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Author Topic: I hope you dance  (Read 2268 times)

Description: (attn: Ian)

Offline Oona Sheane

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I hope you dance
« on: May 11, 16, 10:33:44 PM »
Oona sighed deeply into her beer (the best she could afford, for all it tasted like cat piss) and pinched the bridge of her nose in hopes of staving off the tears of weariness and frustration that threatened to fall. She’d come to Tuathal with hope that two years had healed Niall’s wounds enough that he’d hear her out about coming home this time. She missed him still, her only surviving brother, and wanted him back where she could make sure he was safe. He didn’t even have to fight if he didn’t want to, much though every able body was needed.

But she’d waited too long: he’d left his old room at the shady inn she’d first tracked him to in the aftermath of the Massacre. Her heart had been in her throat and her stomach in knots the whole afternoon it had taken she and her escort to trace his path from there. Acair, though, couldn’t have cared less. The warlord was only escorting her out of obedience to Niamh and affection for Oona herself- he had no use for a half-Broken male who’d chosen to abandon his Clan. Oona hadn’t batted an eye at the admission: so long as he served and didn’t get in her way, he could think what he liked.

They’d gone from there to a theatre troop of all things. Though perhaps Oona shouldn’t be surprised. Her brother had always been a marvelous storyteller in their youth and perhaps this was a sign he was getting better, caring about things, trying to belong. Unfortunately, he wasn’t there anymore either and the woman who owned it refused to tell her where he’d gone. While Oona had stood there blinking in surprise at the woman’s fierce defense of her brother’s privacy, unused to such defiance from a Landen, the woman had stiffly offered to pass along a message if Niall ever returned. Oona had just shaken her head and left without ever identifying herself. Call her a coward, but when it came down to brass tacks, she wasn’t sure she could take Niall’s rejection again. Once had been difficult enough. If Niamh hadn’t come along and given her new purpose, a new cause to devote herself to…

The Healer Priestess forcibly shook herself from that line of thought and gulped the last of her beer. At least it was gone now. She turned to look for her escort and leave, but stopped to smile as the inn’s musicians struck up a dancing tune and couples moved to occupy the dance floor. For many of these people, Clans were quaint relics of the past and for all that she’d never give up on hers, she rather envied the viewpoint at the moment. What she wouldn’t give to be one of them, able to relax and set down the burden of pride and Clan. To be touched and held and sway in a lover’s arms without having to worry about being fingered for an Outlaw or worry about whether they’d paid enough to cover her supplies for a little longer. 

She sighed, eyes again roaming the room- and stopping on an older male holding up a wall alone. He was handsome enough and though at rest, vibrated with a barely-contained energy she suddenly itched to take for herself. But sharing it for a dance would do. Exhaustion fled in the face of new resolve and she decisively rose from the bar stool to make a beeline for the bright-eyed Warlord Prince. “Care to show them how it’s done?” She tilted her head at the other dancers, holding out her hands to the man with the most carefree smile she could summon. She hoped she didn’t look too awful after a long day, and knew her features were thinner than they’d once been (the Clan was surviving, but food didn’t go as far as it had used too, even for an active Healer), but she ought to be attractive enough for a dance or two still.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #1 on: May 16, 16, 09:18:41 PM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe
Out past the Killan Ruins



King of Pain you tube link.

Spoiler: King of Pain Lyrics (click to show/hide)



Laird Ian Malcom Falkirk almost never danced with strangers, anymore. Hadn't danced with a woman other than for duty's sake, or to appease his daughters, since his wife's death. Yet he still loved dancing, loved watching the crowds of strangers turn into something more as the music tricked them into the coordination and awareness of others that turned a mob into a fighting force. A faint smile lingered, for the lowlanders entered into their fun with a restrained sense of manners lacking in the Highlands. He watched, drinking his very nice ale, and wishing it was quite a bit stronger. But he didn't like to call for a shot of whiskey, since they might take it as an insult to the ale.

Ian Malcom was dressed discretely enough in his dark, mourning shirt with black leather pants and a warm, tartan wrap likewise in the mourning so pervasive here. He could only hope he did not stand out amongst the crowd, and so far his size and Caste had warned off any people who may have had questions. Yet he was too restless for the quiet of the Killan Keep, and had ridden down here alone for some much needed distraction. His eyes passed over the dancers, searching for something he could not name, a faint elusive scent that kept him pinned in this bar instead of moving on.

Something told him to leave, that he risked too much staying. A year ago he would have been gone rather than risking it. A month ago he'd have gone with an ache in his heart and spent a very angry evening alone. But now ... He lingered. He sniffed gently at the air, and kept his eyes focused intently upon the dancers. He looked neither to his side, nor did his gaze follow the barmaid with his eyes. Whatever he sought here, she was not it. Despite her skill in dispensing ale without spilling it.

Care to show them how it's done?

Ian Malcolm had felt the approach of the red head, allowed his senses to analyze the complex subtly of her Dual Caste, an exact match to his own niece's. Like this lass, Bree had an open and confident demeanor. He allowed his jade-green eyes to settle slowly on her, assessing her from toe-tip to ear-tip. He searched as instinctively for the evidence of weaponry as for curves, and studied the eyes turned towards his. The smile attempted carefree, her eyes tried to be bright. But his own burned into hers as he noted the too-slender wrists, the hollowed cheekbones. She wasn't eating enough.

The Warlord-Prince stood slowly, and enfolded each of her hands in his, noting their care and strength as he did so. He offered her a courtly bow, before stepping within her personal space, never releasing her hands. With gentle skill, he pulled her close against him, one hand settling hers upon his shoulder before releasing it to slide along her arm and into the correct closed-hold position. His other simply adjusted the grip without fully releasing her hand. He'd dance with her, and buy her a meal. And take her home if he decided she was being mistreated. Yseult loved to collect strays, and would get bored if he didn't find her a new one soon.

The thought brought an amused glint to his deep assessment of the Lady he was dancing with. Despite the court-perfected skill, he held her a touch too close, and his eyes never left hers. He had other senses with which to avoid the dancers, and she intrigued him. First, for her courage is so approaching a random Prince ... But mostly for that hidden sorrow in her eyes. Ian was a skilled dancer but he not merely expected by demanded that the lady follow his lead. It was a subtle and deliberate provocation, to see how much she was willing to give. If she had the skill and inclination, then Ian Malcolm would indeed, show the other's here just what sort of seduction dance could truly be.

Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #2 on: May 17, 16, 05:49:04 PM »
If not for the Prince's firm grip, Oona could have wriggled with delight at the close hold. She might be playing with a fire she didn't even know the name of, but something her rose in pleased response to that glint in his eyes.  That look said this wasn't mere courtesy or pity; she was a desirable female to this man. The Healer Priestess rewarded that look by relaxing into his touch and yielding to his silent direction, trusting him to steer them true on the busy dance floor.

Her own attention wandered briefly, though never far- mostly to watch that strong body move with more grace than it ought to be able to. She looked up to study his rough features and intense expression, her Healer's perceptiveness noting the old scars and tension lines worn into his face, and her right hand twitched ineffectually in his as she instinctively sought to soothe him. The group never loosened, however, and she was reluctant to move her other hand from where it clutched at broad shoulders lest the dancing stop and she be left alone with her thoughts again. And she was enjoying the press of that muscular body against her own far too much to risk that.

But she was witch enough to want to play a little too- to test his strength with her own even as she warmed herself by his fire. Oona needed to know she could trust that strength to hold her and keep her so long as she entrusted herself to his care. More than that, however, she wanted to know if he could handle her. Despite the gentleness her Castes inclined her toward, something had put those streaks of blood in her Opal. Oona loved a good challenge; savored someone pushing back when she tested. It wasn't something she got to indulge much these days. Most of the Sheanes were still so sharp-edged that every peacemaker was needed to keep a neighborly disagreement from turning into a real fight. And Oona was too obedient to the needs of her Queen and her roles as a physical and spiritual Healer to risk making things worse herself.

But here and now was a different story. So although her body followed where his guided it, the mind behind it still whirred away in thought. There were more ways than one to let this male know she knew that he was up to. Just because she let him have the lead for now, it didn't mean she was done yet. A bit of challenge often made the yielding sweeter- even if it was only in a dance. Perhaps it would cheer him up a bit too and distract him from whatever had put that somber expression on his face when she'd first approached him.

"Is that all you've got? The redhead challenged playfully. "Because if those old legs of yours are too tires, we could sit and rest for a while." She kept her face as innocent as she could, though a mischievous smile tugged at her mouth. She'd almost accused him of moving slowly enough to put her to sleep after her long day, but had thought better of it. With a Warlord Prince, pressing that button could be interpreted as a request to fed and fussed over, and that wasn't exactly the way she wanted to spend her evening.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #3 on: May 18, 16, 04:10:13 AM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe
Out past the Killan Ruins




Ian Malcolm Falkirk moved with a predator's grace even on the dance floor. His footwork was exquisite, and he cut through the crowd with an ease that made it seem as if they were the only couple on the dance floor. He kept his attention on the woman in his arms, breathing in her scent, his gaze never wavering. She showed no evidence of fear or concern, not even when he pulled her in tight for a turn. When she yielded gently to his lead, a small, hungry smile appeared briefly. He snugged the lovely red-head in closer still, her soft curves feeling good against the hard planes of his body. And his body was both strong and fit, his breathing easy, heartbeat powerful and steady.

Through the clasp of his battled-hardened hands, skin-to-skin, the Healer might even detect the hint of Long-Lived blood, a carefully controlled passion and that peculiar exhaustion prone to those with difficulty sleeping. And the Priestess's keen instincts might whisper warnings about the intensity of the gaze, the commanding hold on her body, the singing tension in the hand curved possessively over her shoulder blade.

Her body yielded to his on the dance floor, following his lead skillfully, but her gaze never dropped, and those eyes, striving so hard to hide exhaustion and sorrow, evaluated him. Testing for something; strength or weakness? Power or need? It was too early yet to tell, but the dance would reveal her to him, measure by measure, heartbeat by heartbeat. When her hand twitched in his, he adjusted his grip to soothe without releasing the firmness of his hold, and his gaze flickered to her hand, to assess it for injury or discomfort. A hidden smile threatened her lips when she spoke, and her voice teased across his senses, the tone and pacing of the words, the subtle undercurrent more important to him than the precise nature of her challenge.

For challenge it was; a taunt, meant to excite and enflame. His half-smile emerged once more upon the granite of his face and his jade green eyes glinted. He didn't answer in words; what was the point? But he adjusted her position slightly to settle her body against his in a hold more common to the fox-trot than the waltz. His 'old leg,' taught with bunched muscles, pressed firmly between hers, her body flush against his. He mixed moves and styles with but one purpose: To brush every part of her soft curves against his powerful frame. He permitted turns and flourishes only if they caused her form to slide along his, or for the tight, intimate feel when their bodies strained together during a pivot turn or dip. He controlled her movement as skillfully when she was spun out away from him as when she was pinned to him. The dance ended, but he did not ease his hold on her during that brief interlude between songs.

Ian Malcolm instead used that momentary stillness to study her reaction to him, searching for fear or regret, hesitance or doubt. He watched her face, felt the tension in her body, along her frame, through her hands. He tested her scent, watched the pulse in her throat and felt the rhythm of her breathing. All the while, a half smile lurked, as he grew more and more aware of the fact that she played a very dangerous game, not merely with him but the Beast within. Something in his rising tension pushed away pain and denied his past; his normally flawless control failed him. He should already have walked away from her. Instead, his focus intensified with each measure of the newly stirring dance, and he was counting the moments until she realized just what sort of man held her so firmly. He was curious what her reaction would be then. Terror, teasing or temptation? That part of him that was always aware of tactical advantage and strategic importance felt a power in their shared pain that was just as intriguing as the shared desire.

The Clan Lair was painfully aware that the Healer / Priestess was too thin. He felt the strain her smile nearly hid and the exhaustion beneath those mischievous eyes. Who had permitted her to come to such a state? Where was the Escort who should already have protested his handling of her? That instinctive need to claim and protect was already clawing at him, demanding action. For now he satisfied that need through dance, offering the surety of his protection, among other things, through no more than the angle of his head and the heat of his body as he once more began to move with her, dominating the dance floor without a second thought

Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #4 on: May 19, 16, 08:35:40 PM »
Her dance partner certainly rose to the challenge, in all senses of the word. Oona wanted to close her eyes and bask in the sensation of hard muscle shifting over soft curves, but her instincts shrieked at her not to take her eyes off of the predator before her. So she held that heated green gaze and let his arousal stoke her own fires with every firm touch and teasing slide of their bodies against one another.

She had half a mind to just haul him off the dance floor as the music ended, curious as to whether he'd let her. He would, the Healer Priestess privately wagered, until they hit the edge of the floor. Then she'd get picked up and swept off her feet, the Warlord Prince putting himself in control of their destination as they sought out somewhere more private. And for a moment, Oona gave serious thought to doing just that. A good, hard pounding through the mattress (and hopefully a bit of a cuddle after?) would be just what she needed to drive away her failure for a while.

Responsible Oona stopped her from yielding to the impulse long enough for him to sweep her into the next dance and she quit fighting her own desires for just a bit longer, letting her world narrow to herself and the male in front of her. Responsible Oona and a touch to her outer barriers finally dragged her attention away from the Warlord Prince to see her escort standing at the edge of the floor with a frown set on his face and tension in his body. Time to go. He told her curtly. One dance was fine, but Warlord Acair was starting to dislike the signals he was getting from the stranger. Unaware of this reasoning, she sent back her assent and returned her focus to her partner to enjoy the last of their time together.

This time she held him close once the music ended, intending to resist a continuation of her dance. She wondered if he'd let her. With some of the fire faded from her mind if not her body, the Healer Priestess noted the growing disquiet in his spirit. "I'm sorry," She murmured, stretching up to kiss her way up his jawline, beard and all. She had to bring her right hand, still held in his, to his chest to balance herself for the final one- a warm, lingering caress of her lips to his own. "But I have to go. Duty calls, unfortunately." She gave him a regret-edged smiled. Duty never quit calling these days, and she was grateful enough to have been permitted even this lovely interlude. It didn't kill the longing for what might have been, but it would hopefully make for some good dreams for the next while to keep the darker ones at bay.

She watched him carefully, senses both physical and mental alert to any sudden changes, but not unduly alarmed. One had to pay attention when dealing with any Warlord Prince, but Oona's threshold for true worry was much higher than it had once been (and her skill with reverse Healing correspondingly adept, strangely enough). "Thank you for such an... inspiring dance, Prince. Please, try to enjoy the rest of your evening." She studied some of the women nearby who were watching them with varying degrees of subtlety, wondering if he'd find comfort with one of them after she'd left. Apparently she wasn't the only one he'd inspired with those dances tonight.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #5 on: May 20, 16, 04:18:36 PM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe
Out past the Killan Ruins



There was a moment, subtle but there, when it seemed the lady in his arms came to a decision. At first, she gave no indication of what that choice might be. But as the music wound to a close for the second time, she clung to him. She did not settle against him as if to dance more, not did she break away, which would have been...foolish. Ian Malcolm had no intention of releasing her, but he would grant her another dance if that was her pleasure. Yet she murmured an apology, even as she sent fire racing to his loins and along his spine by training kisses along his jawline. His grip on her back tightened, and when she pulled their clasped hands between them to leverage herself high enough to kiss his lips he unleashed his desire and all but crushed her to him. His hand on her back slid lower, to help her achieve her goal and his mouth devoured hers hungrily. Her warm, sweet caress to his lips was swiftly turned into a much more passionate, deliberately provocative event. He released her captive hand only after placing it upon the back of his neck, and his hand swiftly imprisoned her head in order to guide her most skillfully through his heated kiss.

Ian Malcolm released her mouth long enough to sweep the area and determine just where to take her next. She spoke, and her words brought his attention firmly back to her, and he literally growled a protest. His hand on her head gently lifted her chin so he could study her eyes. He saw the exhaustion, the sorrow. The too-thin cheeks. The desire and loneliness simmering there. His nostrils flared, and he fought a visible battle to keep from simply answering her absurd request with another passionate kiss. Amusement glinted in his eyes; was this another test of him? And just what did she expect him to do, tamely stand aside while an exhausted and hungry Lady went off to attend to yet more duties? He shook his head very slowly, his thumb settling upon her lips, not to stop her from speaking but to feel the heat and moisture as she spoke. "Your body and eyes tell me otherwise, Lady." His large, roughened hand caressed over her face, lightly rubbing lines of tension away. His palm cupped her jaw, then slid lower to her neck, until his fingers brushed her ears and his thumb rested lightly in the crook of her jaw, occasionally teasing over the tender hollows of her throat or back along those kiss-swollen lips. "You need tending to tonight, and I will do so. If there are those who require aid, I will hire both a Priestess and a Healer to see to your duties. I will see to you, until I am satisfied that you are safe, and rested. Though I plan on thoroughly exhausting you first."

The Warlord-Prince's hand upon her back shifted, so that he held her protectively, and his gaze once more swept the dance floor, searching for the enemy seeking to wrest his prize away. She had approached him, asked him to dance ... kissed him. It therefore followed that she was his, at least for a time. She'd chosen him because she needed him, and he would not fail her. She therefore was choosing not to leave of her own free will, but being pressured into it. "Who seeks to call you away from me?" Again, a growl entered his voice, despite his attempt to soften it for her sake; he did not want her to think he was in anyway displeased with her.

A Warlord on the edge of the dance floor was watching too closely, and the Clan Laird pivoted to face him. The young man had the sense to bow, rather than enact a challenge he would absolutely loose, and Ian Malcolm nodded to him. Without an act of will on his part, the dancers and onlookers between Warlord-Prince and Warlord moved aside. The scattering of the wildlife brought one of those ironic smiles to the Clan Laird's face, but he did not soothe his aura. He was being challenged, and he would answer that challenge as was his right.

Ian Malcolm looked down at the woman in his arms, an eyebrow rising. "Do you have an affection for the Warlord, my lady? You might assure him that I will take exquisite care of you." There was a pain in his voice, when he spoke; it hurt that she might fear for her wellbeing with him. He understood it, yet ... She was a Lady and ought not ever fear for her safety in his presence. He summoned the Warlord to him with a jerk of his chin, not fully releasing the woman in his arms, though he reluctantly removed right his hand from her neck in order to have a hand free to summon his Blade if required.

"Warlord, Lady. I am Clan Laird Ian Malcolm Falkirk. My Lady requires respite from her duties. Even if she declines my escort in more intimate matters, I will see that she is both rested and fed before she has my permission to return to her duties. I am willing offer a temple donation for a Priestess' time and to hire a healer if you have people in active distress. Otherwise, your services are no longer required for the evening, Warlord."

Ian Malcolm spun a Sapphire Shield between the onlookers and the three of them, a courtesy to assure minimal damage and no accidental loss of life should the woman in his arms indicate she was in the slightest way afraid of or angry with the Warlord. The Clan Laird was hair trigger today, and would not add to her distress should violence become necessary. While he was willing to exercise restraint until he knew how she felt on the matter, he was also very willing to make sure she never had anything to fear again. But the pre-battle tension in his body transmuted to puzzlement as he saw the exhaustion and too-thin features of the Warlord. What was going on here? He pulled a pile of coins form his purse, and offered them to the Warlord. "Get yourself a meal as well, lad. You are in no shape to fight me over this, and I wish no harm to your or yours. Eat, take a room for the night."

The pair offered more questions than answers, and he waited with the patience of Highland Granite for the two to respond to his orders.

Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #6 on: Jun 01, 16, 07:20:23 PM »
Warlord Princes... Oona swore silently, once her wits had recovered sufficiently to take in the man's pronouncement. Yes. she was feeling down for missing Niall and a bit travel-worn, but- the witch froze on a protest. One thing she always tried to be was truthful to herself and even she couldn't assure herself that she'd get some rest once she got home. And that thorough exhausting he'd promised sounded lovely enough to draw a pained whimper from her throat- never more had she more wanted to forget she had an escort. But disobeying Acair's request would be to dishonor his service to her and his responsibility for her safety.

It was fortunate for her libido that she wasn't the only one involved in the decision. She drew in a quick breath as he found her escort and challenged Acair's right to take her away in short order, unsure whether to find his competence dismaying or arousing. "He is family, Prince. " And she'd gotten him into this, so she forced her body to override the instincts that should have had her tensed and ready to shield herself and leaned trustingly back into the marmoreal being her dance partner had become. She chased the hand that had freed itself and reached to loosely circle his wrist (or as far as she could reach around it, anyway). No fear here, no sir, just trust and calm and safety.

Acair's approach and Ian's introduction almost broke the calm she was working so hard at radiating to defuse the situation. She'd been dancing with a Clan Laird? And one known to have blood ties to the Killans. Wonderful. But the Healer Priestess was made of sterner stuff and rallied to keep the dismay off her face if not out of her psychic scent- let the Prince think it exasperation at his over-protectiveness.

The Warlord across from them inclined his head in acknowledgement of the darker male's offer, but made no move to take the money. "It will be as the Lady decides, Clan Laird." He replied with studied calm, looking to Oona. He would fight for her if she wanted to leave, she knew. He would likely lose- it would get him very hurt at best, if not dead. But it might buy her enough time to run and catch a Wind if she did not want or trust the strange Warlord Prince to care for her tonight. And Acair would be a good escort and take that hit for her if that was her choice.

Oona looked up at Ian, searching for answers in the eyes that had watched her so heatedly and the lips that had stoked fires long dampened by stress and duty. But what really decided her was the arm that still held her against him. Killan ties he might have, but Ian Falkirk himself was almost sweet in the ludicrous measures he took to protect her. She gave Acair's inner barriers a sharp, warning tap with the Blood Opal to get his attention and then a soothing touch of benediction to assure him it would be alright. Take the room, I'll return when I can. There was really only one option here that wouldn't end in bloodshed and discovery that members of the Sheane Clan were in the area.

"I am grateful for your shelter, Prince." Oona declared her intention to stay as Protocol dictated. "For this night only." She was a Sheane, and therefor not foolish enough to miss putting a time limit on her yielding. A Warlord Prince would take a statement without such a condition and run with it, something the Healer Priestess didn't want or need. She'd cater to Ian's instincts to protect, enjoy a little pampering, and slip away before morning, just another woman in the night. Of course, it would help if he were exhausted first, and since that would hardly be a hardship in this case... "As to the other," She grinned up in him in lazy amusement, "you have until morning to persuade me. Think you can do something with that?"

She wouldn't be a Sheane if she didn't enjoy playing with fire at least a little bit.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #7 on: Jun 03, 16, 06:12:17 PM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe
A Tavern in the Capitol



Ian Malcolm Falkirk watched the young Warlord, assessing the quality and condition of his gear, comparing his hunger-thinned, exhausted face to his court-perfect manners. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. What could possibly so press upon a Dual Caste Healer Priestess to the extent that neither she nor her Escort were properly fed and rested? What was their Clan Laird thinking? Ah, of course, they must be in trouble through a Court and Queen. He had his own experience of corrupt Queens. He shot another long, assessing look at the young man, and wondered which Court had disintegrate so spectacularly that these two were still on the run? No doubt, they either had no Clan, or belonged to one they felt could not stand against their Court's enemies. If his speculation was correct, he wouldn't get any answers here, in public. But a quiet, sensual dinner or a long, hot bath both offered plenty of opportunity for this lovely Lady to explain all.

It felt good to have a cause; it felt amazing to feel himself [/i]waking up[/i] from the half-dream his life seemed to be down here in the Lowlands. He adored his children, understood his Queens needed training ... Initially he'd meant to leave them down here. He had a few Clan's to chastise, one or two to hassle in a friendly way, and a whole section of the Highlands missing his constant care and direction. Yet finding his Queen, his sweet, lost and fierce Coira, he could no more return to the Highlands without her than he could fly. But he wasn't truly needed, had few opportunities to exercise his authority. But now, he had a Lady, a Quest and a Lackey. His fierce, possessive smile unfolded as he regarded the tired Warlord.

Ian Malcolm's lady's quiet assurance, that the Warlord was her family had earned her a softening of his grip and lessened tension. He'd do his best to keep the lad in one piece, then, and he'd conveyed that with a gentle nuzzle when she softened against him, pulling him farther back from the battle-edge. And it was harder than it should be, to let go the promise of violence. Still, her touch worked its ancient magic, diverting his instincts from violence to sweeter appetites. She gently sought to chain his sword arm, and his smile sharpened. He snugged her in tighter, and allowed his fingers to stroke along the back of her hand.

The Clan Laird noted both the dismay at his introduction and the fact that both of his new dependents declined to offer their names in public. He felt her gaze upon him, searching, and angled his head to allow him to watch her from the corner of his eye, but he did not yet look away from the loyal Warlord. He felt the pull of power from the lady in his arms and waited patiently whilst she made her wishes known. He turned his gaze fully upon her only when she spoke, accepting his protection. Her wording was careful, and his smile went to razor sharp.

Ian Malcolm rumbled a low chuckle, turning his gaze momentarily to the Warlord. "Have a care for yourself, Warlord; No Escort can do his job worn so thin. We will meet you here tomorrow, when she is rested." He did not specify a time, for he intended to be certain the Lady slept herself out. He released his Sapphire shield, and returned his gaze to the Lady he held so protectively. "Challenge accepted, Lady. I might change your mind on a good many things by morning." He adjusted his grip, and swung her up into his arms. This tavern was good for dancing, but he had a finer establishment in mind; one that would offer the secrecy she seemed to need.

Spoiler: Inn Suite (click to show/hide)


By the time they got to their room, dinner was ordered and a warm bath had been started. He'd also tipped the maid well to bring his red-haired beauty both a comfortable nightgown and a complete change of clothes for morning. If what he suspected was true, she was likely to be short of clothes. Food, after all, came before comfort. It was a corner suite, on the second floor, wide open windows allowing in the breeze without sacrificing privacy through the simple expedient of gauzy window hangings. Soft blue tile helped retain heat at night and kept it cool during the day, and the bed held elaborately carved bed posts. Sturdy, elaborate bed posts. A  soft couch was oddly placed facing the bed, not the window, and Ian could only grin. Apparently, larger parties than three usually requested this room. Still, his main focus had been a large, private bath, and that was provided through a simple set of double doors. Now it left only to be seen which hunger his lady first needed to satisfy. He only had until tomorrow to convince her stay under his protection, and that meant sacrificing at least part of the night to determining just who she was fleeing from.

Ian Malcom Falkirk closed the door on the maid, and spun a aural shield about the room. "My lady," he placed a warm hand on her shoulder, gently rubbing at the knots likely to be there. He stepped close, so the warmth of his body brushed her backside. His head dipped low enough to nip her ear, and his voice rumbled through his chest as he spoke. "Now that I have you to myself, my lady, you may safely tell me your name." He bent lower, kissing along her ear and  biting more firmly to the strong muscle just under it. Both hands, now, worked at her sore muscles, still moving easily over her shirt, but not yet moving to undress her. Soon, but not yet.


Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #8 on: Jun 05, 16, 05:08:24 PM »
Oona had but a moment to sag with relief that no blood would be shed here before the Clan Laird swept her up in his embrace. She made a startled squeak, hand clenching reflexively in his shirt, but his grip held her steady and strong and the Healer Priestess let herself relax. He seemed to know where he was going and it felt so damned good not to have to do the worrying for once. She buried her face in his shoulder and inhaled the scent of steel, leather and male while they moved through the night.

(She probably ought to find out if he had a Queen to hold his leash at some point, though, she might need the assist…)

Reality asserted itself briefly when she saw the room he’d secured for them: for a rough Warlord Prince, the man had impeccable taste. There were pretty green walls and nice dark woods, and an intriguingly large bathroom visible through a doorway. The prospect of a few hours alone in a hot bath was nearly enough to claim Oona’s attention for the night- let Falkirk fend for himself.

Then the man stepped up behind her and began working magic more impressive than any bit of Craft as those strong, lovely hands began working away weeks (months, years…) of tension in muscles long since inured to the burden. The Healer Priestess moaned in unselfconscious pleasure. She tensed slightly as he nipped at her ear, cooed her approval of the firmer bite. But he’d asked her a question-?

“You can call me anything so long as you keep doing that.” She blurted the first reply that came to mind, focused on enjoying the sensations. She quite liked the sound of ‘my lady’ on his lips, though.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #9 on: Jun 10, 16, 02:46:01 AM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe
A Tavern in the Capitol



Ian Malcolm Falkirk had really, really good shoulders. Powerful, hard planes of muscle designed for sword fighting and, just occasionally, for letting his daughters cry. But it had been a very, very long time since he'd cradled a lady he'd captured just so. The sense-memory of how the lovely Dual-Caste Priestess Healer had snugged her head into his shoulder, the way she'd just relaxed and let him be the Protector that he was born to be added real bite to the desire she'd sparked in him.

But he caged that personal need, finding real and powerful knots all but lining the neck and shoulders of his prize. His lady-wife had been a Healer, and had taught him precisely how to relieve pain through touch, yet it had been a decade or more since he used those techniques in a sensual manner. A really thorough massage tended to put people to sleep. He gave a second, wicked chuckled and moved his seeking mouth lower down upon her neck. She'd liked that first, passionate bite, and the coo of pleasure she released was a song he planned to have her sing all night, broken by other, louder cries, and more of those sweet, erotic moans she'd released when he first got his hands on her shoulders. The only way to keep her from passing out the minute her tension eased would be to build a whole new type of tension within her, and keep the two nicely balanced. A game of strategy, if you will, as opposed to simple tactics.

The Clan Laird maneuvered her slowly, ready to soothe any anxiety, his hands easing knots and seeking spots of tension, though they also quite deliberately slid her neck-line askew, pushing it to the right side, revealing her shoulder to his mouth and teeth, the top curve of her breast to his eyes. Only after a soft series of kisses, enhanced by the brush of his beard across her neck, did he allow a stronger, deeper bite to the curve between neck and shoulder; he held the pressure, testing precisely the depth she desired. He suckled, determined to leave more than one bit of evidence upon her flesh. He'd taste every inch of skin before dawn. Only when she relaxed did his hands leave her skin to loosen the buttons and ties keeping her skin from him, his right hand sneaking around in front to trace the neckline of her shirt, then slide over the fabric of her dress, tracing her teasing, taunting breast.

He fully intended to care for her, but he was reasonably certain that she had not quite thought through the power of names. Especially when making such a request of a Clan Laird. He was willing to take full advantage of it; to create for her a new, legal and very real identity. One which powerfully extended his right to care for her. "My lady," Ian Malcolm's voice was deep and rough, his breath heated her skin, long after her own softly spoken, dual requests. "I consent. Ialach you will be." He paused, both to savor the tender skin of her shoulder in a long slow kiss, and to permit her to protest. If she could. "Ialach Falkirk, of the Falkirk Highlands." His breath and beard brushed over her ear this time, before he again lightly applied his teeth, seeking to re-summon her soft moans. He would listen, if she found words to fight him with. "Lady Ialach Falkirk." Thrice he named her, a small, hungry smile brushing over her skin. "Named for your hair, which shines like silken fire." He pulled back, to better admire the glories of her hair, and dug the fingers of both hands deeply into her scalp, massaging that most difficult of places with powerful, battled hardened fingers.

Ian Malcolm despised floral scents and expected all of the oils and soaps here would be unbearably cloying. He Appeared his own kit, containing both the Sandlewood-and-clove oil that smells not unlike a fine leather oil, which he used to shield his skin from icy wind, and the cinnamon/marigold hand cream he used to ease aching knuckles and joints after a fight or long ride. He stepped back from her, his left hand traveling from the crown of her head, cupping her neck for a moment, before soothing down her spine all the way to her ass, and settling there. His right deftly opened each, then presented them to her, allowing her to smell them and pick one. He liked the notion of covering her in his scent quite literally, and wasn't blind to the symbolism. A most rare, sensual, and enjoyable way to bring home another future Falkirk.

If she picked one, he'd use another brief flare of power to pull the a bath towel from the bathroom and spread it over the bed; the hand at her backside would gently urge her towards that large, comfortable contraption, though if she headed towards the bathroom instead he would not intervene. A hot soak would only soften muscles further, and there was a nice, large tub awaiting her.

Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #10 on: Jun 30, 16, 06:11:10 AM »
Oona displayed no anxiety as he continued to massage her and bare her skin. Once the Healer Priestess committed herself to something, she tended to go at it full bore. It came from the same trait that got most Healers into trouble on difficult cases, mixed with the spark of her own personality and a full measure of Sheane stubbornness. However advantageous it might be for Ian at the moment, it would be the same thing that sent her racing back to her Clan when her stolen dream was over and keep her there, as her brother feared, unto her own destruction if nothing happened to intervene with that fate.

Oona made no more noises as his hands worked, no cries or moans even as he set his teeth in again. She had gone too deeply for that, reveling in the sensations he provoked with a Healer’s hyperawareness of the body and eyes closed to shut out any distraction beyond him. But she tilted her head back with unselfconscious trust as he carried out his ministrations. She only roused again when he gifted her a new name, shivering in sensual delight as beard and teeth scraped over sensitive skin along with his whisper. “Then Ialach I shall be tonight.” The addition of his Clan name quite passed her by, so taken was she by the pleasure he stirred and the idea of leaving herself behind for a time. Oona carried the burdens of the Sheane Clan always, and anything she did must be in service and honor of that fact; Ialach could take a little time for herself, because she was just a woman with an attentive Warlord Prince at hand. And if Ialach could stand as the shill to protect her true affiliations, so much the better.

The scalp massage practically made her eyes cross in pleasure– the head really was an-oft-neglected area of sensuality, and hard to do right if a lover wasn’t mindful not to pull the strands (at least not before the rest of the body caught up!). Falkirk didn’t miss a trick in that regard and she made a disappointed noise as his hands left her hair.

His alternative was equally intriguing, however, and she dutifully sniffed at both offerings. No pleasingly delicate floral scents here. These were a male’s choices and she inhaled the sandalwood-and-clove concoction with a blissful sigh. She loved that smell, reminiscent of leather and male. She didn’t quite wrinkle her nose in disgust at the marigold-and-cinnamon cream, but her expression should have twitched enough to betray her lack of enthusiasm for Ian to pick up on. It reminded her of some of the creams she used as a Healer to treat sore muscles and aching joints; reminders of the very life she was seeking to forget for a few hours.

The sandalwood mix would also better allow her to play too, if she were so minded to return the favor at some point tonight (no male surely wanted to be smelling of marigold, even at a lover’s hands). The through filled her smile with wicked promise as she let him guide her to the bed, all but daring him to guess at the thoughts flitting through her mind. She positioned herself carefully to let him continue… and then her stomach growled to remind her that she’d intended to home with the Clan for supper after that drink to bolster her spirits enough to go. It was just a little growl, though, so perhaps he’d ignore it for a while longer.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #11 on: Jul 13, 16, 03:20:00 AM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe
A Tavern in the Capitol



Ian Malcolm Falkirk had rarely had a casual lover who so simply and fully enjoyed the moment. Ialach was not shy of her body, nor ashamed to cue him as to what pleased her. She offered him a rare trust, that spoke both to her understanding of his Caste, and her own. That lack of anxiety, her gentle yielding to his ministrations soothed the man, even as it steadily fed the fires within. Each quiet acquiescence to one liberty, simply led to the desire to take more. And more, until nothing was left between them at all, save need and power.

The Warlord-Prince missed her soft cries, when she withheld them, but one look at the intense concentration upon Ialach's features and Ian Malcolm suspected that she was lost in a deep mediation, some blending of her castes that made each touch that much more powerful. His breath heated her skin as she accepted her Naming. His hands tightened possessively, and he bit back a growl as she once more insisted on a time limit. She rewarded him at last when his hands left her head, and he bent to kiss her neck as a reward, as well as allowing a few more moments to run his fingers though her hair. A laugh rumbled through him. Of all things, her head! if that was her pleasure, then he would use it ruthlessly. Such lovely hair cried out to be made part of their passions tonight, in any case.

Ialach chose the sandalwood-and-clove oil, and Ian Malcolm had to chuckle again at the knowing, wicked smile that greeted that choice. He had no doubt, whatsoever, as to her creativity and drive. He pulled her sharply against him, just as she was about to settle upon the bed, and claimed her wickedly tempting mouth with a deep and burning kiss. He took only a moment more to divest her of the remains of her shirt, so that his hands could roam unhindered over her back, his right hand snaking up into her hair, to hold her pinned into his kiss as his powerful, large hand tensed and relaxed, his fingers digging into her scalp in sensual pleasure even as his mouth devoured hers.

Yet he was a Warlord-Prince, and for all of his fierce passion, Ian Malcolm Falkirk was first and foremost a Protector. He wrestled for control, broke the kiss with an effort. Loosened his hold. That small sound of a rumbling stomach kept him from finding out, right then, what Ialach's smile had betokened. But it was not without recompense; watching her eat, lounging on the bed without her shirt on, would be both a sensual delight and utterly arousing. "Stay." he growled out, as he gently settled her upon the bed.

Ian Malcolm used Craft to move the table closer, and wrapped Ialach in a gentle warming Shield. He filled a plate, some of everything without much regard to temperature, taste or portion size, and placed it before her. He was too hungry to be romantic, to eat with slow sensual bites or careful court manners. Yet he still took the time to pour a drink, and make a silent toast, an oddly painful expression upon his face. He caught Ialach's eyes, and offered to touch his glass to hers, before intoning quietly, "Absent friends."

It was a toast to the dead; and perhaps she would be offended. Perhaps she would be hurt. But no pleasure was complete without pain, no life fully lived until touched by the brutality of death. He did not doubt, somehow, that a Healer-Priestess would be more attuned than most to that duality. So let his lovely Ialach be the life and light to his dark violence, their stolen moment the antidote to the pain which was the tapestry of life.

Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #12 on: Jul 24, 16, 09:08:26 PM »
Oona made a disappointed noise as Ian drew back from their kiss, laughing as he directed her to stay on the bed. Where else would she go with a determined Warlord Prince in the room and without her shirt? She lounged on the bed with no hint of shame at the semi-nudity even with the immediate frenzy broken (Blood didn't have much modesty after a certain age, in her experience, and what few vestiges of that she'd been inclined to hadn't survived her forays into prostitution to help the Clan survive). She'd forgotten how nice it could be to have a lover as attentive to her needs as she was to his- even the nonsexual ones.

Truthfully, she didn't even need the warming spell he tucked around her moments later. It would take a lot longer than that to dispel the lingering heat he'd stroked with those capable hands. She thanked him with a quick kiss when he set her plate before her, scanning her options with a greater eye to practicality than romance. What could be eaten quickly, and how much would she need to clear to mollify her Warlord Prince's mother-hen tendencies before they could get back to the good part?

Then Ian made a toast to absent friends. It wasn't an unusual gesture, but it made Oona briefly gape at him as though he'd announced he'd killed her puppy. How dare this man, this Killan ally speak of absent friends to her- rage flooded her, making the hand that held her wine glass tremble. Fortunately, reason tapped her on the shoulder before she gave voice to the maelstrom of feeling he'd stirred up in her. Falkirk wasn't taunting her. He had no idea she was a Sheane or that his friend was the whole reason hers were absent. Rage slipped away as quickly as it had come, leaving behind a sad, empty feeling where earlier there had been light and fire and the good things of life.

The reminder of absent friends and the ones she couldn't save just resurrected today's failure anew. And there was nothing to be done about it. No matter that what remained of her tender feelings had been wounded, she was still stuck with a determined Warlord Prince and any attempt to cry off and lick her wounds would only make things immeasurably worse. The mood had definitely been broken for her, at least for now, and food held no appeal despite her hunger.

It was the pain in Ian's own eyes now that she looked again that gave her the way forward. Pain shared was often pain halved, she knew, and perhaps it was safe enough to share just a little of what hurt her. "I miss my brother, Ian." She whispered, setting her glass down to wrap her arms around her drawn-up knees in poor imitation of the comfort she needed. "At least with the others, I know, but he's out there hurting and won't come home. And now I don't know where he is at all. I feel like I failed him. Him, my family and myself." The wounds they'd inflicted had been mutual, she knew, but somewhere deep in her heart the Healer Priestess still felt as a bedrock certainty that between her healing hands and the guidance of Mother Night she should be able to fix anything. Oona released her grasp on her knees and reached for Ian instead, burrowing into his side as tears fell and sending her hands questing under his own shirt in search of warm, comforting skin. The hug was far from sexual, but she contact she sought might yet reignite the embers banked in the name of more less earthy desires.

But they were Blood, after all, and most things worked back around to sex and blood in the end. Thus was life forged from death, passion from pain, and the cycle begun anew.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #13 on: Jul 25, 16, 05:45:37 PM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe, eight weeks after arrival
A Tavern in the Capitol, then a nearby nice inn.



His Ialach understood pleasure, both subtle and overt, more than most. She had no shame and a great ease in letting his eyes feast upon her body while his mouth and hands were busy with less alluring though equally needful things. That little sound of reluctance she'd made, when he'd released her from his kiss kept repeating in his mind. Her laughter was a spontaneous, joyous thing unconcerned with court rules or protocol, yet that swift, sweet kiss as a thank you hit him hard, with more impact than he should allow it.

She'd still been studying her food, when he'd made his toast.

Shock flared in her eyes, followed by pain. Her hand trembled, nearly spilling her wine, and so many conflicting and hurtful emotions darted though her scent and eyes that Ian Malcolm couldn't decipher them all. He read the emptiness and despair clearly enough, though, perhaps more clearly than she. Whatever had happened to her family, her court, had devastated her more than physically. While not suicidal, such grief could amount to a death wish. He didn't look away from her hurt, her loss. Nor did he conceal his own. Instead he moved from the chair, to beside her. He vanished his mourning Tartan, his white cotton shirt, and folded his powerful arms around her, skin to skin. He pulled her firmly into his lap, folded knees and all, even as she reached for him. "Sweet lass, I'm here. Weep, if it's in your heart. Rage, if you must. I'll hear you. I'll hear it all." His voice rumbled in her ear, his body warm and hard beneath her softer one. Yet his comment was both promise and threat; his lady had a real enemy, a true grief and a missing brother.

Inaction was now impossible.

She went on, to speak of how she felt that she'd failed her family. That fear resonated deeply with Ian Malcolm. He knew failure, and a failure that cost lives was particularly devastating. Yet she was neither Queen, nor Clan Laird. He could not see how she could have failed her family so spectacularly that most of them were dead. His power flared, subtle and real, coursing over her body in a caress as he Marked her aura. The Hunter's Mark would let him find her, even if she ran. He'd find her, her Warlord and her brother. And he'd bring them home.

"Tell me of your brother. What drove him to run?" He settled her more comfortably upon his lap, brushing a kiss to her temple, and plucked the nearest, solid looking thing off of her plate. He took a bite, before tempting her with the rest of the oddly flavored vegetable. Why on earth did women think such things were food? He washed it down with whiskey, and offered her a swallow from his tumbler rather then reaching for her wine.

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #14 on: Jul 31, 16, 02:27:02 PM »
"He said we were poison." Oona whispered, lost in the fog of distant memory. The appearance of the morsel at her lips startled her back to the present and she accepted it without thought, only identifying it as a nice, crisp piece of vegetable once it was already in her mouth. That shook her from the undercurrent of her grief more than anything else; that she trusted this Falkirk unthinkingly even in this small thing. Accepting food from strangers could be a dangerous habit to get into. As could sharing the family business with others.

She let him give her a sip of whiskey without making too much of a face at the taste -definitely not her drink, but to each their own- as her brain kicked into furious action to launch a belated coup on her emotions. She had to be so very careful here, lest the wrong detail result in the treeing of the remaining Sheanes. What then? Would they flee to that cesspool known as Little Terreille, just one more commonplace gang among others? An unlikely scenario, perhaps, but so was their current state just a few years ago.

So what was safe to say? "Things... went bad with my -our- Clan. Our Queen was perhaps not the best, and her enemies came looking for her. They took a lot of good people with her." Oona rested her head on his nice, warm chest as her voice started thinning again, trying to recapture a narrator's proper distance and tell the story like it had happened to someone else. She lifted it again to accept the next morsel Ian offered her, but with so much lovely bare skin so close to her lips, she couldn't resist a quick lick at the spot where her head had been to get the taste him him before she did.

"My brother lost his Offering, and I think that sent him off the deep end a bit. He left the Clan and came here. Refused to come back when I came after him and asked him to help us rebuild. He said we were poison, doomed, and begged me to stay too." The Healer Priestess looked at Ian earnestly. "But we weren't. Our new Queen was already rallying the survivors, taking care of them. But he was too hurt-" Mother Night, let it have just been the devastating psychic injury of a broken Jewel! "-too broken inside to listen to reason. So he politely showed me the door and I left. I couldn't think what else to say or do to persuade him." The flare of guilt rose again, that she hadn't been eloquent enough.

"But he's still my brother, so I had to keep trying." She hoped Ian would understand that impulse. Family didn't get left behind so easily, or forgotten, even if they wanted to be. "It was the same tune last year, but today- this time he was gone. Not where I'd left him. I spent all day tracking him down again." Thus explaining some of her exhaustion. Not at much of it as she was hoping, though. "He was at some theatre." Now what was it again? Something to do with blacksmith things.... "The Forge. The woman there wouldn't tell me where he'd gone." Oona quite appreciated someone acting to guard Niall, since the version she'd last seen didn't seem in a hurry to watch his own back at all. "She said she'd take a message, if he ever came back around, but she wasn't sure how likely that was." She finished sadly.

At this point, Oona dearly wished she had the time to kneel before an Altar and sink into that perfect Darkness. To take in a bit of its wild peace into herself and release her own pain into that vast sea in return. But the Warlord Prince might take it amiss if she tried to run away from him now, even in that fashion. Perhaps an alternative could be arranged. "Ian, I appreciate that I need to eat, but I would very much like it if you would fuck me until I forget my own name now." She requested boldly, reaching out to nudge the plate aside. "You can finish feeding me after I eat my desert first." Her gaze raked what of his body she could see, oddly predatory for a Healer, and she reached out to palm him through his trousers. Then she abruptly decided that wasn't enough, and tapped her Blood Opal to vanish them herself. There, much better. There was more than one kind of worship that fulfilled the soul and the Priestess was fairly confident that she could get enough of what she needed here until the real thing was available.

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #15 on: Aug 11, 16, 03:12:33 AM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe, eight weeks after arrival
A Tavern in the Capitol, then a nearby nice inn.




Ian Malcolm Falkirk focused upon Ialach, with the same attention he would bring to any other field of battle. His arms, powerful and hard, strove to cradle her gently, despite the oddly disturbing picture her words presented. Disturbing, because a dual Caste Priestess Healer was surely one of the two or three most cherished members of her Clan, yet she was clearly miserable, hungry and exhausted. So just how good a job this Queen of hers was doing was highly debatable.

Yet Ian Malcolm didn't speak, he listened. It was perhaps one of his gifts, to listen fully. Ialach ate a bit, not enough to satisfy him, but something. Her face when she tried his whiskey won a brief, low chuckle and enough courtesy to use craft to bring her own wine goblet near to her. Yet she was far from focused on food. He understood how a weak or even selfish Queen could take her entire Clan down with her if someone did not have the will and courage to stop her; he grunted in remembered pain, but he did not connect her words with the Sheanes. The Druimin Clan and his own had both had brutal experience with what a Queen could cost his people, and the nature of Scelt was that Clan feuds and violent wars were far from rare.

Ialac's lips drifted across his bare, scarred chest and a faint rumble of appreciation was summoned forth. A part of his mind noted details. A Queen. A Clan. Vengeance gone bad. A brother with a Broken Offering. Yet he asked no questions, just permitted her to speak as the urge took her, his body a warm comfort, his hands both soothing over her body and attempting to get her to eat. The rest of his mind was busy studying her, how she moved. How she smelled. Which touches she leaned into, and which away from. When a brush of a calloused hand brought a shiver, or prickled her skin.

Ian Malcolm went still when she repeated that her brother had called her Clan poison, doomed. A memory teased him, just out of reach. He understood her continued attempt to bring her brother back to the fold; Scelt was no place for a Clanless man. He raised an eyebrow when she said a theatre, drawn to thoughts of Yseuelt's most troubling Bonded. But truthfully the Theatre was a good occupation for a Broken Blood. They could demand quite nice wages while re-learning their balance with the Craft and avoiding the people who Broke them in the first place. But he didn't think she wanted to hear that, at least not right now. Still, it was better than him being on the streets, or working a Red Moon House. Both of those were high risk, and often led to even more violence.

Ialach's thoughts wandered away from Ian Malcolm for a time, and she was silent, turned inward. He brushed soft kisses along her shoulders and neck, his breath warm in her hair, along that the vulnerable spot just beneath her ear. When she spoke it was with resolution, and a complete change of mood. She slid her hand between his legs, along his hard arousal, then dared to vanish his pants and caress him directly.

If she hand't wanted to be turned to straddle him, so her hands could work freely while his mouth dipped along her neck, to her chest, until he could flick her breast with his tongue, than she'd miscalculated. His teased a moment more, his breath hot upon her flesh, then closed his mouth upon the warm, tender swell of her breast. He could smell her desire, mixed with his own, rising up between them, a heady mixture that enflamed him.

Ian Malcolm's left hand splayed along her back, pressing her into him, arching her back. The other slid down the curve of her hip,over the swell of her bottom, following the crease until he could reach under her from behind. He widened the legs she straddled, his fingers seeking and teasing the lips and sweet dampness at her core.

The limit of his ability to properly reach and tease her soon tried his patience. He plundered her other breast, biting gently, testing her pain/pleasure threshold. His hand on her back rose higher, tangled in the hair at the small of her neck, and he claimed her mouth in a fierce and passionately aroused kiss, slowly bending her backwards onto the bed. His tongue parted her mouth with a hungry fervor, devouring her without restraint.


Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #16 on: Sep 11, 16, 04:14:49 PM »
The teasing was fun, but not nearly enough for either of them. Oona’s fingers faltered at their task as he plundered her breasts and cunt, arching into his mouth and hands. There would be time enough tonight to revisit his own responses –she planned on insisting he lay himself out for her pleasure at least once, restraining himself while she explored at her leisure and discovered just how far she could push that self-control- but that wasn’t what she wanted now. She let herself be distracted and moaned freely for him with each caress of lips and fingers, rewarding the harder touches and bites with more volume and, as she remembered, renewed strokes of his cock. Sweetness could wait: she wanted to feel tonight.

But it was the grip on her hair and fierce claiming of her mouth that positively made her melt against him, letting her manhandle her as he willed. These were the memories she could pull out and linger over later during long nights and lonelier times. The Healer Priestess, so busy giving of herself to others, wanted desperately for someone to take and hold her. To make her stop and let herself have without guilt the rest and pleasure she often did not have time for. To feel precious and loved, if only for one night. Flushed and giddy with sensation, the Healer Priestess felt it important to share these wants with her lover, babbling them in a voice gone nearly breathless in her passion. How else would Ian know how important it was that he quit teasing and get inside her now?

As her body met the bed and his covered her, Oona set her nails in his back and raked his shoulders as pleasure sizzled alone her spine, pulling at them to urge him to the main event already. “Please, Ian. I need you. Don’t make me wait.” She gasped raggedly, her world wonderfully narrowed to heat and touch and mine, now.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #17 on: Oct 31, 16, 03:44:52 AM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe, eight weeks after arrival
A Tavern in the Capitol, then a nearby nice inn.



Please, Ian...

Ian Malcolm Falkirk plundered the fragile, beautiful treasure he had found. He was a man who had trained himself to intense restraint, yet that restraint was no where in evidence. He knew the risks of allowing his instincts and need full rein, but could not bring himself to care. Tonight,  he took what was his, this woman he had found, and had no intention of releasing. His Ialach's soft moans of need had grown to ardent pleas he would not deny. She was artlessly, fascinatingly direct. And she needed him, far more than she realized. She needed his protection, and each time his hand tightened on her too-thin arms or his gaze caught evidence of her exhaustion, the knowledge of her need burrowed into his instincts, provoking him further. She did not merely want his fierce possessiveness but needed it, less the burdens of her Dual Caste destroy her.

...I need you...

Yes, she did. And Ian wanted her; not only now, but tomorrow. And the day after. Whenever his own nightmares rose to challenge him, he would loose himself in her. She was his, and he would wrest her from the low-land wasteland that had devastated his Clan and threatened his family even now. She was peace offering and prize, redemption and purpose, her war and his all blended together in his mind, so that she became both a prisoner of war and a cherished companion. He claimed her, and would show her so in the oldest ritual between man and woman.

"Yes."

It was only one word, growled out against her eager, yearning mouth. One response, to her broken phrases explaining why she needed him so badly. The fear and loneliness that she sought a weapon against. Yes, Ialach I will make you forget everything but this one moment. Yes, Ialach, I will protect you from that which hunts you. Yes, I claim you for my own. I will take you from those who failed to cherish you. I will find your brother. I will feed you, and clothe you. You are mine. Mine. All of that, he meant to say. Yet only the single word was spoken as Ian Malcolm vanished what remained of their clothing, and parted her legs with his knee.

...Don't make me wait.

He claimed her mouth, fiercely possessive, and sheathed himself inside of her with the same urgent, nearly violent motion. The reaction within him was explosive, and powerful. As much as she needed to be protected, he needed to protect; for every instinct within the passionate creature beneath him that yearned to surrender, he needed to conquer. And so he took, without restraint or the careful control his Caste required. He courted the consequences of his abandon, even as he savored the shudders his actions provoked, the tight, moist warmth of her around him. He did not pause, but thrust into her again and again. His hands imprisoned her arms, rough enough to bruise though that was not his intent. It was merely the result of his unrestrained lust. and released her mouth only to bite her shoulder hard enough to mark her as his. He filled her near to bursting on each stroke, and with each powerful thrust he let his Inner Beast rise closer to the surface; close enough to know and taste her. To take her, with a nearly beastial need that ought to have warned him to exercise control.


Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #18 on: Dec 10, 16, 04:07:05 PM »
Oona let her cries of pleasure rise higher with each thrust of the Warlord Prince’s against her, within her. If she writhed against his restraining hold on her arms, it was both to test his resolve (and delight in finding it too strong to break) and to issue a futile protest about her inability to mark him in return. Probably for the best, though. This encounter was dangerous enough on a purely physical level- there was no need to go getting emotionally attached too. He was not hers and could not be.  Perhaps if Clan Sheane were still whole they could have explored what may be between them. But a Laird could not leave his Clan and Oona’s was too few too lose either herself or any children of her body to another Clan. They had no future beyond this night.

There would be a high enough Price to pay regardless. Oona had been aware of that looming since she looked into a stranger’s lonely eyes and seen something her own soul understood. That price had almost been her Escort’s life, but Mother Night had graciously permitted her to avert that disaster with her own body. Her mistake had been to see only that shared pain and loneliness, and to yield to her castes’ nature to soothe it, without recalling the caste attached to the emotions. Nothing was ever as it seemed with a Warlord Prince. They could turn prickly when offered simple comfort, only to decide to cling closer when one tried to keep them at a distance. A show of kindness could be taken as a lifelong declaration of allegiance. The Blood were sensual creatures and sex was often just that; a biological need, a way to scratch the itch with no assumptions of continued association or obligation. But Warlord Princes could pick the oddest times and people to get possessive with.

Oona had tried to lay down what safeguards she could on this encounter, but, really, it was up to Ian whether to honor them. And the almost brutal fashion in which he was taking her (though providing immense physical satisfaction- and was that a Highlander thing, or just him? Oona made a mental note to find out at a later date) was not promising in that regard. The Priestess could feel the Beast inside him rising up to ride him like a second skin and the Healer absently catalogued every bite and bruise he wrote himself upon his skin with even as the tide of pleasure rose higher between them. Well, Mother Night had made witches wily and willful for a reason. Oona still had a few tricks up her now non-existent sleeves and a willingness to use them if she had too. All was fair in war and with Warlord Princes.

The Healer Priestess was thrown abruptly from her thoughts as Ian wrung an orgasm from her body, toes curling and back arching. Her eyes never left his, but if the Warlord Prince found his own completion then, she missed it in the violent intensity of her own pleasure.

In the aftermath, Oona cuddled him to her, her hands sliding idle caresses over sweat-slicked skin. “That was truly lovely, Ian Malcom Falkirk. Thank you, and I will never forget it.” It boggled the mind that no one in his Clan had snapped up the man for their own already (he could have a plethora of lovers waiting for him, she supposed, but something about his spirit or psychic scent gave her the sense that Ian Malcom was a male to love truly and deeply. Few people had the strength to do that more than once or twice in a lifetime).

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #19 on: Dec 25, 16, 04:51:51 AM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe, eight weeks after arrival
A Tavern in the Capitol, then a nearby nice inn.



Ian Malcolm Falkirk reveled in Ialach's strength, as much as her surrender. He relished the arms that tested his will and the voice that rose in a paean of pleasure when she found it to be unbreakable. He took her, in a burst of passion and lust that would have terrified a weaker lady, and ought to have shaken her. But she neither flinched, nor reverted to empty compliance, but moaned and yearned, body to body, as deeply as Ian himself did.

Ialach came undone beneath him, exquisite and sublime, and the violent intensity of her response was its own, impossible to resist reward. It appeased the Beast, as she was lost to ecstasy, and he knew himself responsible. Her body tightened and clamped around him, pulling him to completion. Fire shook him, heat erupted as he spilled his seed inside of her. He had not meant to, just then, but he had no doubt as to her ability to inspire him further.

And now, perhaps, she would eat.

Her hands slicked over his back, his arms, and for a few moment more he simply supported himself, looking at her. Then he rolled to the side, keeping her clamped to him, and settled her half upon his chest. He rumbled a laugh, at her word of praise, for however she meant them, he read challenge in her I'll never forget. "Aye, lass ... I'll be sure of it." Lazily, he plucked something from her tray, and teased it across her lips. His eyes catalogued the red marks, the bites upon her skin. He did not ask her if she was ok, simply because she had been so straightforward with her desires, he expected she'd be as blunt with anything she disliked.

But after he coaxed her into eating the morsel, he ran his fingers lightly over the marks, a faint, self-satisfied smile upon his face. "I've more to learn of you. You tempt me, my lady, more than is wise." Another morsel of food was fetched from the tray, and if she were consent to rest in his arms he'd feed her bite by bite, taking teasing nips of her lips or wrapping his mouth around her breast while she was trying to eat. He would resist, firmly, any attempt on her part to move away from him.

And he refused to ask himself why.

Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #20 on: Dec 29, 16, 03:43:45 PM »
Oona smiled at his promise, reading absolutely nothing into it beyond the promise of more sex, and stretched as much as she could in the hold of the Warlord Prince who still held her to him for the simple pleasure of feeling the burn of muscles well-used. She wanted to catalogue the marks he’d placed on her fair skin –half for the satisfaction of remembering how they’d gotten there, and also to note the amount of healing she’d have to do before meeting up with Acair and returning to the Clan- but the morsel at her lips distracted her from extended self-diagnosis. The Healer Priestess accepted the tidbit with a truly wicked grin, accepting it from Ian’s hand with a kiss of her lips to sword-calloused fingers and the light curl of her tongue around roughened skin to as much of his taste on her lips as actual food, before relaxing back to chew it.

Another witch might be throwing a fit right about now, or the overbearing Warlord Prince out of her bed, but Oona quite enjoyed his ministrations. She would accept the hand-feeling, delight in the teasing nips and kisses slipped in to make a joy out of practicality. She would even do some teasing in return and see if he could prove his sense of discipline was as good as he thought it was (though she thought it wouldn’t be such a bad thing if she could manage to drive him beyond that control). But for now, she laughed lightly and shook her head at his comment.  “Is passion ever truly wise? No- wisdom is following the path well-traveled. Acting for the greater good instead of the personal good. And passion is always personal- any worth the name, that is.” She shifted against his grip almost restlessly, frowning when it didn’t budge at all. The fantasy was nice, but surely he had to know it couldn’t last. He had his responsibilities and see had hers. Those things weren’t going away, despite their deferral for a night.

“Besides, there’s nothing more to me worth knowing, Ian.” Oona settled back down and looked at her lover with laughing eyes- and a tension to her mouth that only a highly perceptive man might see. “Despite my castes, I’m nothing special. Just a witch doing what she can to help her family and to survive-like anyone else in this world. What you see is what you get- no deep, dark secrets to be had here.” That was part of the problem, actually, and well she knew it. The Healer Priestess tended to wear her heart on her sleeve, which made it hurt all the more when it got broken. Those few secrets Oona kept tended to be those which protected others besides herself- and those she would take to the grave.

Oona leaned back to take in the sight of her lover, her powerful, caring, sweet (though he’d no doubt balk at the label like any other male) Warlord Prince. Her overprotective and dangerous in oh-so-many ways Warlord Prince. She had to head that line of questioning off now, if she could. “And perhaps you aren’t the only one here who’d like to know more- what is such a generous, virile Warlord Prince doing sitting at a crap tavern all alone this eve?” For Ian in the kind of mood she’d since realized he was in had no place being out from under his Clan’s watchful eyes. “It doesn’t speak well of the kin who’d leave you so, to my understanding.” Here, she had to be careful, because he couldn’t like her disparaging the family who hadn’t seen to his care and more than she would appreciate hearing of the Sheanes when so many had problems much worse than hers in their struggle for survival. Being at the Court of the Mad Queen Loreniel, who spawned hurt and destruction as easily as she breathed, couldn’t be any easier on the Falkirks. But she’d much rather be rebuked for sticking her nose in where it wasn’t welcome than have Ian come poking around where he didn’t belong. Where he couldn’t belong, much though it pained the Healer Priestess’ gentle heart.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #21 on: Mar 06, 17, 10:59:52 PM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe, eight weeks after arrival
A Tavern in the Capitol, then a nearby nice inn.



Ian Malcolm Falkirk relaxed further, as his Ialach let him tend to her. The sweet, teasing foreplay of her tongue and lips promised a long, sensual evening to come. She let him torment and arouse her body with the same unselfconscious delight with which she'd first kissed him, and he found himself fascinated by it. More, she was not a helpless victim of his lusts, but dared to tease him back.

Very, very few ladies would, but he'd known from the start that her courage matched her passion.

She turned his words around, the combined wisdom of her Dual Castes challenging his assumption that temptation - at least in the person of herself - could ever be wise. She asserted that passion was never wise, and would watch his eyebrows furrow in thought. Then she implied that wisdom was following the well trod path.

That sounded to him like a marriage proposal. Surely that was the only way to consistently twine passion with the familiar?

"Passion colors everything, though it need not always center upon the sexual." He lifted her hands and kissed her fingertips, each in turn, considering her assertion that wisdom was for the greater good, and passion for one's self. He bit her palm, gently. Worked his way up her arm.

She tested his grip, as if the thought of the greater good made her feel guilty for taking something for herself. He spoke firmly.

"Until you are rested, fed, and your Jewels restored your duty to the greater good is to indulge your passions. All of them."

Her assertion that there was nothing more to her worth knowing caused his battled hardened fingers tracing over her tense mouth, and a teasing smile to appear. Another challenge. Oh, she had her secrets; he'd scarcely begun to discover her tastes in bed, let alone why a Dual Caste witch was half-starved. She asked him a question, and he considered deeply before answering.

Ian Malcolm kissed her slowly and sensually, then let his mouth work his way to her ear. There, he murmured the truth to her. "They are mine to tend. My nightmares all center on acts and deeds that burden them too much." He kissed along her neck and shoulder, before rolling her body more closely into his, and letting his teeth bite into the thick muscle at the curve of her neck. He let go, after a moment, and leaned back to look at her.

"Some hurts are not meant to be tended to by those who share them."

It was an invitation, but he was unsure if she'd take it.



Offline Oona Sheane

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #22 on: Apr 16, 17, 09:19:29 AM »
Oona lay quietly after that intriguing bit of personal information was offered, her mind furiously ticking over while she let her body relax into his ministrations. Ian might have meant it as an invitation, but was suddenly, furiously sure he’d offered it as bait. How else could such a thing be taken when said to a Healer Priestess, one who was also one’s lover? Oona had her own instincts to answer to and all of them set hooks into her and demanded she tend the wounds of one she cared for, all the more so because these were wounds of the spirit and few were as suited to heal them as she. And that pissed. her. off. Was she meant to be drawn into sharing her own, lulled by his seeming vulnerability? If she’d ever been that foolish, the Massacre and its aftermath had cured her of such naivety. She was aware she’d stiffened in his hold and made herself relax. Anger would not help.

Alright, so he was sharing his pain. It didn’t meant she had to do the same. She could indulge her instincts and help him without letting him win. She was a Sheane, a strong witch, and they got shit done. So work the problem Oona…

“Some would say that pain shared is pain halved.” She murmured into the silence after a few moments. She didn’t sound as though she entirely believed her own words, however. “And that some hurts can only be tended by those who share them.” Now that she believed a little more. Who, after all, could understand the depths of what the Sheane had suffered but another Sheane? That was why she couldn’t leave them to anyone else so long as she had breath in her body and the merest flicker of power to offer in her Jewels (and if Ian also took the second half of her comments as a warning to back off from prying into her own hurts, so much the better). She trusted that the Darkness would provide if their cause was just… and if it wasn’t, perhaps it was better to die trying than live in a world where that wasn’t true. But she could hardly explain that to Ian. Not as her lover of the evening and not as a Warlord Prince instinctually conditioned to serve and protect.

“But since you have a Healer Priestess conveniently captive in your bed,” The witch didn’t sound upset by the prospect at all “Perhaps you could share your nightmares with her and let her tend to them as Mother Night intended. It would please her greatly to relieve some of the burdens which trouble you… and then perhaps we can comfort one another again.” Oona arched sinuously against him to emphasize her not-so-veiled innuendo. She was not above using her body as a distraction. And, more, she wanted all of what Ian promised to be- wanted to feel the storm of his passion chasing away the hurt and the anger and the fear, and his hands on her body long after this night was just a memory.

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #23 on: Jun 01, 17, 07:19:28 PM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe, eight weeks after arrival
A Tavern in the Capitol, then a nearby nice inn.



Ian Malcolm Falkirk watched the fascinating play of thoughts and emotions dance across his Ialach's face. The Healer Priestess relaxed against him. Stiffened, the tang of anger coloring the scant air between them, and he had to wonder at what great betrayal she fled from. And if only he might slay the culprit for her, to ease her. His hands were gentle, but implacable; they did not release her, but soothed over her curves, reassuring in their strength.

Terrifying in their possessiveness.

Slowly she softened again, sensual promise to lure him through the Darkness. She seemed to consider his earlier comment a bit of general wisdom or platitude, and not the simple fact it was. Those who had suffered through the events that haunted him were themselves far too wounded to offer solace to him. Whatever inner battle she fought, Ialach faced him with grace and tenderness, demanding that he admit his wounds to her, despite his determination to tend to her this night.

Ian brushed his battle-hardened fingers along her soft lips, then turned his hand palm up before her, as if to study blood stains long since vanished. A phantom weight settled upon him.

"I killed my Queen, Andraste Acheron."[/b]

Silence followed, deep and anguished. His words were not a metaphor. It was not an allusion, or giving himself more power or responsibility than he'd had. His own sword had executed Andraste, cleanly and precisely. But Ian had no idea how much of that dark history had made its way into the lowlands.

It was possible he'd have to explain, but each word spoken was already bathed in rage.

"I left my Healer wife, Cotriona Killan, to die at the hands of my enemy." Cotriona had been a Healer, and insisted on tending to the wounded on a battlefield. He'd not been strict enough with her safety. Her belief that a Healer was sacred had been shattered when a flurry of Craft-enchanted arrows had taken her life. "And then ... I almost killed my entire Clan for the sin of living, when she was dead."

"The two events mix in the night. I cannot be free of either crime, and yet ... I ..."

His palm sliced though air, as if it might cut it, the gesture abrupt and violent. Condemning.

"My judgement stands." Hate dripped from each word, and even he could not say whether his judgment was against himself, his Clan, or his enemies. His body shook with the need to slay, to achieve some sort of vengeance in the only way a Warlord Prince truly desired. To balance the scales with blood and death.

Tension snaked through Ian Malcolm, but the Clan Laird did not pull away. Did not look away from her judgement and condemnation. Whatever followed, he would neither run from it, nor retreat.

But he very much doubted she'd find another man who had slain his queen, betrayed his wife, and very nearly killed every living being that bore his blood. An object lesson, if you will, in the fact that a person need not precisely experience a thing to have some understanding of it.

Ian was nothing if not efficient.

"That is the measure of the man who has claim on your body this night." His hand glided to her neck, while he studied her eyes. Watching each reaction, memorizing any moment of rejection, shock, horror or condemnation.

The Clan Laird's hand imprisoned her, his grip painful at first. He claimed her mouth in a hard, possessive kiss.


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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #24 on: Jul 22, 17, 11:28:11 AM »
Oona’s eyes hardened at his admissions, even as the rest of her expression shifted to blank neutrality. She was no longer so innocent as to gasp in shock or horror, or to make the mistake trying to push away a Warlord Prince with his blood up- if she had been repulsed by his words. But Oona Sheane had seen too much done, and by those who regretted their actions not at all, to condemn him for his. Oona herself would kill a Queen, if she could. Technically her Queen- Queen of them all, wicked Widow who hid away under Killan name and Keep. She dreamed of it, some nights, despite the lingering vestiges of what ought to be shame beneath all the pain.

Whatever his reasons were -and she would not ask this night- his business with Mother Night and his soul were his own- she was merely the conduit for Her touch and forgiveness. She did not back away, even leaning into his grip with a low moan of pleasure at the thought of finding his marks still there tomorrow. She let him claim her mouth, feeding at his own until he let her break away for air. She would not have been the first witch to die that way, though perhaps the readiness with which she surrendered the rest of her body bought back at least partial ownership of the lips that finally sought air instead of the taste of his. She could taste blood on them –his? Hers? She couldn’t remember- but made no move to lick it off.

“My judgement stands as well.”
The Healer Priestess gasped out, when she could breathe again. “You have clearly set yourself a Price to pay for those crimes against your own heart, and have paid it every day since.  But Prices end, Ian. She set them for a reason, and that is to keep her children from tearing themselves apart. Please, accept Her judgement, and her mercy, and consider forgiving yourself too.” It wasn’t a proper Communion, but she tapped her Opal and their comingled blood on her lips to grasp at the ever-present connection to the Darkness and wrap it around both their souls in the most intimate of embraces.

“Sometimes… you can’t save people. And would gladly see others… the rest of your Clan… dead if it but meant your own dearest ones would get up and live once more.” Mother help her, but in the aftermath of the Massacre, she would have traded the rest of her Clan for the lives of her parents and brothers without a second thought. Thanks be that she’d never have to make that choice. She levelled Ian with her own challenging look. Would this be the time he realized she was a horrible person, and regretted the claim he’d made? Horror and repulsion could go both ways. And the old, pre-Massacre Oona would have been dismayed by what she’d become.

Either way, resolve settled in the Healer Priestess’ heart. She needed to end this. Wear him out, knock him out, and make her escape. The intimacies were becoming too great for a single night’s dalliance, and Oona didn’t want to have to choose between guarding her own heart and secrets, and breaking his. Safest to break away now and protect them both.

Offline Ian Malcolm Falkirk

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Re: I hope you dance
« Reply #25 on: Jul 24, 17, 06:28:36 PM »
Mid Spring, 191 PP,  five weeks after the Death of Brighe, eight weeks after arrival
A Tavern in the Capitol, then a nearby nice inn.



Ian Malcolm Falkirk saw a hardening in her eyes, a strength of will and determination in Ialach’s reaction to his confession, but no rejection. Oddly, she asked no questions. She set no Price. She did not flee from what he was, for she was not a young girl unsure of herself or the world. No, she bore scars enough to both know what he was, and crave that strength against her own demons. Her kiss was as hungry, as determinedly possessive as his own had been. He needed her badly, had covered her body with his own and slammed himself inside of her once more. He needed her flesh as he needed air, and the need to choose between them had left him no choice but to sheathe himself within her before he surrendered her lips for the sake of air, and speech.

The Warlord Prince was summoned back to rational thought not by her words, but by the brush of the Darkness embracing them both. His hands traced her face, down her neck, her naked body. She was as bare to him in body as he was to her in soul. It was profoundly intimate, juxtaposed with sex as it was. She didn’t ask why he’d done what he done; she understood deeply that in many ways, why didn’t matter. It was the pain of the deed itself that haunted him. The way that act, no matter the reason, made him doubt his own heart.

She bid him forgive himself, and he brushed a tender kiss to her neck, her jaw. “I do not know how, Ialach. You must show me.” She went on to express that he could not save everyone, and in those words he heard a pain of her own. She had lost those she’d gladly trade everyone of the other survivors for. It shocked him, to see such a mirror to his own private grief in the Healer Priestess.

He focused then upon easing her heart by inciting her body; he pleasured her again and again, bringing her to mind-numbing, soul-searing release. Teased her with food, bathed her in the luscious bathtub, even washed and tended to her hair, massaging the scalp carefully. For hours he alternated tending to her body with fucking her senseless. He was not thinking clearly enough to know guess why his hunger was so insatiable, why he felt so possessive, why he disliked her out of his sight. He commanded restraint from himself, withholding his own released until finally she moved in a way that snapped his will, and he emptied himself within her with such utter power and release that he lay numbed for long minutes after. He drifted to sleep, exhausted.



He woke to the scents of blood and singed flesh, leaping to his feet, summoning his blade before he the dream-remnants left him. He was prepared to defend his wife, from all who came at him. Slowly, reason returned; his wife was dead. The Healer-scent from the bed was mixed with Priestess.

Shaking, he stared at Ialach, red hair splayed across the pillows naked body marked by his lust and passion. He debated waking her, but thought to let her rest. She'd need her strength for the trials of the day. She had a Clan to meet, and a brother to find.

Ian’s body had aches of his own, for she was both energetic and passionate. He chose a hot bath, and once his body relaxed, fell into a deep sleep.

A very, very deep sleep subtly urged along by the Mix of Healer and Priestess Craft his captive had to hand. He slept far past dawn, or even noon.

And woke to an empty bed, and a tearing rage.

(End)

 

 

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