Thread: Sword & Shield

Percy was a good man. That was all Tierian thought as the two saw to one another's eyes as several of Keara's soldiers began leading him away from the crowd. A good man and a ferocious warrior, to say nothing of his worth as a friend. He would've welcomed the slow death, probably, the crazy bastard, both to be free of his bindings and to show these boys how a man takes a beating. The prince smirked, recalling briefly the first memory he had of the man from when he himself was just a boy, seeing the maniac bare-knuckle brawling three of the king's men in studded leather and iron, drunk at midday in some small town tavern, besting them without even drawing his axe. The mad dog had gone back to drinking his ale then, using one of the helmets as a footrest, even having the gall to ask the ten year old prince to then pick up his tab, grinning like a sinner. Oh how things had changed. Oh how they ever stayed the same. I'll see you freed yet, Tierian mouthed to himself. Then, with a smirk, Lest you break out of them first. His eyes scanned the grass quickly, he himself grabbed by his upper arms now, being turned, being led away, the spectacle finished. Prince Tierian's brown eyes saw briefly as several men rushed what had been the open circle, bending down and snatching their hands at the grass. Likely seeking to take the severed fingers as a token of sorts, or perhaps something to jest about over their ale later. He just smirked. He'd see them all dead soon enough, he told himself behind that crooked smile. Those who didn't end up on the tip of a spear would be hung, and this Keara woman would soon know what it was like to clean the dirt from the boot of royalty with her tongue, dressed in only her shame. For now, however, he would brave her temporary power over him. Back in her tent Tierian was anything but the joking, arrogant man he was before. At least, the outward arrogance wasn't showing, not right that moment anyway. Far from humbled, he still held firm to those thoughts, his mind causing his lips to sneer or smirk or roll his eyes when he looked to this thing or that in the woman's tent, standing there simply, wrists still bound from behind. There was a pot over to one corner that he glanced at, but thought nothing of. Outside the tent he could hear nearby others in the camp milling about, faint voices, and some soldiers further still singing, but it was all too far away to really catch. All in all, he couldn't have been more disinterested in what authority this wench thought she had over him. What was she going to do, really? Keep him tied for awhile? Rope was typical in the prince's bedroom play to begin with, though admittedly with the roles reversed. Would she give him a crotch shot or two, thinking that would impress him? Maybe she'd just boast for awhile. When she turned to him he finally looked back to her, only then coming to realize what it was Keara had procured from the somewhat interesting looking box he'd caught sight of on the table. The prince's brow twisted, his features quirking in mild confusion as she stood on the tips of her toes to secure the thin strip of black leather around his throat. The shoulder-length brunette said nothing, just... standing there. His body had tensed slightly when she reached her hands up to his neck, but as quickly as it had come that feeling faded. He hadn't seen the wording on it, but he could guess this 'gift' wasn't meant as either friendly or flattering. Then the knife came. He didn't flinch. He didn't pull away. At this point the man made a point not to in his mind. Jaw set firm. His face relaxed, then found itself as firm as his jaw with the next breath, stoic. He'd been cut. He'd been stabbed. She wouldn't injure him. Forget the bounty word would get out sure enough, and she'd be a fool to incite his people and his father any more than the trollop already had. The tearing of the cool steel blade down the length of his shirt didn't summon a single flinch, nor did it even when she brought the sharpened weapon to his pants. Is that what she had hoped for? A cowering, defeated foe? A man that would sooner snivel than stand in defiance? He said he'd behave, but not that he'd fear her. Even as the surface cut down the length of his chest gave way to a light trickle of red the prince stood with his back straight, relaxing, clenching into fists, then relaxing again. In a very short span of time he found himself standing before this woman in the nude, an athletically fit body doused with dark hairs in all the normal manly places, his legs and thighs strong, his abdomen flat, and though his manhood was not quite as at attention as he, it was not something the prince needed to boast about - it boasted for itself. And all he said when she was finished, a light smirk cracking his otherwise expressionless face, the black fabric of the collar tight around his throat as he spoke, was, You owe me a new shirt. Then, a moment later, eyeing hers, eyeing the one she wore and the way it hugged her chest, then looking to his own cut up shirt on the floor, That had my family's symbol, you twat. A calm voice, despite the words. He was as amused with himself as he was irritated at her blatant disrespect. Perhaps when you herald a lineage of rat catchers you would not understand, but mine is a bloodline of pride. Seemed he found that backbone again.