Thread: streetlight swag

Rusko found it amusing that this maid, Naila, was attempting to bargain her way out of being fucked halfway around the Maelstrom and back. He had no interest in negotiating with her nor did he find her reasoning to be sound. He swallowed his anger with a swig of rum and merely observed as she preached. Many women have shared a similar position as you, Edmure chimed in, And many have been far more convincing. We have men who were taught to mend wounds men that can fillet a tuna as well as your Miribaran chefs. The only bargaining tool you have is what's between your legs, and I suggest you use it. We do not suffer mutiny on this ship, woman ... nor do you make attempt to negotiate with our captain. Rusko merely laughed. It was a hearty laugh that shook the mahogany pillars and nearly split fissures in Behemoth's keel. His men all exchanged whispers, bewildered, wondering if their captain had lost his mind during their many months at sea. I'm Palan, not craven, he boomed, slapping his stomach as the fury of laughter stole him, I care not for how other crews regard me, yet when they see Behemoth's black sails they sail in the direction from whence they came. His crew nodded in agreement, however panicked they may have been when Naila approached with a dirk in hand. Rusko was unintimidated, but Edmure was poised to strike. The entire brotherhood had their hands on their weapons and drunken archers flanking the barracks had their yews brandished and quarrels knocked. With lightening-fast reflexes Rusko snatched her wrist. He didn't favour the shiv kissing his Adam's apple nor did he particularly enjoy her japes. You know, he began, his voice deep and gravely, Palans believe in synergy. Balance is what sustains life. Did you know that Pala is a shortened word? It's originally Palaa'weq Yewpugway ... 'People of Balance'. Knowing this, you'll now understand that I am a firm believer in fair trade, woman, and I give respect where it is earned. If you submit ... if you adhere to my commands, then your maidenhood will be yours to do with as you wish. Thus ... synergy. He threw her hand away from his mane, gesturing to his brothers to sheath their weapons. They did as they were bid and retook their haunts where they warily continued noshing on their meals and glimpsed Nail and Rusko through narrowed eyes. What I will promise you is a warm bed, food in your belly and safe return to Miribar if you listen. I am young, but I'm in no hurry to squander my youth on arguing with some lord's spoiled little girl. His marvellously light eyes began to glower as if they were two olive hued opals left to glimmer in the desert sun. His mouth drew in at the corners and he scratched his chin, nearly perturbed by the new growth sprouting from his jawline. However ... He stopped and gazed at her again, with a new mien this time, I am in dire needs of a trim, gods tell it true. 'Aye ... He laughed, and his crew along with him. Are you a witch? Samosa had heard similar accusations before, but they held no truth. Palans were a tribal people, often adopting roles such as shamans and soothsayers their magics were sacred, taboo to the inlanders, but certainly not what Miribarans perceived as witchcraft. As far as Samosa knew, the covens dwelt within the quagmires some miles off the coast, in the opposite direction of her motherland. No, I am not a witch, she said almost bitterly, Witches cannot heal. They practice entropy ... I have dabbled, but seldom had use for it. She watched, nearly dishevelled, as her fiance struggled to conquer their bed. His pain was almost palpable and she could sense his discomfort by simply observing his movements. I find the notion of your offence amusing, Samosa said flatly as she knelt aside him, I am not a hermit, no. But I am a recluse. I find social interaction ... She paused. Though Samosa was a skilled orator in regards to the common tongue, some words still escaped her. Palan was such a verbose dialect that some words had only one meaning, not several. ... what you would call awkward. I suppose. As he eased back, her fingers glided over his exposed forearm, gently testing the elasticity of the flesh. Underneath she felt the fragments of bone laying loose, absent taut muscle to fasten them in place. What will transpire here ... I ask that you do not speak of it to anyone. If my people were to learn that I've been abusing their practices, I'll forever be an exile. The strange markings on her forearm began thrumming on her palm was a sigil similar to an alchemist's transmutation circle, but it was larger and several times more intricate. She flexed her fingers and touched his skin, feeling as his flesh prickled hot like warm sands. Underneath his flesh underneath the tendon and muscle and sinew his bones began trembling. She squeezed his arm tight with no warning, likely inflicting astronomical pain. To distract Troen from crying out Samosa leaned in, capturing his lips in a passionate kiss, one that was only shared between a loving husband and wife. His mouth was hot and the sensation of his facial hair tickled her chink, but it was altogether no where near as vulgar as she originally fathomed. In fact, the embrace was enjoyable, but she'd take that secret to her grave. When the bone was set and her brands resembled dull black ink again, Samosa eased herself from their wedding bed and meandered to a wardrobe were several of her Palan gowns and outfits were hung. She tore one garb from its haunt, draped it over her forearm and faced her future husband with that traditional stoic gaze. Rest, she said surprisingly softly, I will send for the maester and bring you a meal to break your fast. Ammon ate her breakfast in the gardens among a sea of willow trees and big, ripe pumpkins as orange as the twilight. It was a hiding place, but she knew Troen would find here there soon - part of her, against her better judgement, half wanted him to find it.