Thread: Under the Thumb of a Tyrant (Valanaer x Swagbeast)

After the cathedral was abandoned some decades ago, nature had come to reclaim what was rightfully hers. The great, fearsome steeple became festooned in moss and lichen its walls besmirched with rot and worms. Aside from its eerie shadow, the cathedral appeared no less fearsome than the sacellums in the north. That was, however, until Que'coti Qhaz Ammon and her followers chose to fortify it. They came from the undergrowth in legions of zealots and acolytes with Ammon's mercenaries flanking the rear and pirates toting cargo from their galleys. Half were too exhausted beyond measure and, at their behest, Ammon allowed them rest. Their eyes brightened when they saw the cathedral in all of its Gothic glory. Having been enfeebled from battle Ammon and her generals chose to make this cathedral their fortress. Steady moans sighed through sanctuary's walls like a dirge heralding death. Their most recent skirmish crippled a fraction of her forces. After some days making an attempt to heal them with her own hands, Ammon finally chose rest. Half were asleep having been put under by heavy doses of poppy tears while others laid awake in agony. Eventually Ammon retired to her quarters where a third of her generals lied in wait. Edmure was among the largest, broad of shoulder with bandy legs wan eyes. Although he appeared gruff his mien was quite the opposite. Those we fought, they were not the men who oppressed your people, he stated. York, Ammon's head ranger, stood in his usual smugness with thumbs hooked through his belt. But followers nonetheless, he said in reply to Edmure, Aside from that, they've been squandering their resources preaching word of their god. The Red God, they called him. York shrugged. Where was their Red God when I loosed a quarrel in his high septon's head? Some god to have protected prophet. You overreach, as usual, Edmure growled, We're wasting precious time and men defeating arrant priests. The high prophet Hespith is who we are in pursuit of. I deign not care of the Red God or the Drowned God, or the seven faced god of Oyour. Ammon has shown us that there are no gods, only destiny. Ammon freed Edmure from captivity - he was a beast of a man sentenced to die in the fighting pits until she told him that a man should embrace destiny, not flee or fight it, for embracing it made it as malleable as loam if he chose it to be so. Thus, he chose it was his fate not to die. After being enlightened by her claim he swore to follow her that freeing others' minds as she had would be his destiny. York's anecdote was far less compelling but reason enough to join Ammon's cause. When Ammon staggered into her chamber, both York and Edmure gawked. Her belly had a ravine sunk into it from a serrated blade that bit her during battle. It wept despite having been sewn, merriting looks of worry from her generals. Ammon, York gasped. His face was as pale as milk. Edmure appeared more angry than frightened. Leave me, if you would, she rasped. Though her voice was thick with affliction it was as melodic and sonorous as the vagrant fabulists who'd been weaving tales since they could talk. They both nodded choppy nods and beelined for the stairwell with York's intimidating black mastiff hobbling behind. When her quarters were silent she stood back to the door, gently unravelling the roughspun linens that suppressed her breasts. They bounced free, each full and supple. She cupped her right breast and lifted, grimacing at the fissure that left her skin frayed and ugly. The mirror before her was a gift, albeit a queer one. She touched the tumid flesh and winced in response. Just as she began slathering an unguent over the laceration one of her guards came barrelling up the stairs. Ammon, he panted, Cain requests an audience. There was an almost awkward lapse of silence when she finally replied. His request has been granted. Let him pass.