• Content Count

  • Joined

  • Last visited

Community Reputation

11 Good

About September

  • Rank
    Junior Member
  • Birthday 06/26/1985

Recent Profile Visitors

The recent visitors block is disabled and is not being shown to other users.

  1. (( I am so far but I haven't met many Horde RPers IC via September yet. I'd like to get her out to Cantina or maybe Warspear soon to remedy that! And thanks Sky. <3 ))
  2. (( I really appreciate your kind words, Nikaa. Thank you! I definitely would like to write more September stories and hopefully get to meet more Horde Rpers. ))
  3. A cold and consuming dread wormed its way into her tired muscles as she worked, burrowing deep inside the tissue fastidiously; a constant reminder of the impending wrath that would surely befall her once Torjusk returned to their small camp. She had not meant to speak with the Sin'dorei male, well... not at first anyway. He had approached her. Spoken to her. Though she knew such would make no difference to the Amani'shi in the slightest. She would be punished. She only hoped she could temper the severity by a little given pleasure. Hunting usually aroused him, but then again most things did. The appetite of a troll was beyond taxing and impossible to truly sate. Yet she must try. The far off screech of Bwa'chech, the predatory pterrorwing, pierced the dusk sky deafeningly, causing September to nearly drop the earthenware mug she was washing. He was home. Her heart skipped a beat and then hammered in her chest so resoundingly that she could scarcely hear her own thoughts, but she kept a firm hold and willed her hands to remain steady. If he caught scent of her overwhelming fear, it would only make things worse, far far worse. She was aware he had communed with Huitzul before leaving to hunt, aware that he had seen through the eyes of the beast all that she had done while staying in Thunder Bluff, and quite aware that he now knew she spent three consecutive evenings conversing with the Sin'dorei. His ire was sure to be violent, if not down right deadly. With a thud, the great troll leapt from the back of Bwa'chech and turned to eye September. The time of reckoning had come. Despite her best efforts, she was terrified to turn around and meet his gaze. And so she remained with her back to him, deliberately taking her time to dry the dishes thoroughly and stack them in their proper place. At her feet, Bashjala stirred cautiously, pressing his nose into her side in support. She took immense comfort from the small gesture and glanced down to her tiger companion with appreciative jade eyes. “Be keepin' still, Bash,” she whispered. Torjusk made no move towards the elf, but instead stood eerily quiet; fierce olive eyes boring into September's back. In unknown response, the woman's shoulder blades tensed visibly beneath her toasted beige skin. The wait for the blow was excruciating... but it never came. Without so much as a touch, Torjusk strode purposefully past her into the tent. Sounds of rummage could be heard as September stood trembling in relief and struggling to calm her wildly beating heart with slow and steady breaths. The young woman had just begun to compose herself when he returned, her sketchbook in his large grasp. Ice crystals formed sharp in her blood, rivaling even the coldest night in Northrend, as she watched him pointedly flip through and stop on the charcoal drawing she had recently done of the male Sin'dorei. Mentally she rebuked herself, she should have known better but she had not wanted to forget his face – he had shown her compassion. One of her own kind. Trepidation fueled her movements as she sought her long braid, taking the thick of it between her palms and kneading the cinnamon colored tresses. She could do nothing but wait. Wait for his anger. Wait for her punishment. Wait as he gazed upon the sketch with dark eyes that glinted of bloodlust. His blunt finger had risen to stroke the necklace of ears that hung down upon his chest, taking special note of the long elven one that lay rotting on the chain. “Slave,” he spoke without lifting his eyes from the worn parchment, in a voice that unexpectedly carried no harsh tones at all. “Yes, mastah?” the young woman responded with soft inquiry, struggling to maintain eye contact with the towering troll. "Fetch ya mastah da stridah haunch dat be hangin' ta dry in da hut. And da pandaren wine afta dat." He spared no further words, merely moving towards the fire pit to begin lining the ring with stones. A pile of gathered wood sat nearby and he soon set a few in the middle for kindling. September bobbed her head with practiced haste, “Rite a'wey, mastah, as ja be wantin',” and slipped between the leather hide flaps of their hut to see the order carried out. The skin of wine, his newly washed and favored mug, and the haunch of meat was brought before him swiftly. “Mastah,” she acknowledged, holding it out gracefully. In the little time the slave had been gone, Torjusk had skillfully managed to strike a nice fire that was just taking its first breaths, glowing embers catching upon the dried wood. “Sit,” he ordered firmly. And of course she did so, settling upon the arid, cracked ground slowly. Upon September's forehead little beads of sweat betrayed her nerves, trickling down her smooth skin like dew upon a petal in the early morn. Overhead the sun added its own heat, almost maliciously, and further sweat soon pooled beneath the collar around her neck. She was beginning to feel sick, Loa forbid. What was he up to? The dagger gleamed as he removed it from the belt at his waist, she noticed with a jolt. He usually did not mark her that way, she was his trophy after all. He did not like his trophies blemished. Yet he had lost his temper before and left her wounds for the witchdoctors to sort out. September sucked her lower lip in, chewing on it anxiously as she wondered where he would choose to cut her. She did not mind the pain so much anymore but worried he may go too far one day... and then she would be cursed to the spirit world, captive even in death. The Amani'shi grabbed a stick and began sharpening it with the dagger, seeing the end whittled into a very threatening point. September exhaled the breath she had been unknowingly holding and wiped the sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. He shifted, leaning towards her – sharpened end pointing her way – but merely plucked the meat from her hand and jabbed it onto the end of the make-shift spear before seeing it thrust into the flames that were now chattering animatedly. “Well?” he spoke with slight amusement. “Take da skin and pour some dat wine on da meat before it be goin' too dry. It need ta be more tendah.” To her great astonishment, he sheathed the dagger and added, “And den be pourin' into da cup joo brought." It was pandaren plum, and she had no clue where he had picked it up... but its fruity scent recalled a memory of a caged pandaren woman they had come across in the Dread Wastes and consequently the threesome that had followed. The woman had smelt of fruits as well. Fruits and fear. This line of thought was not helping and she pushed it from her mind while dousing the strider meat with an appropriate amount, causing it to sizzle loudly over the open flames. Afterward, she filled the mug almost to the top and looked at him curiously. Her mouth had gone completely dry and she licked her cracked lips with what little spittle she could muster. “Joo gonna be dry as dis meat if joo not be backin' from da fire, slave.” The cunning troll patted his left thigh invitingly and spoke with controlled enticement. “Joo be sittin' here, deepah in da shade.” It wasn't so much a smile, but his lips did curl up in what was surely supposed to be. September glanced over to him with practiced innocence, but there was mild uncertainty in her jade gaze. His mannerisms were unsettling. “...uh, yes, mastah. Tank joo,” she declared gently before moving to settle rigidly upon his lap. Unsure what his game was, she kept quiet, still holding the mug of wine in hand patiently as she watched him stoke the fire and crisp the strider haunch to perfection. After a time, he looked between her and the mug with simple amusement. "Joo gonna be drinkin' dat or cradling it?" This took her completely aback, with no time to guard her emotions, which flitted across her face freely. Drink the wine? Her, a slave? But Torjusk merely watched and waited. His eyes were not joking, he meant for her to drink. September regarded the cup thoughtfully, jade eyes searching for some sign of poison within the plum colored liquid; not that she knew what to be looking for in the first place. She had never drank something so lavish before, let alone anything with alcohol. With extreme slowness, she brought the mug to her lips hesitantly and eyed him over the earthenware brim. An encouraging nod was given to the young girl and she took a very small sip. “ be tastin' like da springtime,” she murmured softly. In fact, it tasted quite delicious and again she wondered how he had come by it. A large hand cupped the bottom of her mug and tilted it up towards her plush mouth once more, urging her on delicately to partake of more of the sweet drink; and she did so each time with a little less apprehension until she had finished the entire mug. This time, he filled her mug himself before turning his attention to the succulent and well-seasoned meat, which had cooled sufficiently to tear into. He stripped the bone of a long, juicy slab and held it out to the slave. Alarms pulsed in her veins, traveling to her heart in rapid pricks that felt achingly like tiny needles. Never in her thirty years had she been allowed to eat before a master, she would not dream of such disrespect. She recoiled immediately, shifting further back on his thigh until she met the immensity of his chest. He was watching her with an odd grin, the meat still held aloft, waiting for her to take it from his hand. Perplexity reigned among her tone as she furrowed her brow while speaking towards the fire. “A slave no be eatin' before da mastah...” But still yet the troll persisted, offering it once more. “And so a slave be refusin' dey mastah's gifts den?” he spoke, his voice strangely soft and uncharacteristically soothing. He quirked an eyebrow at her, which shifted his viciously painted face into an almost genuine demeanor of curiosity. “No, mastah!” she hurried to say. “A slave be tankful of dis tresha!” To prove her gratitude, she hastily plucked the chunk of strider meat from his fingers and took a healthy bite. The flavor was magnificent and just for a moment, she allowed herself to enjoy the taste. It had been longer than she could recall since she had eaten a warm meal. Usually she was given Torjusk's leftovers to split with Bashjala, long since cold. Washing the meat down with another deep drink of the panderan plum wine, she smiled gratefully. “Taste good.” The large troll only then joined her, drinking from the wine skin and pulling a slab of meat from the bone for himself to enjoy. For a while, they sat in comfortable silence; each eating and drinking among the leisure of their own thoughts. September began to feel relaxed, more than relaxed truthfully. The wine had began to take its toll on the small Sin'dorei and her cheeks were flushed a pretty pink from the effects. Finally Torjusk stirred from complacence, reaching behind him to grab something unseen to the girl. Her jade eyes watched him with a lazy curiosity until the sketchbook was brought into view, held softly in his grasp. The sight of her worn and ragged secret inflamed the fear that had been lurking below the surface, forgotten in the warmth of the alcohol. Though it was a much different kind of fear than she were used to and her hazy mind could not be bothered to rise to the heights of alarm it would have were she not intoxicated. Even so, she choked on the wine she had just begun to drink when the dreaded sketchbook made its appearance, coughing harshly as some of the purple liquid escaped down her chin. “Who be dis?” the troll asked gently as he opened the book to her charcoal drawing of an elven face. Surprisingly, he maintained his peculiarly soft and inviting tone and his demeanor betrayed nothing of his true nature. Further he went in his unfamiliar motions, reaching behind the slave to stroke September's lithe and exposed back in attempt to calm her coughing fit. His caress felt odd on her skin, so unused to such comfort or compassion. It felt nice. The slave all but melted beneath the humanity she was so very starved for and relished in the gentle touch that she had only ever fantasized of in times past. “...said him name be Keselo, mastah. He be Sindoreh,” the young woman spoke with slight apprehension and the last word was clearly unfamiliar to her vocabulary, as if she were merely repeating something learned but not fully grasped. “Oh? What else dis one be tellin' joo?” he cooed, rubbing the small of her back in delicate circles while his other hand rose to top off her mug of wine. She regarded him with wide innocence, searching his abnormal actions with a sliver of hope, like a tiny ember clinging desperately to the last bit of heat. Compelled by this display and the continuous allure of the wine, September spoke openly. “He be sayin' lots, mastah. Da story of his past, say he used ta be a Fahstridah. Be tellin' a slave stories of dis queen of da banshees.” Much like a hawk whom spots a defenseless burrow of kits, Torjusk gleamed with pleasure at her willingness, taking special note of the hope in her jade gaze. Though the mention of farstriders momentarily caused a twitch in his features, he hid such within seconds and returned to his prior softness, confident she had not noticed. She hadn't. Offering the young woman another slice of strider meat, he spoke enticingly. “Well den. Ah be wantin' joo ta tell ya mastah everyting dey be tellin' joo. Huitzul be showin' me dat joo was talkin' more den once afta all,” he reminded her sweetly. This time the meat was graciously accepted with no guilt and she spoke further, in between bites of strider and delighted drinks of the lavish wine. Her petite body sunk into his, propped up against him like she had always belonged there. “A slave not sure 'bout him at first, mastah,” she declared matter-of-factly. “Be like joo always warned! He no be likin' how a slave be talkin' and says ah should no be usin' da nasty troll tung.” Her cinnamon brows furrowed in recollection as she continued on. “But he said it okay afta awhile and be nice ta a slave. Be tellin' of mah kin and stories of da elf lands where he say ah be from.” The words cascaded from the slave in hopeless yearning to please. “Be askin' bout Amani'shi and why a slave be havin' tattoos. He be angry at dat! But a slave no listen, mastah, ah swear it! Da elf no be undastandin'. He be speakin' dangerous words, say his arrows be...” She stopped abruptly and hiccuped loudly in surprise of what she had almost said. Torjusk had listened to the tale patiently, nodding his head slowly on occasion in an encouraging manner; once more internally satisfied at how well his schemes were working. At least until she stopped. He immediately refilled her cup with the last of the wine, though she certainly did not need it. “Well? Dont be leavin' dis Amani'shi waitin' while joo getting' ta da good parts, eh?” His words were like the wine itself, comforting in tone and spoken in a casual flowing manner and he began to stroke the elf's thick braid gently while waiting. The slave had been watching the dying flames of the fire with a strange expression and stirred dreamily when he gave her more wine, bringing it to her lips. She took one drink and then another for good measure before picking up where she had left off. “A slave be sorry, mastah,” the girl slurred, speaking slower than usual. “Dun be wantin' ta anger joo. But dis elf, ohhhh, he be sayin' dat his arrows take down many Amani. LIES!” she roared, rearing up and swaying forward, in danger of falling face first into the fire; but Torjusk wrapped his large arm around her mid-section and easily scooted her back against his chest. She hiccuped as if nothing had happened. “Lies, ah be knowin,” she said again, much softer. “Of course. Joo be knowin' bettah den ta listen ta dat,” Torjusk whispered seductively. The hand upon her back trailed upward until reaching her nape and massaging there softly. “What else dey be sayin' ta mah slave?” From her nape he moved even further, reaching up to gently caress the length of her ear. She smiled sincerely, blooming with warmth and quite pleased with herself at his apparent pleasure in her. With alcohol induced confidence, she sung like a small cinnamon hued canary – that just so happened to slur its words here and there. “He be askin' many ques- queshuns of a slave! Where we be stayin', where we be visitin', what my name be, how old ah be... tings like dat.” The flow was interrupted with a hiccup that made her giggle faintly before memory recalled something that caused her beautiful face to scrunch up tightly. “Den he be sayin' tings dat make a slave mad!” His olive eyes glinted as he made his next move. The last slab of seasoned strider meat was placed deftly between his lips and he shifted to bring the morsel right up to hers in offering. To which she gladly accepted, plucking it from his mouth with soft plush lips stained purple from the rich wine. Her equilibrium was slightly off however, and she grabbed onto his hip to steady herself while chewing. “And what be dat said ta make joo mad?” the troll inquired curiously. Without missing a beat, the drunken slave fell right back into her story. “Oh, mastah. Tings awful he be spoutin'. Dat ah be wrong ta call anyone mastah. Dat it kill or be killed. Can joo believe dat?” She closed her eyes for a moment, as if nodding off; but snapped them open just as quickly and spoke with exaggerated importance. “A slave know her place, wit da Amani-shi! ...but da elf jus be lookin' at me wit sad eyes afta dat.” Torjusk's gaze caught the flames nearby with another glint, to which he spoke to the girl in almost a whisper as he reached over to caress her chin as one would a favored pet. “Ah. So dat one be lookin' at joo wit pity, eh? Wat good be pity?” It had not occurred to her that Keselo had ever looked at her with pity until now. Influenced by his words, she furrowed her brow and accepted her master's conclusion. “Pity!?” she declared with outrage. She drew herself up proudly with jade eyes that were glazed over from intoxication. Her speech had become more and more slurred, but more animated as well. “Ah be slave of Amani-shi! Not be no peon dat work da fields dat need pity!” She scrunched her dainty nose up in defiance before being lured by the sight of her wine mug, scrunched up nose disappearing into the cup as she drank. The look of utter thrill that overcame the troll was astonishing and he leaned closer to September while whispering in her ear. “Dat be right. But, dat how ya kind be. Dey gonna be lookin' down on joo like dat. Dey gonna be givin' da pity. Dey be tinking dat dey be bettah den joo.” Carefully, he finally took the cup away from the girl and set it aside. Lifting her chin and looking into her eyes, he tilted his head while softly inquiring again. “Did dis one be sayin' anyting else? Tell ya mastah da truth now.” September's eyes lidded briefly, another hiccup interrupting her intent to speak, which consequently sent her into a fit of laughter. The troll waited patiently for such to pass and when it did, the young slave looked up at Torjusk with eyes that attempted to focus on him as she nodded her agreement. “Joo be rite 'bout dat, mastah. But all dat he be ayin' ...uh sayin'... is dat he be wantin' ta kill Amani'shi and he be seein' a slave again. He be close behind. Afta dat, ah be goin' back ta da Tunda Bruff cause ah not be wantin' ta hear no mo.” It dawned on her that the words were said wrong as she giggled to herself and fell back against his chest with a soft thud. “Tunda Bruff. Brrruff,” she attempted to correct herself, laughing loudly before finally getting it right. “Bluff!” It was a grim satisfaction that darkened his visage for the most fleeting of moments after the Sin'dorei's supposed intent and claim were revealed, yet his softness asserted itself once more as he offered a toothy smile. “Dat be so?” He shook his head from side to side, the great mane of crimson moving in turn. “It not be da first time ah be hearin' dat from ya kind. It not gonna be da last, eh?” He stroked September's braid as he continued. “Joo been faithful ta ya mastah, yes?” The slave nodded to his causal question, reaching boldly to retrieve the slightly full mug that he had taken from her earlier; bracing herself against his other thigh as she damn near lost her balance. After righting her position, she looked to him with drunk innocent eyes. “A slave always be faithfah! Swear dat to Loa... I mean, ta da Loa!” She turned the cup up, finishing off the last drop and then licked her lips clean as well. He eyed her thoughtfully, which she mistakenly took for suspicion. The cup was forgotten, dropped to the dusty ground with no more thought as her hand strayed towards the crotch of his leather pants. She cupped the soft flesh between his legs firmly and looked up at him, a slight lull to her head. With jade eyes that were probably meant to be seductive but looked more dreamy, she gave his junk a small squeeze. “A slave be showin' da faithfahness?” she asked hopefully. If there was one thing she was good at it, it was pleasing a man. Torjusk seemed momentarily distracted, though not by the kinky display. His attention returned in full then as he grinned at her. “Ya mastah need ta be tinkin' for a littah while.” Deftly he removed her hand from his nethers and nudged her off his lap, rising to tower over the little elf while keeping her steady with a hand upon her shoulder. “Here,” he said, reaching for the remainder of the cooked haunch from its stake. He handed it to September. “Joo be sharin' dis wit ya beast. Den joo be waitin' for ya mastah in da tent for when ah be ready for ja.” As he let go of her shoulder, she stumbled backwards but managed to remain upright, swaying slightly. It was now dusk, she absentmindedly noticed, and glanced fuzzily around for Bashjala. “Tankjoo, mastah,” she hiccuped, taking the meat and holding it above her head like a prize. “Bash! Here boy!” Her treasured companion had been loyally watching over her from across the yard the entire time and eagerly moved to answer his companion's call. She swung around at the sound of the feline's paws upon the ground, and promptly fell flat on her ass. The half eaten haunch rolled across the ground and the sight of it caused her to burst into giggles so boisterous she had to lay down to calm herself. “Oh no, dun be wantin' dirty meat.” This reignited her amusement and she snorted, laughing drunkenly once more while staring up at the stars just beginning to twinkle in the sky overhead. “Dirty meat...” she murmured to herself at the innuendo, grinning like a fool. Bashjala, however, did not mind the dirt and snapped the treat up quickly before Quetlikun could get his fetid beak on it. This drunken display was watched carefully by Torjusk, with some amusement, though his brow were kept in contemplation now. The charcoal drawing was quietly stolen from its home and stuffed into his pocket. The rest of the prized sketchbook was then tossed into the river that ran parallel to their camp, left for the crocolisks to play with. He took his spear from where it leaned against the tree trunk firmly in hand and turned away from the camp and the slave that laid there stupidly, too lost in her own euphoria to be aware of his actions. A cruel grin contorted his savage face, the facade of the evening stripped away entirely, and his olive eyes gleamed gleefully with malicious intent. Satisfaction etched its mark upon every crevasse of his features. “Honey be drawin' dem in bettah sometimes, eh? Da Hierophant be right...”