of a Warlord Prince in need and ache.

With a winning grin, she leaned back against the mantle and watched with heavy-lidded eyes while Tarn spoke; Charisma admired that he hadn't fallen and had the grace of Craft usage to ensure such despite the darkness of his Jewels. Not so many were capable. She watched him calculate odd despite the Beast roaring to take. Yes, it was this she needed to see because of the losses of too many bonded males. Her pulse thumped along with a roughened interest. Too many men presumed that the tending of Queen was alike having a Bonded Queen, and they were all completely misinformed. Upon that much, she and the First Escort of Dea al Mon had been in complete agreement and Bonded or no, she'd not accept a man that couldn't do two things: kill her if need be, and kill for her.

She was amused that he'd entirely misunderstood her but was not surprised. She'd noticed too, that he'd shut her out from Healing him. That hurt and it was a frisson of discomfort upon her perfectly haughty and classically beautiful face, but she refused to let him see it for long. Though she did not spread ice over the room as he had this time, the frost was in her gaze and denying both kinds of her Touch, yet, she remained half dressed and vanished the remains of her attire so that he could not soothe himself with so much as a scrap.

She had won, but he was too enraged and foolishly stuck within the moment not to see it; it would never have occurred to her that sex could or should be a weapon. The very idea would have made her stomach turn due to past trauma, but it wasn't as if he could have known better before her very fearful flinch made it evident. Now, however, she was exhausted. She lifted a hand to her lips and yawned just as he spoke, funny though it was, the action hadn't been intentional. "Mmmh, I know what I did. You needn't offer a debriefing, darling. Perhaps it did not occur to you that my actions have been deliberate? That I knew you would likely respond this way, and not with love?" The contralto voice was smooth, light, unaffected now of the intensity of emotion all but decorating the Archer's Glade house. Too many men assumed sensual congress was about them and their needs rather than a giving. The disappointment, however, that he ought to have been better attending her was profound and vast. But that too, Charisma kept tucked away as graceful as ever. She didn't want him to see her scars. No woman would have with a man new to her at such a time.

"The trouble is, dearest one, is that I am Queen. Not you. This wasn't a damn bit to do with my safety. If you cannot handle being roused, perhaps more training is what you require, my Prince, I have no intentions to walk on glass around my Consort," she pointed out bluntly and neatly, fluffing her silvery hair as she spoke. "Men. All of you lot are the same in some fashion, but you may try to prove me wrong after you've wasted seed in your hand if it pleases you, but know this. If you want me, you may ask. How I dress will not ever be any permission for sex or even so much as a brush of my fingers. Act on that, my darling, and I'll tear out your right eye and banish you permanently from my presence. I am allowed to change my mind," she said softly, then, "I AM PERMITTED TO CEASE WANTING AT ANY TIME UPTO AND INCLUDING A RUT."

Not without my permission. Not without my leave. Not without my permission. She remembered it when her sister, Rose, had said those words, brokenly for hours on end as her chalice was pieced back together as a young woman. It still gave Charisma chills that she'd been so near to someone that had almost lost their Birthright Jewel in such a savage manner, while more recent events had brought the tangle of endured deaths back to the front of a very still healing mind. While there was some part of Charisma aware that Prince Tarn had not meant to step on such a razored edge in her mind, step on it, he had, as was the nature of Warlord Princes at times.

She had not intended to shout the words, though out they came in force, as she was damned done with males that thought they could have their way with her and her sisters, and other women regardless of how gently it might have been intended, or in desperation. She licked her lower lip, hoping he'd learn something from the kisses he had not wanted, that touching and learning his skin hunger had not only been for his needs. That Emotionally Healing a Bonded male served many purposes for a Queen, and so too, did Social Craft. The absolute last thing she would ever want would be to add to his pain, pain gained in guarding her, so how better than to prepare and spoil her beloved?

Yet, she did not say anything further than that, leaving the poor man with the thoughts offered, for never once had she forgotten to consider his pains, nor past from the moment she'd noticed him. That he'd shielded her from leaving made Charisma laugh, and the last view of her was of stroking over the shard of his jewel upon her hand, a thoughtful, deep rage upon her face mingled with love. While he was away, she did not so much as even test the shielding, spending time taking a nap, eating, using a few healing tonics, and finishing that off with a soak in the bath, where she had a good cry. With Craft, she cleaned the space of the angry psychic scents as her aunt and sister had taught her to do, Black Widows both. The remainder of the food was covered and kept fresh.

As tempted as Charisma was to dress in the same gown she'd had on, she was not quite that cruel and annoyed toward her new Bonded. Full lips twitched slightly as she slipped into a translucent lace gown that buttoned up the back easily with fifty tiny buttons, but visible were hints of every luscious curve she possessed. She paired it with lace gloves in the same material, stockings, and corset all were equally translucent. All were a hint of silver and palest violet, which made her eyes and hair stand out sharply.

While she did not have many pieces of attire here, there were certainly a few stylish pieces as was typically left all over the property just in case she'd slipped free of her attire for an unplanned ritual. As Tarn still had yet to return, she decided to rest her eyes; she'd still refused to even so much as tap the shielding he'd placed. Just maybe, she could have been slightly less harsh with him, the Queen considered again with an annoyed growl. By the time he'd seek to return, she was softly running a silver-backed brush through her hair.

"Prince Galasrinion-Ysillidore," she offered with a blade sharp formal presence, while the passion of earlier was locked down tightly for the moment. If he had been seeking a woman that would bend to him, he would need to look elsewhere ... but she could not deny he was a perfect foil for that caught her breath even in irritation. When she smiled, she flashed fang. Occasionally, her left hand trembled at the vast emotional pain she suppressed and used Queen's Craft to keep him from soothing through their Bond, effectively shielding him from her. Other than that, she used no Craft to sway him toward her, making use solely of experience and intellect.

"I apologise if I have hurt you, even if I do not agree with you still, and never will. I could have been ... softer, in my approach. You are right, that I have a need to see you raw, and I pray you never feel the reason why in truth as it would mean my death. There is a vast difference between arousing the body and arousing the spirit, soul, and mind. You rudely interrupted my attempts to gain the latter three for myself. It seems however, I did fail you as your Queen in not explaining what you had snatched away and tried to rush through."

It pricked at her Queenly pride to give the apology first, but it was the thing a good Queen had taught her to do, once. It was a delicate balance that she felt truly should be taught about Queen's bonds and rarely if ever was. "I am your first and only Queen ... but you are my fourteenth Bonded male. To fully fall into this kind of rare love properly and completely as you deserve ... I cannot begin to describe how afraid it makes me ... and it is not something you can repair all at once. The first time we lie together shouldn't be rushed at all. I would savour every breath, in case I lose you like the rest. "

The effort taken not to weep was immense enough that the room began to darken with her sadness, but her tears had become private, not for him to possess until they had come to proper terms. Such emotion did not belong upon a diplomatic field where they now stood. She gestured a lace gloved hand politely, with cool, efficient Protocol. "Now. Please speak your piece, Prince Galasrinion-Ysillidore, and I shall listen fully. I would not have it be said that I am unfeeling or needlessly cruel."

Offline Tarn Ysillidore

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #15 on: Dec 11, 18, 01:56:31 AM »
192, Winter, 192/193 Winsol: Linithor, Iris Hall, Forested Archers Glade near the Devinos border.

Tarn thought through the entire meeting; his vast hope. His love. His promises.

Hers.

You belong to me. Only me. Mine.

But she was a Queen, and would never belong only to him. She’d been honest about that.

Dearest loves?

He’d been the more dismayed by her certainty that he would never come first with her, than to know she was both well loved, and loved well.

...tell me what you need, what are your demands, my beloved Prince?

She’d accepted his harder, more difficult asks. Yet she’d not listened, when he’d told her what he needed in an immediate sense; she’d heard a demand for her body, when he’d demanded her safety.

That you ask for all that you want, is my first demand. It may be that I cannot give it to you, that we must come to a compromise.

He could not think she knew how to attain compromise. A Queen, deeply wounded, much loved by her family. When, in truth, had she ever before needed to accept even such a minor rebuff, as his needing a moment to change gears?

I do not share well. Unlike most Warlord Princes, I do not have casual relations; I cannot, because of my intense possessiveness.

Yet from her words, she’d not believed in the genuine strength and power of his instincts and emotions. Perhaps she was often told not to trust her own? Queen Periwinkle was much move given to ration and reason, than instinct.

...please, see me, all of me.

... and yet she’d closed off the Bond that allowed him to monitor her safety and assure he she was not alone. She’d thrown hate and vitriol at him, rather than admitting her wounds. He’d have to dig, to learn her; and she’d hate every moment of it.

May I kiss you, my Prince? May I kiss you, and not stop once you have said your piece?

She’d stopped, then done her best to offend him so deeply he would be considered completely rational to walk away and never return. Did she want him to leave her? That didn’t feel right, either. He thought more deeply over her non-verbals actions. Returned to a truth he’d divined about her when he’d first seen her mourning alone.

You should never be alone, my heart.

He stood by that; she did not do well alone. The vast greif of the Ebon Forest reached for her, threatening to take her away altogether.

You may always kiss me. Anywhere. Any when. In front of anyone at all. But I need ever so much more from you, than one kiss. Or a thousand. Let me ravish you, my love.

So he’d tolerated even her angry, punishing kiss when she was busily insulting him. Why had she not simply said no, you may not ravish me because I fear men? Why had she pushed it to this ugly place?

You may do as you like after I am finished with all of you. All of your beautiful body.

Yet he felt she was not reading herself accurately. Once she was done, she’d have another limit, and another. She’d need them, because she was so afraid of men, of the cocks she spurned and insulted.

Do not worry. I will never, ever fail you.

No, she had not failed him. She’d placed herself in a bitter and difficult position, that was all.

You have two choices. You can clothe yourself and wait for a time whilst I go outside and wrestle my Beast under control via masturbation and violence, or you can sate my lust with your body. After one of those, I will be able to sit for your massage, and offer the same in turn. But I cannot, now. You enticed the Beast to the surface, my Queen; you drew my blood and tore your clothes from your body. Now is not the time for hours of gentle exploration, however much we both crave it.

No matter how he examined it, he could not see a threat in that. Any implication that he’d touch her against her will. Simply an assertion that she choose. That she take enough responsibility for her own actions that she acknowledge both the situation she’d placed a Warlord Prince in, and accept his right to take what action he needed to keep from becoming the monster she feared.

No.

She’d refused; refused to choose, refused to have him leave. Grown livid and lost in her own personal nightmare, rather than seeing him at all.

Still. Be Still. We do this way, not yours. Mother Night has given me that right, and you forget your place.

That phrase haunted him, because it was so far from reality. So far from truth; he had to accept that it was likely she’d never be comfortable enough with his Caste for them to risk a sexual relationship.

In matters of your safety, my will exceeds your own, my love.

She’d hated hearing that. Hated him acting on it. She’d threatened, railed at him, been as rude as she could be, thinking he’d stop to engage such behavior.

Perhaps it did not occur to you that my actions have been deliberate? That I knew you would likely respond this way, and not with love?

It was beyond him to accept that she’d deliberately set out to destroy their Bond. That she did not, on some level, know that it was only his deep love that had kept him from hurting her with either words or body. From her crazed later words, he could only assume that no, she had not known precisely what she was doing.

Merely that she’d known she had to do it, regardless.

This wasn’t a damn bit to do with my safety.

That phrase cemented that she wasn’t thinking clearly. She was looking for a way to hate him, to drive him away.

I am allowed to change my mind.

With any other Caste, love. But a Warlord Prince has a finite chain upon his Beast.

I AM PERMITTED TO CEASE WANTING AT ANY TIME UPTO AND INCLUDING A RUT

That was the phrase that devastated him. Did she want to die? She was too experienced and too well trained to believe that lie. Once a Rut started ... even shortly before ... the lady in question had no choice.

And that, of course, was the heart of her fear.

Of her wild switch from lonely, loving forest Sprite begging for his love and loyalty, to one who considered him willing to rape a woman.

From a lady aching to come first in his life and heart (though she did not offer that to him, or even the hope of it) to one who did her best to insult everything about him, even implying she was the more deadly fighter.

Not for fear of his Caste, but of is Rut. Many Warlord Princes focused their Ruts upon their Bonded Queens. At last, things settled within his mind, and he returned to his Queen.

Her anger was beautiful to watch, in an academic way, but it did not trigger a rising of the same within him, no matter how provocative or insulting she chose her words to be. He simply watched, without visible response, as she once more hurled vitriol and hurt at him. Nor did he do more than note her clothed state, something he had chosen not for his own self control, but as a clear and concise signal. His voice wasn’t cold, nor was it pretend friendly. Tarn put on no Court airs nor masks, though she had chosen to do so. He had been, and continued to be, utterly genuine and open to her since the moment he’d seen her.

“Charisma, I worried that you would be distressed in my absence. It hurt, that you closed down the only way I had to tend to you.” He assessed her carefully for signs of self harm, tears, or suicidal fury. She was lovely, fierce, but for some reason she was not responding to his emotional state, as he was to hers. He tore his gaze from her to stare at the floor, to let the pain and insults of what she’d just chosen to say roil through his aura and then melt away. He knew the truth of her, and the mean parts were not it. The angry impatience might well be; the thought summoned forth a pained half-smile.

“I know something about what it is to fear loving again, even if do not know the splintering of self a sundered Queen’s Bond would be. I cannot Heal you from those losses. I can only stand with you, in them, if you let me.” He moved carefully closer, and gestured to her hair brush.

“Will you permit, my Queen?” If she gave assent, he’d gently brush her hair out, whilst talking. He was good at it, these days. There was something soothing in the ritual. Even if she refused, he’d still take up a stance leaning upon the edge of the mirror, watching her. His voice gentled further, almost to an aching fear.

“Spriteling, you are too experienced a Queen not to know that what you said about both Ruts and Warlord Princes is incorrect.”

“When you are calm, and there is time, I will tell you what it will take to be safe from my Ruts, in particular. I’m very darkly Jeweled, and that affects these things. But I have them rarely, and will never permit them to focus upon you.” Once a Rut began, the Lady it was focused upon had to appease the male. To please his every demand, even if she did not want to. Hated what he demanded of her. If she tried to flee or run, he’d give chase and slay everything between his focus, and himself. If she said no to any act, she could be maimed or killed, Ruts were horrid, and Tarn did his best to only rarely suffer them. On one particularly dark day, one ill-fated Warlord Prince in Rut had slain three entire villages trying to get to the Lady he wanted ... in the end, he killed her, too. Even a day or two before was not always enough time to get sufficient space, when a Jewel was very dark. 

“You are utterly correct; you rule. You are the Queen. I am the Warlord Prince. You know the earth, land, living things; Emotional healing, the hidden truth of our people. In all matters save you feeling cherished and your safety, you rule.” He didn't doubt they all obeyed her, and his smile fell away, at the thought. How lonely would that be, to fear one wrong phrase and have those around you mindlessly obey?

“I know how to kill people. It’s what I do. It’s damn near all I do. I know my Beast, and therefore I know how close you were to death,” He held up his hand to beg a moment’s patience, anticipating her incipient argument.

“The danger came from your refusal to admit that I know my own Beast. From saying no to sex, then insisting upon kissing me again, and then arguing about my leaving.” He watched her closely, studying her, hoping she’d understand, this time. The mirror could distort or clarify. Tarn sought the hidden, mercurial truth of her, via the reflection in the mirror. He sought past the anger, the rage, the hate she’d flung at him.

“I spent too long in Court to let words provoke me, my love. You may rail, if you wish or need to. I just need to know you’ll respect the limits I sent upon my Beast, at least until the Bond between us settles.” Her pain distracted, made it hard to focus on this, but he could not let it pass, less it be repeated.

He spoke gravely, seriously, his gaze fixed upon hers.

“Given how hard I have worked to protect your choice despite your disregard for my reality, I find both your threat to banish me from your presence, and the source of it, that I dare touch you against your will to be ... close to unforgivable. That you could all but accuse me of rape, when I have near torn myself in half submitting to your choice is unbearably painful for me.” She had made her choice. That it was the wrong choice, and it hurt her, provoked him right to the edge. This thing of hers, to state she wanted something than insist he not do what would give it to her, blurred the lines of where Protect ended and Cherish began. He’d have to watch his instincts, and trust them. Right now, his instinct was to kneel beside her chair, and offer his hand. If she put one in his, he’d give her a gentle kiss to the back of her hand, utterly chaste.

“You rushed the physical, then you panicked.”

“I told you I needed to take a few minutes to reset from sex to foreplay, and you didn’t merely get angry, as was your right, but immediately attacked and insulted me. He was still unclear why she’d been so offended, why she’d pushed herself in this state, but now was not the time to investigate it.

“All I needed was time. But you wouldn’t give it to me.” Before she might think he was done, but a long silence later, he finished. “Listening won’t prove if you are unfeeling, or needlessly cruel. That comes from how you respond to what I have said.”

Offline Charisma Larethis

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Re: Precious Divinity of Love
« Reply #16 on: Dec 11, 18, 08:24:16 AM »
Stillness. Charisma hardly so much as moved while Tarn spoke, bright violet gaze almost hidden beneath her lashes and elegant face angled away from him. Even the way she sat was both fluid and courtier rigid, as though the truth of her could only stand so much of the training that had indeed, pounded much of her natural instinct flat. Not as much as some, for she knew when to simply flower far more than many did, but the loss of her dear Briar crushed into frozen pieces what was left of a Queen that at her core, could sing even when angry, once. She'd been alone in the proper sense for a very long time.

A faint crack in her present armour revealed a rush of loneliness and a hint of the truth about her: that she'd been worn down enough by pain that the temptation to rid herself of all of it and become like the Brood had been tempting. Only the hazy idea of someone more to cling to had held Charisma steady, and now, having that precise treasure in her hands, she did not, the lady realised, believe she was worthy of the grace. She had, however, sworn not to interrupt Tarn when speaking, but more was very aware that he would be unlikely to bear well the turning of her thoughts. As much as she tried to halt such an advance they darkened as he continued to speak.

The slow movement of the brush through her hair was what kept the Sapphire Queen as close to sane as she could get, then. Her breaths were softly shallow while her pulse became visible along the right side of her neck; she leaned into each pass of the brush, shivering subtly when it, and more particularly, Tarn's hands when he drew away to reset the path. Her hair had been half bound, still, and though she'd still essentially had herself wrapped in cotton so that he could not accurately sense her - perhaps save for true danger - that with trembling hands she pulled out the few pins she'd set in it after her bath. The cloud of silver curls fell to the floor and coiled there, clear that she'd seldom cut the lengths in all her life. She'd not had the chance to do so with her last child's death, and now it seemed pointless to do so.

More than anything now, she'd hated that she managed to mangle what ought to have been perfectly sweet, and for a moment her expression slipped from the courtier perfect mask to reveal the same haunting loneliness, emotional pain, but dismay that she'd hurt him more than had been apparent to her. She picked at her lace gloves for several seconds before the hint of her feelings was again, masked. Even without directly using Social Craft, Charisma was very good at hiding. While that did not help Tarn at all she understood, follow her needs it was easier to hear him if her own pain wasn't filling the room. That he then knelt and kissed her hand, made Charisma tremble for the sweetness of it. She turned slightly to face him.

"My actions have no ... no bearing upon whether ... I think you know yourself, or not. I ... cannot imagine why you might think such a thing from a single outburst of anger," she tensed again and breathed slowly through the cloud of fear that nearly swamped her vision of the room. "There was a time I ... loved the very thing that seems to read like a fear. I still do, it is only ... I do not know you well yet, and you have Bonded me near the worst I have ever been. I do not mean to question your skill, or how in tune you are with your inner self. This has entirely to do whether I may trust you or not. Logically, I know the answer, but there are pieces ... of conversations, words ... that push forth memories which make my skin crawl. But none of that is an excuse, or your doing."

Her speech was slow and halting with long pauses where she fought to push through what she wanted to say without the Craft to aid her infirmity. Her reaction to the idea that he'd keep his Ruts away from her, the alarm and twist of unhappiness even through veiling herself from him was a firm pressure and presence through every turn of phrase. It was a point where logical training honed from her mother's near two centuries many losses had formed the way she'd taught her daughter and raw, wild instinct ground like nails against a glass windowpane. She shook her head slowly.

"I ... did not ask for that, to restrain yourself from me, no, no. But I imagine my outburst did not help that impression." Charisma warred with stating the obvious, glaring and unpleasant truth, for a moment for being considering that it wouldn't perhaps be obvious to him. Her cheeks burned with bright red points of colour. "It has been easily a year since I last bedded anyone, Prince, and much of that has been without more than the most perfunctory touch by a Healer. So yes, I suppose I did rush." Her gaze upon him was rapier sharp with restrained sadness. "And then the world caught up with me, shortly thereafter. Your ears bled trying to hold not only my pain but my very unfortunate starvation."

She shook her head intently again. "I do not want you hurt. Especially, not like that. Before, beyond the two people, I have mentioned to you ... I ... there's been no one, perhaps ... you did not understand when I tried to explain. Sometimes, there were offers, but Lady Periwinkle's Bonded see m-me and ... feel little but pity. It is not an attracting environment. I did not accuse you, however. I made a statement that no woman should feel forced to make. Your choice of words ... reminded me of being chased through the Ebonwood, being nearly violated ... and that was prior to my "visit" with the Brood. There was once a Theatre Bookstore there that was one of my favourite places to go, and before that, it was a Theatre, before the owners died of the Waste. I used to love to walk there." She sighed, and tightly controlled fear, pain, and trauma pulsed along the Bond through the faint cracks it could leak through. Her right hand curled tightly enough that half moon shapes were pressed red against the silvery lace of her glove from her nails, though very luckily for them both, the skin did not break. The left, however, she had allowed Tarn to keep.

"I did try to tell you that I had seen horrible things, but ... I was not clear enough, it seems, as to what that could mean for both of us. It is still a vast understatement, as most Queens are not privy to that kind of terror, and to pile my heartache on top of yours is ... unfair." She closed her eyes and shook her head again, leaning against the chair she was seated in. It was easier that way, she had long learned, to allow the heartache to glide through her senses when it arose than fight.

After some silence, once she could think more clearly, Charisma spoke again, though her eyes remained closed. "I will allow that you are correct ... in the matter that I should have simply allowed you your space, and perhaps I might have, had I been able to. But I disagree regarding my own reactions. I would never seek to devalue what you are, and nor was my reaction an attack, but defence. I do not understand why you heard an insult rather than shock, and pain." He made little sense to her, then. What say did she have whether a wolf was a wolf or not? Her lower lip trembled. "This is not what I wanted. It seems I am allowed nothing without some piece of past suffering getting in the way of some trace of warmth." She didn't cry, but the tip of her nose and ears turned pink. She didn't wish to make her mangling their lovely moment about her hangups and trauma any more than unintentionally putting her foot in her mouth, but he certainly had not helped matters by being a blind male. It frustrated, as now all she wanted was to be held, but Charisma would sooner chew off her own hand before asking because it would confuse matters.

As she sat still, however, quietly speaking, it became harder to close him out, and for a raw moment, her need for him burned along the one Bond she possessed that did not end in a tangle of pain. She swept her free hand over the layers of nearly translucent lace calmly, despite the fact that the searing heat stole her breath, revealing there were far more layers to her than the surface sense of her need for control and logic. "Unless ... you have further to say on this particular matter, Prince, I would imagine we ... have further requirements needing negotiating?" She avoided meeting his eyes once hers were again open, as her thoughts and emotions were the precise opposite of the words she spoke, save for one particular subtlety. She didn't intend to use Tarn's addressed rank as a full-bodied caress without so much as a movement from her hand, but that was how it came from her lips, and her pulse grew loud enough that it was all she could hear. It had felt just right; she shivered and stroked the palm of his hand with her lace covered one.

 

 

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