Fynne
02-19-2006, 02:51 PM
She was beautiful. Beautiful is, in contrast, too ugly a word to dare describe her. Her long, golden hair fluttered and cascaded loose around her shoulders. Her eyes, bluer and clearer than a summer’s sky, darted around the room, growing moist with fear. A jagged knife trembled against her fair, pale neck; perhaps it had once been a wicked-looking thing, but age and rust had dulled it.
“I’ll have the first go with her, then,” snarled the burly man who held the trembling, exquisite woman in his arms, “and you leeches can decide who gets seconds.”
“Leeches!?” cried out a second thug, drawing his sword, “I paid twice into this venture that you did, and I’ll not have half the treasure that you’d try to steal!”
The third drew his stubby, chipped shortsword, late as usual, but not wanting to be left out. Licking his lips hungrily, he surveyed the trembling woman, drawing his gaze slowly up from her writhing feet and shapely legs, lingering for a moment on her full, heaving breasts, “I wouldn’t mind having half the treasure,” he grinned as the woman broke out into sobs, “as long as I can choose which half.”
“No!” screamed the second man, leveling his sword at the burly thug that held the treasure, “I paid for the carriage, bribed her coach; I planned this whole venture! If you’ll not let me have my way, then none of us will!” With that, he drove his sword forward in a swift arc to lop off her head.
The sudden clang of steel against steel echoed throughout the dark room. The long, thin blade of a rapier had come forth from the shadows of the rafters above, driving the thug’s sword away from the woman’s tender, bared neck, and had found itself nestled harmlessly in the flushed, fleshy cleavage of her bosom. The angry swordsman and the burly thief both turned their gaze upward to follow the thin blade to the man that wielded it.
A thick spurred boot darted forth from the shadows above, striking the burly man who had been staring up to meet it square against his forehead. Letting go of his rapier, the shadowy swordsman tumbled down from the rafters, cloak swirling and black hair tumbling around his shoulders. Grabbing the beautiful woman’s arms just below her shoulders, he squeezed them toward her chest and pecked her on the cheek.
“Hold onto that for me, dear.”
She blushed, but kept her arms pushed tightly around her bosom, the man’s sword held sheathed in the cleavage of her supple breasts.
“Gilette!” the hot-headed swordsman snarled.
“The very same,” grinned the famous swashbuckler, stepping atop the burly man beneath him to strike a pose; one spurred heel firmly crushed against his throat, and the other finding its way to tap against his wrist. He twisted his heel, causing the man, expectedly, to loosen his grip on the dagger he had held, before lifting his foot entirely, smirking into the angry thug’s eyes.
Suddenly, Gilette stomped his foot down, driving his heel into the man’s weakened wrist, forcing him to fling his dagger up into the air. Wasting no time, Gilette grabbed it and tossed it expertly by its blade into the angry swordsman’s forehead. The third thug hadn’t even drawn his eyes from Gilette’s sword, so deliciously placed between the beautiful woman’s full, heaving breasts – oooh! Now she was squeezing them! He never did look away. Gilette drove the hilt of the angry thug’s sword against the back of his head, collapsing him to the floor with the others.
“My lady,” Gilette bowed, offering his hand to the trembling woman, “would that you’d bow to your rescuer?”
She flushed, and bent low to mimic his bow, casting her eyes embarrassedly to the floor – after all, bowing in a dress like this would surely expose her! But Gilette had perhaps planned it that way, for as she bent, his extended hand caught hold of the hilt of his blade, and drew it forth from its fleshy sheathe. In the barest of a moment it took her to glance upward again, the shadowy swashbuckler had disappeared out the now-unlocked door to her freedom.
Henri smirked as the adventurer finished recounting the tale. The soft clinking of mugs accompanied applause as most of the patrons, and even Henri, clapped their hands. He loved to hear tales of Gilette – and this one he would remember the most.
The tale was nothing terribly special; it had a swordfight, a beautiful maiden, and Gilette saving the day. But just as the tavern was quieting down, and Henri was slipping back into the kitchen for the dishes that awaited him, a quiet, tinkling voice made itself heard.
“So you mean to say that her breasts alone hold the weight of his sword?”
Henri peered into the crowd, looking for the owner of this voice so sweet, that even if elven harps and gnomish music boxes had been playing, could not rival the beauty of its tinkling sound. It blessed his ears again, “Was she an Orc?” it asked, “my breasts are full enough, but I have yet to find a sword light enough that they would hold it.”
Henri stared at the beautiful young girl who had thrust her budding chest out to punctuate the sweet song of her words. He fell instantly in Love. The girl’s beautiful siren’s voice seemed to him like the rasp of a hag compared to the pure loveliness of the rest of her.
“Jilliane,” reprimanded the Paladin behind her, laying a plated gauntlet on her shoulder, “speak not of such things. It does not become a student of the Light.”
Jilliane, that was the name of this loveliest of girls, who stood in this very room with him, clad in pure white robes with the tabard of the Silver Hand draped over her shoulders. The Silver Hand! And the Paladin behind her! It meant she was coming here – well, to Northshire Abbey – but she would come to Goldshire, often enough, wouldn’t she? And even if not – well, Northshire wasn’t but the barest hop away!
It wasn’t until Tomas, the kitchen master, threatened him with the flat of his knife that Henri would be pulled away from the doorway and the sight of this beautiful goddess of a girl. Even still, late start and all, Henri had never washed dishes faster. He burst to the door of the kitchen, trying to calm his breathing and his beating heart before poking his head around the corner.
It was for nothing.
As soon as he caught sight of the blonde-haired girl, he melted anew, and watching her toss that lovely head back and bless his ears with that lilting, tinkling laugh, his heart raced faster than before.
He began to make his way to her, skipping past the Innkeeper, Farley, and dodging the drunken adventurers who had begun to push their chairs away from their table. He even risked the wrath of old Nevershave, the beady eyed dwarf who was more beard than body, pleading that he couldn’t refill his ale because he was off for the night.
With horror, he watched the Paladin Jilliane was squiring lay her played gauntlet on her shoulder once more, nodding to the door.
”Mightn’t I have one drink?” she plead quietly in her musical, lilting voice; Henri’s knees went weak, and he would have given her the key to the cellar itself if he’d had the power, “just one, before I’m to go off and grow Holy?”
The Paladin, who Henri was convinced must have a will of thorium, and a heart wrought from stone colder than the snows of Dun Morogh itself, shook her head and tightened her shield to her back, tugging Jilliane to her feet.
She turned, just as Henri burst through the crowd, and began to follow her Paladin charge to the door. He raced across the short distance, knocking over a chair noisily as he came upon her, calling out, “Jilliane!”
Surprised, she stopped and turned to look at this strange, out-of-breath boy who had called her name. He was kind of cute, short blonde hair matted messily to his head with sweat.
Henri gazed into the gorgeous woman’s strikingly beautiful clear blue eyes, suddenly lost for words. He stammered, blushing a deep red under that melting gaze – he felt utterly bared in the face of it.
“I… uh,” he stammered, learning how to speak again as he went, “thanks for coming to the Lion’s Pride, I – we hope to see you again!”
She smiled, her beautiful red lips tugged into an amused smirk, and the freckles dotting her face seemed to wink as her cute, tiny noise wrinkled just a bit with the movement.
”Jilli,” she said cheerfully in her magical, tinkling voice, and Henri was confused at her words – but truth be told, he probably would have been confused by anything she said at that moment, “I’ll be glad to come back! But call me Jilli!”
With a wink, she turned and pranced out the door, leaving him dazed and blushing. He let out a long, dreamy sigh as she disappeared out the door, and was broken from his thoughts by the firm, angry grasp of old Nevershave’s stubby fingers on his shoulder. He shrugged, still grinning; whatever came next, it had all been worth it.
“I’ll have the first go with her, then,” snarled the burly man who held the trembling, exquisite woman in his arms, “and you leeches can decide who gets seconds.”
“Leeches!?” cried out a second thug, drawing his sword, “I paid twice into this venture that you did, and I’ll not have half the treasure that you’d try to steal!”
The third drew his stubby, chipped shortsword, late as usual, but not wanting to be left out. Licking his lips hungrily, he surveyed the trembling woman, drawing his gaze slowly up from her writhing feet and shapely legs, lingering for a moment on her full, heaving breasts, “I wouldn’t mind having half the treasure,” he grinned as the woman broke out into sobs, “as long as I can choose which half.”
“No!” screamed the second man, leveling his sword at the burly thug that held the treasure, “I paid for the carriage, bribed her coach; I planned this whole venture! If you’ll not let me have my way, then none of us will!” With that, he drove his sword forward in a swift arc to lop off her head.
The sudden clang of steel against steel echoed throughout the dark room. The long, thin blade of a rapier had come forth from the shadows of the rafters above, driving the thug’s sword away from the woman’s tender, bared neck, and had found itself nestled harmlessly in the flushed, fleshy cleavage of her bosom. The angry swordsman and the burly thief both turned their gaze upward to follow the thin blade to the man that wielded it.
A thick spurred boot darted forth from the shadows above, striking the burly man who had been staring up to meet it square against his forehead. Letting go of his rapier, the shadowy swordsman tumbled down from the rafters, cloak swirling and black hair tumbling around his shoulders. Grabbing the beautiful woman’s arms just below her shoulders, he squeezed them toward her chest and pecked her on the cheek.
“Hold onto that for me, dear.”
She blushed, but kept her arms pushed tightly around her bosom, the man’s sword held sheathed in the cleavage of her supple breasts.
“Gilette!” the hot-headed swordsman snarled.
“The very same,” grinned the famous swashbuckler, stepping atop the burly man beneath him to strike a pose; one spurred heel firmly crushed against his throat, and the other finding its way to tap against his wrist. He twisted his heel, causing the man, expectedly, to loosen his grip on the dagger he had held, before lifting his foot entirely, smirking into the angry thug’s eyes.
Suddenly, Gilette stomped his foot down, driving his heel into the man’s weakened wrist, forcing him to fling his dagger up into the air. Wasting no time, Gilette grabbed it and tossed it expertly by its blade into the angry swordsman’s forehead. The third thug hadn’t even drawn his eyes from Gilette’s sword, so deliciously placed between the beautiful woman’s full, heaving breasts – oooh! Now she was squeezing them! He never did look away. Gilette drove the hilt of the angry thug’s sword against the back of his head, collapsing him to the floor with the others.
“My lady,” Gilette bowed, offering his hand to the trembling woman, “would that you’d bow to your rescuer?”
She flushed, and bent low to mimic his bow, casting her eyes embarrassedly to the floor – after all, bowing in a dress like this would surely expose her! But Gilette had perhaps planned it that way, for as she bent, his extended hand caught hold of the hilt of his blade, and drew it forth from its fleshy sheathe. In the barest of a moment it took her to glance upward again, the shadowy swashbuckler had disappeared out the now-unlocked door to her freedom.
Henri smirked as the adventurer finished recounting the tale. The soft clinking of mugs accompanied applause as most of the patrons, and even Henri, clapped their hands. He loved to hear tales of Gilette – and this one he would remember the most.
The tale was nothing terribly special; it had a swordfight, a beautiful maiden, and Gilette saving the day. But just as the tavern was quieting down, and Henri was slipping back into the kitchen for the dishes that awaited him, a quiet, tinkling voice made itself heard.
“So you mean to say that her breasts alone hold the weight of his sword?”
Henri peered into the crowd, looking for the owner of this voice so sweet, that even if elven harps and gnomish music boxes had been playing, could not rival the beauty of its tinkling sound. It blessed his ears again, “Was she an Orc?” it asked, “my breasts are full enough, but I have yet to find a sword light enough that they would hold it.”
Henri stared at the beautiful young girl who had thrust her budding chest out to punctuate the sweet song of her words. He fell instantly in Love. The girl’s beautiful siren’s voice seemed to him like the rasp of a hag compared to the pure loveliness of the rest of her.
“Jilliane,” reprimanded the Paladin behind her, laying a plated gauntlet on her shoulder, “speak not of such things. It does not become a student of the Light.”
Jilliane, that was the name of this loveliest of girls, who stood in this very room with him, clad in pure white robes with the tabard of the Silver Hand draped over her shoulders. The Silver Hand! And the Paladin behind her! It meant she was coming here – well, to Northshire Abbey – but she would come to Goldshire, often enough, wouldn’t she? And even if not – well, Northshire wasn’t but the barest hop away!
It wasn’t until Tomas, the kitchen master, threatened him with the flat of his knife that Henri would be pulled away from the doorway and the sight of this beautiful goddess of a girl. Even still, late start and all, Henri had never washed dishes faster. He burst to the door of the kitchen, trying to calm his breathing and his beating heart before poking his head around the corner.
It was for nothing.
As soon as he caught sight of the blonde-haired girl, he melted anew, and watching her toss that lovely head back and bless his ears with that lilting, tinkling laugh, his heart raced faster than before.
He began to make his way to her, skipping past the Innkeeper, Farley, and dodging the drunken adventurers who had begun to push their chairs away from their table. He even risked the wrath of old Nevershave, the beady eyed dwarf who was more beard than body, pleading that he couldn’t refill his ale because he was off for the night.
With horror, he watched the Paladin Jilliane was squiring lay her played gauntlet on her shoulder once more, nodding to the door.
”Mightn’t I have one drink?” she plead quietly in her musical, lilting voice; Henri’s knees went weak, and he would have given her the key to the cellar itself if he’d had the power, “just one, before I’m to go off and grow Holy?”
The Paladin, who Henri was convinced must have a will of thorium, and a heart wrought from stone colder than the snows of Dun Morogh itself, shook her head and tightened her shield to her back, tugging Jilliane to her feet.
She turned, just as Henri burst through the crowd, and began to follow her Paladin charge to the door. He raced across the short distance, knocking over a chair noisily as he came upon her, calling out, “Jilliane!”
Surprised, she stopped and turned to look at this strange, out-of-breath boy who had called her name. He was kind of cute, short blonde hair matted messily to his head with sweat.
Henri gazed into the gorgeous woman’s strikingly beautiful clear blue eyes, suddenly lost for words. He stammered, blushing a deep red under that melting gaze – he felt utterly bared in the face of it.
“I… uh,” he stammered, learning how to speak again as he went, “thanks for coming to the Lion’s Pride, I – we hope to see you again!”
She smiled, her beautiful red lips tugged into an amused smirk, and the freckles dotting her face seemed to wink as her cute, tiny noise wrinkled just a bit with the movement.
”Jilli,” she said cheerfully in her magical, tinkling voice, and Henri was confused at her words – but truth be told, he probably would have been confused by anything she said at that moment, “I’ll be glad to come back! But call me Jilli!”
With a wink, she turned and pranced out the door, leaving him dazed and blushing. He let out a long, dreamy sigh as she disappeared out the door, and was broken from his thoughts by the firm, angry grasp of old Nevershave’s stubby fingers on his shoulder. He shrugged, still grinning; whatever came next, it had all been worth it.