Post by Squee on Feb 4, 2009 19:47:46 GMT -5
((Ya'll have listened to me squeal over my story for quite a number of days now. I am personally LOVING to write this story, which is at a total of fifteen pages now. WHOOT! But, don't worry, I shalt not pour all fifteen pages onto you at once. That would be cruel on Squee's part. I shall go to measures to break it down for you a few pages at a time.
I do love reviews. Feel free to either warmly congratulate or point out your favorite parts or heavily criticise my failure at communication or whatever it is that irked you so.
This is a sort of like an adventure romance thing. I would rate it probably a PG-13. If that is any use or warning to any of you. And if it isn't yet, it probably will be later.
And yes, this is to satisfy Squee's dying need of romance.))
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The horse must have taken a wrong step in the crisp snow. The saddle bucked forth and Ja’sar slid forward some, her eyes snapping open when her heart leapt to her throat. Her fingers dug into the saddle horn, gripping as the small horse regained his sure footing. Once more, she slumped, muttering under her breath for a moment before she was silenced by a gruff voice. Her eyelids lifted to give her slits to look through, sliding her dark eyes to the left to give her captor a hard glare.
The left side of her face was cut on her temple, and a bruise stretched a good portion of the area surrounding the blood encrusted wound. Her muscles ached, she realized beyond the constant throbbing of her head. Her wrists were raw from the rubbing of the rope. Ja’sar wasn’t sure if agony was the right word for the soreness in her bottom and on the inside of her thighs from the days of riding. She was tired and in pain, the wound on her side bothering her greatly.
For heavens sakes, the orcs could have been more gentle with their captives. These men seemed to have steel for a buttocks, their nerves no better, and under some circumstances they growled so much Ja’sar would have barked that they were dogs. That would’ve ended with a blade pommel to the head, striking her unconscious so they’d have to pin her uncomfortably to the saddle. As they had earlier. She had learned to react as such a nuisance. It only led to a miserable future.
Not that the future was bright anyway. Overcast choked the blue of the sky, silencing any comfort the sun might’ve sung for her. The last few days, Ja’sar had looked to it, willing herself through the day. Now it ceased to exist this day and give what little warmth it could during the cold winter months. It created a dismal scene, and the straight faced and squared jawed men did nothing to liven it up.
Men, and only men. Bandits, mercenaries, maybe both, or maybe something quite different. Ja’sar wasn’t sure. All she remembered was her and Eldarion being jumped during the night as they shared a rather intimate moment. Ja’sar remembered it quite well. How they had reached the point where they wouldn’t release each other’s lip, she couldn’t remember. She remembered talking about family and going back to her village to see her brothers one moment, and the next, Eldarion was leaned across her, lips claiming hers. He leaned on one hand placed on the opposite side of her body from where his was, the other playing with her arm or extended at her waist to curl around her body and bring her closer. It was enough to make Ja’sar’s toes curl and the barest of smirks cross her face.
And then, it ended. These… thieving, cowardly men had attacked them at night, as soon as they were distracted. Descending on the two lovers quicker than either of them could reach for their swords, which hadn’t been sitting far. It went as quickly as any successful surprise attack should be. Pommels of swords being battered against Eldarion’s skull as he instinctively lunged for his weapon. Ja’sar, grabbed from under the arms and hauled to her feet, expecting no attack from her.
One guy hadn’t been expecting that side thrust kick to the limbs. The second hadn’t expected his nose to be busted. Blood spurting from the relatively painful wound, he put a hand to it and therefore released Ja’sar. She turned to deal with another and was clobbered across the temple. Upon being recognized as not your usual woman, she was labeled a threat and therefore didn’t deserve to be treated like a lady. A stumble and a head shake later, she was having to twist from an arm lock in progress, backfist the attacker in the jaw, and took a foot to the abdomen for not paying attention to that one that threw that hook to her head. He was an issue. And he was the one who got Ja’sar in the end, winning by knock out.
And she had awoken strapped down to a horse like some kind of camping equipment. Dizzy, they had had to pause several times for her to wretch by the side of the road. And it was after each one that she was placed upright on the horse, hands tied down the saddle. They didn’t treat her awful, but they didn’t treat her with respect. Not much anyway. She was surprised one or two of them hadn’t tried raping her throughout the night. Perhaps they were smart that way. It wouldn’t have been the first time an attempt had been made on her. She doubted it would be that last.
But Ja’sar had been taught to fight. Against her mother’s wishes, but, Ja’sar would sit on an upturned water bucket, head resting on rolled fists and watched her brothers spar or take lessons from her father. All the while, she wished she could join them, get out of the damn skirt mother made her wear all the time. Ja’sar sister had criticized her interest, saying she’d never make the good wife of anyone if she took up sword fighting and knives –which were “dangerous”, by the way- and strayed from sewing.
Ja’sar hadn’t cared. She was ten then, four years before considered eligible to marry. Ja’sar’s father finally asked her if she would like to join the lessons and she eagerly accepted. Ja’sar never asked anything of her father. She had loved her father. He had always asked her things, never the other way around. In the first few times handling something half the size of a staff, she could twirl it around rather easily. The simple drills father called were performed fluidly after a few months. She started adding other strokes almost unconsciously, quick, a flash here.
Her mother was uneasy about Ja’sar learning how to handle sharp objects that “she could easily fall onto, killing herself”. Ja’sar had heard that conversation. Her father’s soft chuckle was the response, along with something along the lines of that she wouldn’t. Ja’sar was someone who he claimed to be a natural swordswoman.
The girl was maturing in more ways than one. Ja’sar took knives upon herself, testing out various weights and setting up her own practice field for the weapon her father was not skilled in. Day in, day out, Ja’sar would practice as she reached age of fourteen, developing ways to throw different forms of knives so they smacked dead center into her targets. It was nearly by the time she was fifteen she had taught herself, with some pointers from an amateur, enough to have her father be truly impressed. Ja’sar was quick and light on her feet as a fighter - a witty, deceiving young lady with true talent.
Again, Ja’sar had a conversation with her mother. Again, the fact no men would look upon her approvingly came up. Her mother pointed out the breeches and leather scabbards hidden among her boots or tucked away in some clothing when she went for practice. If Ja’sar displayed herself as a master of blades, she would never leave her parents’ home, never marry, et cetera, et cetera.
This earned a blink from the young woman. In turn, she replied that she didn’t care. If men couldn’t look at her for who she was and like it, they could go find someone else to hound over and rape before marriage. This earned a heart stopping, jaw dropping moment from Ja’sar’s mother as her second daughter rose from the table and went outside to spar with her brothers.
Her brothers approved of her step toward individuality and independence. It had taken Ja’sar a while to get used to the fact of sparring when she first began. Her mind would blank out, and she was the first to be beaten. As the few years passed, Ja’sar’s natural talent with a sword and lighter, almost airy dance around her brothers had them twisting in circles, to which she would make quick work in calling them ‘dead’, her sparring tool inches from a fatal point.
But that had not happened the other night. Ja’sar hadn’t proven herself as a master in blades, just a slippery serpent around holds and a clever mind that had developed through so many sparring lessons. These raiders had gone to show there were cowardly fools who were decent at the art of weapons and fighting, unlike the looters she had once faced against with Eldarion.
Even that had been a God awful experience. She and Eldarion had played a dangerous game of cat and mouse, coming nearly away with Eldarion’s life. Ja’sar had the looters confused that they were chasing a mouse when they were really the mice themselves. A couple of times Eldarion had a successful, if not flashy, entrance to knock the thieves into next week. Portraying the image of a frightened woman running away, she had managed to attract quite a bit of attention.
And that attention had gathered into a four on one. Hungry wolves, the men tracking her were, surrounding her like driving a deer, and then bit down with fingers as teeth and dragged her thrashing body down into a vacant ally. The nimbleness of those jaws had ripped her cloak from her shoulders and detached her belt in but a furious flash. Much too quick, much too clever, far too experienced the rapists were, and far too driven.
Eldarion was driven mad. He descended upon the wolves, appearing in as the stealthy jaguar but roaring a cry of a lion. His claw was sheathed and his teeth were bared as he cleaved through limbs of flesh and bone as if nothing but blades of grass. Eyes of menace, eyes of determination, eyes of poison, and eyes of pure rage. In his world these men deserved death for trying to take something precious from him. But death had nearly engulfed him as well. The expression of anger was torn into sheer surprise when the blade had been driven into his back. His attack remained relentless until the last body was shred before he collapsed like the wounded tiger. Ja’sar thanked whatever spirits had healed him. That day should have been fateful for him.
And here she was on an ambling horse, rocking back and forth and her breath catching every time the horse slipped on a patch of ice. Fog curled around her nose and mouth as she breathed. The day was much colder than the night had been. When her eyes flickered around her new party, what had caused such warmth was no where to be seen.
“What have you done with Eldarion?” she rounded on the man riding alongside her. The black beads of his eyes glowered back at her with a look of disdain. Ja’sar’s jaw remained stubbornly set, daring to repeat her question demandingly.
“With a ‘ifferent par’y,” the man finally spat back at her, accent heavily placed. “I’ won’ make much ‘ifference for you, anyway. No’ wi’ what the Comman’an’ haz planned for you. Quite a rare prize for women.”
Ja’sar let out a disgusted snort at the suddenly wide grin that spread across the man’s features. It was anything but warm, and it barely tainted his cold black eyes. Her face was plastered in a permanent scowl. Was it all about women as slaves or servants and sex? Her teeth gritted, biting down almost painfully hard. It really did come to bite you on the butt if you were a woman. No respect. A simple plaything for millions of males.
Wind swept over her frame, seizing her with a chilly grip without a cloak to protect her. Cold was biting at her cheeks, her skin was prickled in gooseflesh, and shudders compressing her spine. Not so much as a glance from the riders. Ja’sar hissed near silent curses under her breath as them and let out a sharp yelp when her horse stumbled again. Wherever this animal had come from, he most definitely was not use to ice, sleet, or snow. And neither was she. Lifting her eyes from the mane of the horse, she looked beyond the party and up ahead of her. She saw a winding path already marked with tracks of previous visitors, and the butt of the last pack mule had rounded a bend far ahead of them. But stretched further than the bend was a tangle of peaks. Mountains.
I do love reviews. Feel free to either warmly congratulate or point out your favorite parts or heavily criticise my failure at communication or whatever it is that irked you so.
This is a sort of like an adventure romance thing. I would rate it probably a PG-13. If that is any use or warning to any of you. And if it isn't yet, it probably will be later.
And yes, this is to satisfy Squee's dying need of romance.))
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
The horse must have taken a wrong step in the crisp snow. The saddle bucked forth and Ja’sar slid forward some, her eyes snapping open when her heart leapt to her throat. Her fingers dug into the saddle horn, gripping as the small horse regained his sure footing. Once more, she slumped, muttering under her breath for a moment before she was silenced by a gruff voice. Her eyelids lifted to give her slits to look through, sliding her dark eyes to the left to give her captor a hard glare.
The left side of her face was cut on her temple, and a bruise stretched a good portion of the area surrounding the blood encrusted wound. Her muscles ached, she realized beyond the constant throbbing of her head. Her wrists were raw from the rubbing of the rope. Ja’sar wasn’t sure if agony was the right word for the soreness in her bottom and on the inside of her thighs from the days of riding. She was tired and in pain, the wound on her side bothering her greatly.
For heavens sakes, the orcs could have been more gentle with their captives. These men seemed to have steel for a buttocks, their nerves no better, and under some circumstances they growled so much Ja’sar would have barked that they were dogs. That would’ve ended with a blade pommel to the head, striking her unconscious so they’d have to pin her uncomfortably to the saddle. As they had earlier. She had learned to react as such a nuisance. It only led to a miserable future.
Not that the future was bright anyway. Overcast choked the blue of the sky, silencing any comfort the sun might’ve sung for her. The last few days, Ja’sar had looked to it, willing herself through the day. Now it ceased to exist this day and give what little warmth it could during the cold winter months. It created a dismal scene, and the straight faced and squared jawed men did nothing to liven it up.
Men, and only men. Bandits, mercenaries, maybe both, or maybe something quite different. Ja’sar wasn’t sure. All she remembered was her and Eldarion being jumped during the night as they shared a rather intimate moment. Ja’sar remembered it quite well. How they had reached the point where they wouldn’t release each other’s lip, she couldn’t remember. She remembered talking about family and going back to her village to see her brothers one moment, and the next, Eldarion was leaned across her, lips claiming hers. He leaned on one hand placed on the opposite side of her body from where his was, the other playing with her arm or extended at her waist to curl around her body and bring her closer. It was enough to make Ja’sar’s toes curl and the barest of smirks cross her face.
And then, it ended. These… thieving, cowardly men had attacked them at night, as soon as they were distracted. Descending on the two lovers quicker than either of them could reach for their swords, which hadn’t been sitting far. It went as quickly as any successful surprise attack should be. Pommels of swords being battered against Eldarion’s skull as he instinctively lunged for his weapon. Ja’sar, grabbed from under the arms and hauled to her feet, expecting no attack from her.
One guy hadn’t been expecting that side thrust kick to the limbs. The second hadn’t expected his nose to be busted. Blood spurting from the relatively painful wound, he put a hand to it and therefore released Ja’sar. She turned to deal with another and was clobbered across the temple. Upon being recognized as not your usual woman, she was labeled a threat and therefore didn’t deserve to be treated like a lady. A stumble and a head shake later, she was having to twist from an arm lock in progress, backfist the attacker in the jaw, and took a foot to the abdomen for not paying attention to that one that threw that hook to her head. He was an issue. And he was the one who got Ja’sar in the end, winning by knock out.
And she had awoken strapped down to a horse like some kind of camping equipment. Dizzy, they had had to pause several times for her to wretch by the side of the road. And it was after each one that she was placed upright on the horse, hands tied down the saddle. They didn’t treat her awful, but they didn’t treat her with respect. Not much anyway. She was surprised one or two of them hadn’t tried raping her throughout the night. Perhaps they were smart that way. It wouldn’t have been the first time an attempt had been made on her. She doubted it would be that last.
But Ja’sar had been taught to fight. Against her mother’s wishes, but, Ja’sar would sit on an upturned water bucket, head resting on rolled fists and watched her brothers spar or take lessons from her father. All the while, she wished she could join them, get out of the damn skirt mother made her wear all the time. Ja’sar sister had criticized her interest, saying she’d never make the good wife of anyone if she took up sword fighting and knives –which were “dangerous”, by the way- and strayed from sewing.
Ja’sar hadn’t cared. She was ten then, four years before considered eligible to marry. Ja’sar’s father finally asked her if she would like to join the lessons and she eagerly accepted. Ja’sar never asked anything of her father. She had loved her father. He had always asked her things, never the other way around. In the first few times handling something half the size of a staff, she could twirl it around rather easily. The simple drills father called were performed fluidly after a few months. She started adding other strokes almost unconsciously, quick, a flash here.
Her mother was uneasy about Ja’sar learning how to handle sharp objects that “she could easily fall onto, killing herself”. Ja’sar had heard that conversation. Her father’s soft chuckle was the response, along with something along the lines of that she wouldn’t. Ja’sar was someone who he claimed to be a natural swordswoman.
The girl was maturing in more ways than one. Ja’sar took knives upon herself, testing out various weights and setting up her own practice field for the weapon her father was not skilled in. Day in, day out, Ja’sar would practice as she reached age of fourteen, developing ways to throw different forms of knives so they smacked dead center into her targets. It was nearly by the time she was fifteen she had taught herself, with some pointers from an amateur, enough to have her father be truly impressed. Ja’sar was quick and light on her feet as a fighter - a witty, deceiving young lady with true talent.
Again, Ja’sar had a conversation with her mother. Again, the fact no men would look upon her approvingly came up. Her mother pointed out the breeches and leather scabbards hidden among her boots or tucked away in some clothing when she went for practice. If Ja’sar displayed herself as a master of blades, she would never leave her parents’ home, never marry, et cetera, et cetera.
This earned a blink from the young woman. In turn, she replied that she didn’t care. If men couldn’t look at her for who she was and like it, they could go find someone else to hound over and rape before marriage. This earned a heart stopping, jaw dropping moment from Ja’sar’s mother as her second daughter rose from the table and went outside to spar with her brothers.
Her brothers approved of her step toward individuality and independence. It had taken Ja’sar a while to get used to the fact of sparring when she first began. Her mind would blank out, and she was the first to be beaten. As the few years passed, Ja’sar’s natural talent with a sword and lighter, almost airy dance around her brothers had them twisting in circles, to which she would make quick work in calling them ‘dead’, her sparring tool inches from a fatal point.
But that had not happened the other night. Ja’sar hadn’t proven herself as a master in blades, just a slippery serpent around holds and a clever mind that had developed through so many sparring lessons. These raiders had gone to show there were cowardly fools who were decent at the art of weapons and fighting, unlike the looters she had once faced against with Eldarion.
Even that had been a God awful experience. She and Eldarion had played a dangerous game of cat and mouse, coming nearly away with Eldarion’s life. Ja’sar had the looters confused that they were chasing a mouse when they were really the mice themselves. A couple of times Eldarion had a successful, if not flashy, entrance to knock the thieves into next week. Portraying the image of a frightened woman running away, she had managed to attract quite a bit of attention.
And that attention had gathered into a four on one. Hungry wolves, the men tracking her were, surrounding her like driving a deer, and then bit down with fingers as teeth and dragged her thrashing body down into a vacant ally. The nimbleness of those jaws had ripped her cloak from her shoulders and detached her belt in but a furious flash. Much too quick, much too clever, far too experienced the rapists were, and far too driven.
Eldarion was driven mad. He descended upon the wolves, appearing in as the stealthy jaguar but roaring a cry of a lion. His claw was sheathed and his teeth were bared as he cleaved through limbs of flesh and bone as if nothing but blades of grass. Eyes of menace, eyes of determination, eyes of poison, and eyes of pure rage. In his world these men deserved death for trying to take something precious from him. But death had nearly engulfed him as well. The expression of anger was torn into sheer surprise when the blade had been driven into his back. His attack remained relentless until the last body was shred before he collapsed like the wounded tiger. Ja’sar thanked whatever spirits had healed him. That day should have been fateful for him.
And here she was on an ambling horse, rocking back and forth and her breath catching every time the horse slipped on a patch of ice. Fog curled around her nose and mouth as she breathed. The day was much colder than the night had been. When her eyes flickered around her new party, what had caused such warmth was no where to be seen.
“What have you done with Eldarion?” she rounded on the man riding alongside her. The black beads of his eyes glowered back at her with a look of disdain. Ja’sar’s jaw remained stubbornly set, daring to repeat her question demandingly.
“With a ‘ifferent par’y,” the man finally spat back at her, accent heavily placed. “I’ won’ make much ‘ifference for you, anyway. No’ wi’ what the Comman’an’ haz planned for you. Quite a rare prize for women.”
Ja’sar let out a disgusted snort at the suddenly wide grin that spread across the man’s features. It was anything but warm, and it barely tainted his cold black eyes. Her face was plastered in a permanent scowl. Was it all about women as slaves or servants and sex? Her teeth gritted, biting down almost painfully hard. It really did come to bite you on the butt if you were a woman. No respect. A simple plaything for millions of males.
Wind swept over her frame, seizing her with a chilly grip without a cloak to protect her. Cold was biting at her cheeks, her skin was prickled in gooseflesh, and shudders compressing her spine. Not so much as a glance from the riders. Ja’sar hissed near silent curses under her breath as them and let out a sharp yelp when her horse stumbled again. Wherever this animal had come from, he most definitely was not use to ice, sleet, or snow. And neither was she. Lifting her eyes from the mane of the horse, she looked beyond the party and up ahead of her. She saw a winding path already marked with tracks of previous visitors, and the butt of the last pack mule had rounded a bend far ahead of them. But stretched further than the bend was a tangle of peaks. Mountains.