Thread: streetlight swag

Starless nights were when Behemoth crept most silently upon the waves, veiled within a shroud of eerie fog that was said to herald the ghosts of sailors lost at sea. When the galley's prow parted through the miasma, vessels knew that doom was upon them. Like phantoms, Behemoth 's children stole through the darkness with their scabbards and swords and scimitars, plunging into the briny depths below only to scale the prows of their victims' vessel ship. This particular night was no different than any other Behemoth's sons were starving having lost their rations during a dreadful sea storm. Some grew irate, shoving and hollering at their brothers while others honed their scabbards with whetstones. That most fearsome of the crew was Yeaman Un Rusko, a man who shared similarities with his ship's title. He was broad of shoulder and long of limb with eyes black as smouldering hot coals. Captain. One of the sailors emerged from Behemoth 's lower deck sporting a russet beard that had grown frayed and unkempt over the weeks. His hair laid limp flat against his hollow cheekbones, yet his eyes were as loyal as a hound's. The barge is virtually unmanned. It's a slave ship, most like. Most pirates held vendettas against slave galleys and attacked them on sight - mercenaries and owners were slaughtered without remorse whereas the slaves were often left free to command their late master's ship. From time to time Rusko would allow his crew free reign to share beds with bodyslaves the women were oft more than willing to express gratitude by parting their legs, but Rusko seldom partook. Instead he'd hole himself away in his quarters with a quart of spiced rum and make a silver stag walk across his knuckles as per his nightly ritual. Our brothers are ready. We await your command- Take it. The middle-age man nodded then gestured towards a throng of pirates nearly bobbing up and down in excitement. With their scabbards at their hips and dirks clenched between their teeth, a fraction of the mob dove into the depths while others borrowed skiffs from Behemoth 's belly and rowed them to the slave vessel with the steady thrum of the waves. They scaled the barge's prow like a nest of venomous spiders until until the first mercenary took notice. Pirates! he screamed. His call alerted the other sellswords but by the time they managed to clamber to the deck, Rusko's men had carved half their corpses and left a mess of blood and gore. With the moon ensconced beyond the fog one could not differentiate seawater from blood, but Rusko appeared quite supercilious as he shepherded Behemoth aside the slave barge. This ship is far too extravagant to have so little arms, commented one of the pirates. Rusko circuited around him, observing the stairs which disappeared into the barge's belly. From there he could hear the melody of his cheerful brothers, each plucking locks and latches from the slaves' cages in the hold. He traversed the gallery, an atrium carpeted in vair, when weeping filled his ears. He knew the consonance of fear like a whore knew a cock, except, fear couldn't be culled by stroking it. Inside the chamber at the foot of the hall was a man primped and preened to perfection and a woman near nude as her nameday. Slave merchents were obvious, exploiting their wealth flaunting it at every turn. Rusko knew well enough the title this man bore, and, with little to no hestitation, he drove his scabbard into the man's back. He croaked, gargling his last pleas until he slumped over, dead, on the blankets. Miribaran funeral rituals were the queerest of the many Quaz'cacial del Samosa had witnessed in her all her twenty-four years. Noble men of high birth foreign dignitaries and rich socialites all gathered in her future husband's palace to mourn the loss of his brother, and, their late king. Women garbed themselves in wan black raiments while the men clasped their cloaks with sigils to represent their respective houses. A feast soon followed the service, but the food was as bland as the moon was pale. There was not a dash of spice no curry or saffron or parsley, just trenchers of beef stew embellished with red potatoes. When the cook observed Samosa's empty plate, he meandered over and questioned her appetite with unfailing politeness. She declined his request to bake her something extraordinary and vanished, defeated. Lady Tanda of house Blackmarsh was the first to congratulate Samosa on her engagement. She was known to be a merry woman in her cups, but when sober, she was as sour as her lord husband. The entire night she ogled Samosa with little to no prudence, drinking in the width of her hips and swell of her breasts. Everything about the woman screamed exotic her features were roguish and eyes ginger in hue, but it was her mane that was the most ravishing. It was long, thick and starless, framing her pert cheekbones as if she were some painting of a tropical goddess. You will give Troen a strong, handsome heir, Lady Blackmarsh quipped as Samosa sipped her hipporcras. Unbeknownst to Lady Blackmarsh, Samosa hadn't even fathomed spreading her legs for Troen. Palans were a matriarchal race that adopted paramours, concubines and lovers. Marriage was a sacred unison, rare in practice among her people, but it was not entirely unheard of. Come the eve's culmination three quarters of Troen's company were near drunk or tipsy enough to sing dirges of King Tapio's passing. Samosa had the misfortune of being subjected to her fiancee's debauched whispers. A man whose strength lied in political prowess and not within a sword and shield did no more to arouse her than jowly Lord Cummond and his rotund belly that appeared to jiggle when he laughed. Despite her misgivings, Samosa was a calculating vixen if ever one breathed. In front of Troen's affiliates she assumed the role of the extrinsic sovereign who spoke few words of the common tongue when in retrospect, she was a venomous cobra who struck only when convenient. Of course, lord husband, she sang almost mellifluously. Her accent was thick and laden with a vernacular rhythm, though she embellished if only a smidgen. When they are alone in their marital chambers, Samosa hastily began unlacing her bodice. It exaggerated the swell of her bosom and narrowed her hips until she nearly lost her image of nubility. Underneath she wore a linen bandeau dyed in kohl her arms and midsection all bear, revealing the ritual tattoos her people had branded her with when she was six years old. I am sure you would like many things, labi , she replied flatly, yet, almost mockingly, I, for example, would like our marriage to be annulled. Yet ... fate dictates otherwise.