Thread: streetlight swag

Both Rusko and Edmure were thrown aback by their passenger's intrepidity. Edmure advanced, mouth parted and eyes wild, but Rusko intervened. He resembled a demon in the rainfall his surcoat was oversized, its hood limned with teased wolf fur and thatched with threadbare linen. Cold rain was sluiced over his mane, flattening it against his cheeks. A monster, many called him - his men, however, called him a saviour. This? This is not mercy. This is convenience. The very instant the cadence slipped from his lips, a handful of Rusko's crew curcuited closer. Some were handsome underneath the layers of grime and facial hair, others slovenly and made sallow by years at sea. If Rusko allowed it, his crew would drag the woman into Behemoth 's belly and each take turns viciously raping her while the others watched on with fire in their eyes, eagerly stroking their cocks to erection as they awaited their turns. If it gladdened his brothers, Rusko would see to it. Mercy would be throwing you to the depths. You use the term 'lord' as if you are in Miribar. But look around you! He raised his arms and gestured to the salty expanse stretching out to meet the horizon's zenith, all slick and black and disturbed by the rain. His men all chuckled, some being brazen enough to smack their hands on their chests and cup their balls. There are no lords here, whore. There is the sea, the sky, and us . You think some primped and preened lord in Miribar will want you after you've been spoiled? Gods know how many bastards have had their cock in you. Thunder drummed overhead and lightening cracked at the clouds like a whip. Behemoth was momentarily ignited by light but fell to silent darkness as they clouds thickened. For a moment Edmure swore that he saw his captain smile, a thing rarer than a whale sighting in those waters. Tell me, woman, what is your name? So we may properly mourn upon your passing. Comfort was something a Palan emperor or empress was not permitted to have. Unlike the hedonists dwelling within the civilized kingdoms across the Sandsea, most inhabiting the cities across its shores sacrificed extravagance for their people. Before being abducted, Samosa ruled Pala with altruism and cunning. She eschewed her beliefs for them forfeited her freedom to marry and bare children all for her people to live peacefully. When Troen mentioned fate, Samosa lifted her head. As a Palan, she was a firm believer in destiny and its sister fate. In fact, her religion revolved around the ideal that lives were sewn by destiny's thread, predestining each life. Perhaps someday she'd elaborate on the verity of his statement. She watched, mesmerized, as the flames danced like a troupe of writhing red ribbons. She glimpsed Troen as he kissed her shoulder and withdrew to his side of their bed surprisingly, Samosa found herself spurred to converse. Opporunity to chat was infrequent, she deemed, and Troen was to be her husband under every circumstance. Pala, she exhaled, eyes sullen, It's an archipelago, wrought by summer all throughout the year. It's an indescribably resplendent place ... the waters are blue as sapphires and clear as glass. She swept a few arrant locks from her view, watching as the last embers in the hearth began to wane. We do not have lords or ladies. Men and women are equal in Pala. Those of note earn their roles their blood has naught to do with inheritance. Alas, words would not do Pala justice. One would have to drink the sight to know its rapture.