Gary Baker, October 2010
A strong, burly arm thrust into the air to hoist a rather large sword, point-first, high above all the mans companions. “War is beautiful, young lass!” Boomed the warrior, decked in velvet red and black armor with silver engravings of a lion and a broad cape that reached his knees. He looked to the frail girl beside him to emphasize his point to her soft, loving face with a smile while nudging her nose with his own. “But you are fairer than any war to exist a’tall!” Slowly, and almost romantically, his left arm wrapped around her waist just above her buttocks to pull her so close that her breasts pushed around his chest plate easily.
She blushed. As usual.
Viggo Herena wasn’t a virgin priestess for nothing, and every time Farrow touched her sexually she showed just what she was. Out of the many priestesses Farrow had met, Viggo had yet to learn restraint over herself and that gave him hope for converting her. When he was done, at least. For now, she would service him with mystic healing prowess beyond anything he had ever seen.
Noticing his eyes staring into the space where her bodice was bare of clothing, only a small spot of bareness where her white cloak came together, Farrow shook away his betraying lust for more important matters. He craned his head west, to look into the Nigh Mountain Range where surely the armies of De’Emure would be gathering to begin their search and rescue. Viggo may not be in love with Farrow, but for as long as she believed she did-made possible by the high courtesan chemist in Wevlore-she would never think of him as the priestess-kidnapper that he was. “My love,” he lied, as easily as telling a toddler that it would be a king one day. “Your family loves you, but will you really continue with me? Into battle, war and indeterminable death?”
She smiled seductively, trailing a hand down his side to his waist and began to walk her fingers in toward his groin. Gods, how beautiful she must be beneath those robes! “My liege,” she leaned in to caress her lips on his bare neck, softly whispering her breath against his veins and creating a growing moisture along his chin. “I follow you wherever you go. Death may come, but if’t comes to you it won't succeed!” She kissed his neck softly, then leaned in hard and pressed his jugular hard with her enticing lips. “I love thee like I love the mother goddess.”
Farrow yearned, his lust nearly taking over. He wanted her now more than ever, but worse than that-he needed release, and she was the key to ending his dry spell. How long had it been since his men had taken a village and given the women what men needed all too often? How long had he himself gone without? His life of hired kidnapping, of this particularly arousing priestess, had been going on for nearly a year; and he had been on a sea voyage from the beautiful slum-town Rashek-just south of Wevlore-for months before taking the bounty quest that he was fulfilling now. And how that time seemed to eat at his patience whenever he glimpsed rare moments of nudity on her amazing body.
His eyes met hers again, and he squinted to see the faded red stars, given by the Nigh Mountain council upon the birth of a priestess. Hers were there, hidden amongst the darker splotches of her irises, but were also faded just enough to keep her hidden from assassination. The council had worked its magic well and Viggo mayn’t ever regard them as faded, yet meanwhile it would take a keen eye to spot them even from the distance of Farrows eyes. Those eyes called to him, asked for his assistance in disrobing their body, and pleaded desperately for a nice-
“Gah!” Farrow pushed her away violently and caught himself on a low hanging tree branch overlooking the valley below, while he bent in half to watch his boots with incredible vigor.
“Lord Farrow!” A thin man with a thick longbow held firmly in his left hand stepped forward a pace and a half. He watched his leader with the eyes of a seasoned hunter, and an even more seasoned assassin, scanning for any trace of a mystic’s power.
The priestess slowly crept her way up to standing, having slipped on a stone after her captor threw her aside. Tears strode down her cheeks, not in pain but in fear for the love of her life. Why had he rejected her again? This was the third time this morning that he had either hit her or injured her in some way. Was this how real men treated their wife-to-be?
A deep bellowing laughter broke out from the broad warriors curled mass. Suddenly he stood quick enough to startle his head bodyguard, and sheathed his sword while laughing more controllably. “By the gods!” He shouted gleefully, seemingly to the valley beyond, and erupted into deep-bellied laughter.
Viggo bowed her head, understanding now that she had taken his anger as the opposite of what it was. She expected it to be real anger, true anger, not madness of a warlorn army captain. And yet this was Farrow, a man wedged with both insanity and hatred that bordered greatness.
Farrow spun on his heels, resting his hand on the hilt of his blade, and walked back to the forest that they’d come from. “Come all, we need not dally more in this place, my army awaits!” His bodyguard nodded silently, then retied the priestesses wrists together as their usual accommodations commanded. The ropes weren’t necessary with the potion in her bloodstream, but one could never be too cautious in wartime frivolity.
Darkaer, a short man clad in deep maroon armor with wolf pelts lining the inside for warmth, drew back from a rich silver and gold spyglass held in his fingertips. “My lord, they’re on the move again.”
Darkaer’s superior, Lord Cenaria Farwright, sat atop a broad black stallion with his own spyglass resting on his lap. His fingers intermeshed themselves in the hair of his horse nervously, awaiting the prospect of true hope. What am I supposed to do? They couldn’t just ride over and take back the young priestess, yet the council had ordered them to sacrifice their lives to save her. So really, what was the course of action? Charge ahead with only four well-armed swordsmen versus a semi-well-armed militia of seventy? Or wait until the girl had separated herself from them in an attempt to escape and grab her before her captors could?
“I know what you’re thinking, Cenaria,” Darkaer whispered loudly, his gruff voice making it sound more pirate-like than anything that could ever be expected from a mountain shepherd. “And the council won't approve.”
“They want us to charge,” came the voice of Jackal from behind Cenaria. The man's unkempt long blonde hair billowing in the wind, with his braided mustache and beard shifting easily as well. “And I won’t do it. Not now not ever.”
Cenaria reared his horse around, slowly leaving the men behind to squabble as he and his horse rode back down the thin ridge they had used to get to higher ground. Silence shot out as the three men watched Cenarias gilded horse trot at a steady pace along a two foot wide canyon path.
“Where are we headed then, Cenaria?” Darkaer asked.
“Aye,” Jackal patted his stallion's mane, appreciatively. “What course of action are we to take? Death now or death later?”
“Oh, what do you know, eh?! We listen to Cenaria, Jackal! Not you!”
Cenaria's voice boomed, despite his distance from the group now. “We wait! When we have a chance to live, we take it!”
The three followers nodded, then began after their leader, back down into the foliaged canyon.