by Rowan Bree
My friends and I first heard of you when you were captured on the way to Tyven. You were to be tried for treason in Doria. We already knew somewhat of the Order’s plans, and knew you would be a valuable asset to our cause. So we coordinated a rescue operation to spirit you from the prison convoy heading back to Doria.
Unfortunately all did not go as planned. In the scuffle I lost sight of you and had to make a quick getaway. I hoped you were safe and tried looking for you in the forest afterwards, but with little luck. Vale, too, was looking for you, and told me that you had lost your memory. It was then that we made our little bargain at your expense.
You are probably wondering why I agreed to such a thing, but my relationship with Vale was far too complex to explain in one letter. Perhaps in time you will come to understand the bonds that tied us together. Maybe not forgive, but at least understand.
Here’s to hoping that your memories will one day return. And if not, we’ll just have to make some new, better ones. And here’s to saving the kingdom and seeing the Order crushed once and for all.
It’s an honor to fight at your side,
Jasper Swift
You close the letter and tuck it into your dress. The stars seem too bright. Rings of herb smoke float out into the night, making your eyes water. You close them and let the rattle of the cart lull you away from your thoughts.
Epilogue.
You put your hand on his chest, stopping him.
He says nothing but smiles and leans back to look at the stars. You see a flicker of flame and smell smoke. You too watch the stars, marveling at the series of events that brought you here. Something Jasper said tickles your thoughts. She belongs with us.
“Hey,” you say to Eli. “What did Jasper mean when he said I belong with you?”
Eli pulls a folded piece of parchment from his tunic. He hands it to you.
“Totally forgot, sorry. He gave me this for you to read on the way.”
You take the parchment and unfold it. Jasper’s handwriting is small and scratchy but perfectly legible. You recognize it from the note you found in your pocket, the one telling you to go to Tyven. In the light of the moon you read.
Since you are reading this, it must mean that Vale is dead. He made me promise to let you decide who you wanted to be, which side you would choose. A do-over of sorts after you lost your memory. Vale claimed it was the only fair way. You are probably wondering why I agreed to Vale’s wishes, but my relationship with the mage was far too complex to explain in one letter. Perhaps in time you will come to understand the bonds that tied us together. Maybe not forgive, but at least understand. What I am about to write I should have told you back in the forest that first time we met.
You are from Doria. You watched as the Order rose to power and slowly turned your city into a church for the worship of their gods. Whether you never believed in the Order, or were a devotee with a change of heart, I do not know. What I do know is that you decided to try and warn Tyven of the growing threat the Order posed.
My friends and I first heard of you when you were captured on the way to Tyven. You were to be tried for treason in Doria. We already knew somewhat of the Order’s plans, and knew you would be a valuable asset to our cause. So we coordinated a rescue operation to spirit you from the prison convoy heading back to Doria.
Unfortunately all did not go as planned. In the scuffle I lost sight of you and had to make a quick getaway. I hoped you were safe and tried looking for you in the forest afterwards. There I ran into Vale, who too was looking for you. He told me that you lost your memory, and it was then that we made our little bargain at your expense.
I suspected he was lying about your memory loss, but when I met you on that forest road you confirmed my worst fears. It was then I realized the stakes I was playing with. From then on I kept an eye on you and tried to subtly guide you towards our cause. Whether it was my efforts or chance that brought us together, I’m glad to have finally found the opportunity to give you this letter.
Here’s to hoping that your memories will one day return. And if not, we’ll just have to make some new, better ones. And here’s to saving the kingdom and seeing the Order crushed once and for all.
It’s an honor to fight at your side,
Jasper Swift
You close the letter and tuck it into your dress. The stars seem too bright. Rings of herb smoke float out into the night, making your eyes water. You close them and let the rattle of the cart lull you away from your thoughts.
Epilogue.
You try to press yourself into the corner of the wardrobe but the space is too small to escape the men’s grabbing hands. They drag you by the ankles to better get at you.
“No need to be so shy,” one says. His dirty hands grope at your legs trying to pull you closer while the other touches himself inside his trousers.
You kick at the men until they let go of you. You shove yourself against the door of the wardrobe only to find the women are no longer holding it shut. You tumble out onto the floor with a painful thud.
No one notices your embarrassing exit as all the women have lined up down the middle of the room. Several king’s guards stand at the door. You hasten to get in line.
“We’re taking you to get bathed and changed,” one of the guards says. “Stay in line. No talking. No dawdling.”
You follow the line of women out of the room, wondering what is waiting for you. It’s hard for some of the women to follow orders, but the guards put them back in their place. No one seems to pay you any mind at the end of the line, however. There’s a chance you could sneak away.
Sneak away.
Stay in line.
You try to press yourself into the corner of the wardrobe but the space is too small to escape the men’s grabbing hands. They drag you by the ankles to better get at you.
“No need to be so shy,” one says. His dirty hands grope at your legs trying to pull you closer while the other touches himself inside his trousers.
You kick at the men until they let go of you. You shove yourself against the door of the wardrobe only to find the women are no longer holding it shut. You tumble out onto the floor with a painful thud.
No one notices your embarrassing exit as all the women have lined up down the middle of the room. Several king’s guards stand at the door. You hasten to get in line.
“We’re taking you to get bathed and changed,” one of the guards says. “Stay in line. No talking. No dawdling.”
You follow the line of women out of the room, wondering what is waiting for you. It’s hard for some of the women to follow orders, but the guards put them back in their place. No one seems to pay you any mind at the end of the line, however. You could easily sneak away if you were so inclined, but you have a job to do.
You stay in line, following the guards up to a large tiled bath. The air is filled with a fragrant steam. The guards tell you to line up inside the room then leave you to the women working there.
The women have you undress and get into the bath. Anyone that doesn’t listen gets spanked with the wooden end of a scrub brush. But you’re all too happy to be rid of your hideous garment.
The water is warm and the fragrant oils make you sleepy. You try not to think of what your job might be at a feast. You hear more murmurs of human sacrifices, but choose to ignore them. Soon enough the women will know what’s going on.
A portly elven woman works over you with a sponge. She scrubs your skin so hard you feel like it’ll rub right off, then pours a bucket of water over your head. You sputter as the water runs over your face.
The woman slaps you on the back and makes you get out of the tub. You wonder why she’s so averse to using her words. She roughly dries and powders you, then spritzes you with oils. Finally, she slips a light linen dress over your head and clamps a collar around your neck. Sybil didn’t say anything about a collar. You look around to see other women receiving the same treatment.
Once
everyone is dressed, the guards return take you up to where you will be working. Along the way the other women are informed of their job as entertainment for the private party’s guests. They fail to mention anything about the Order or its mages.
“But I can’t sing,” one of the religious-type women complains.
The guard laughs. “You will be by the end of the night,” he replies.
You pass through a stone archway draped with black curtains. Beyond is a room filled with guests, some in fine dress and others in stiff black robes. Half-dressed male slaves move amongst them, serving wine and submitting to the guests’ whims. They wear the same collar you do.
Red candles are placed on different surfaces and in sconces, and an open space has been cleared in the middle of the room. A circular symbol is carved into the stone floor. It is obviously dark magic but no one seems to mind. You wonder just how much danger you’re really in. The guards push you forward into the room.
“Get to work,” one of them tells you. “We’ll be keeping track of those who put in the most effort tonight. The king’s promised freedom if you do as you’re told.”
The group of women slowly start to disperse through the crowd. Some are clearly used to this kind of work and have no trouble finding their place. You quickly scan the room looking for something to do. At some point you’ll need to find a way to communicate with Jasper where the party is.
On one of the tables is an ornate decanter full of wine you could use to refill guests’ glasses. Otherwise there is a finely dressed young man with curly dark hair who keeps looking at you.
Serve wine.
Go to the curly-haired man.
You try to press yourself into the corner of the wardrobe but the space is too small to escape the men’s grabbing hands. They drag you by the ankles to better get at you.
“No need to be so shy,” one says. His dirty hands grope at your legs trying to pull you closer while the other touches himself inside his trousers.
You kick at the men until they let go of you. You shove yourself against the door of the wardrobe only to find the women are no longer holding it shut. You tumble out onto the floor with a painful thud.
No one notices your embarrassing exit as all the women have lined up down the middle of the room. Several king’s guards stand at the door. You hasten to get in line.
“We’re taking you to get bathed and changed,” one of the guards says. “Stay in line. No talking. No dawdling.”
You follow the line of women out of the room, wondering what is waiting for you. It’s hard for some of the women to follow orders, but the guards put them back in their place. No one seems to pay you any mind at the end of the line, however. There’s a chance you could sneak away.
Sneak away.
Stay in line.
You stop fighting the men long enough to realize they’re quite good looking. They might be a bit rough around the edges, but they don’t look like they belong locked up in the castle.
They pull you against the bars, their hands exploring your body. You encourage them under your clothes. Their rough hands feel good against your skin.
“Why’d you get locked up?” one of the men asks. His fingers slip into your panties. “You’re too tight to be a whore.”
Another man pinches your nipple and you whimper. “She’s probably one of those church types gone bad. You know, found in the rectory with the priest’s tongue up her snatch.”
“Nah,” the third says. “She’s too experienced for that. Look.”
You reach into his trousers and take his shaft in your hand. In no time you have him hard and moaning.
The men pull your clothes off you and make you kneel. Two of the men have you jerk them off. The blond man drops his pants. “Let’s see how experienced you are.”
Unable to use your hands, you instead use your tongue to coax the man’s cock into your mouth. He grasps the back of your head and pushes you against the bars, thrusting forward as he does so. You gag and he laughs.
“Sorry,” he says. “Was that too much for you?”
You want to prove you’re equal to the challenge and take him as deep as you can. Your mouth slides along his cock until you can feel it hit your throat. You relax your muscles and take it in. You can feel the two cocks in your hands jump at the sight of you deep throating the blond man.
The blond man moans, encouraging you to keep going. Drool drips down your chin and onto your breasts as you suck him off. The other two men take your hands off their cocks, not wanting to cum too soon. They watch as you make the blond man fill your mouth with cum. You let it flow out past your lips, smearing it across your chest. You give the blond man a naughty smile.
“She’s all yours,” he says to his friends. He looks dazed. He must not have expected you to be that good.
The bearded man steps forward, “I wanna see if that pussy is as good as her mouth.”
He yanks your legs out from under you and pulls you against the bars. Your knees hit painfully, your thighs stretched wide.
He drops his pants and shoves into you. Luckily you are soaking and ready to take him. He thrusts furiously, his face full of desire. He lifts up his shirt so you can see his rippling muscles. You reach out to stroke his chest, toying with his nipples.
“Fuck,” he shouts, his hips bucking against you. His cum dribbles from your pussy as he pulls out. He must have been full to bursting, not able to cum during his captivity. You massage his pulsing cock until it stops twitching. He staggers backwards to give the third man his turn.
The messy-haired man smiles at you. He reaches through the bars to gently stroke your body. His touch makes you shiver. It’s different from the others.
“I’ve got a special request, only if you’re comfortable,” he says. His fingers brush against your sensitive pussy. “I don’t want to fuck you here,” his fingers move downwards, towards your other hole, “but here.”
Let him fuck your ass.
Tell him you’re not comfortable.
You tell him you don’t mind.
You turn around, pressing your ass against the bars. The head of his cock brushes against your hole. It relaxes to welcome him as he slowly eases himself into you.
You’re extremely sensitive after already being fucked and it doesn’t take long to come. He does too, moaning loudly enough that you’re sure all the women outside the wardrobe heard him. You hope it stirs up their repressed sexual urges.
You dress and leave the wardrobe. The women who put you in there are no longer there, nor is anyone else. The room stands empty, the doors locked. You’ve been left behind.
As you sit on the empty bench wondering what to do, you notice a shimmer in the air. A sparkle of light materializes by your side. It looks like a reflected sunray until you notice the pinks and blues shining through it. Captivated, you stare as the light solidifies into a rather ugly little gnome holding a bucket and brush.
“I’m not a gnome,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything,” you reply.
“Yeah but you thought it,” the not-gnome says. “And I’m not about to help anyone who calls me a gnome. My name’s Berwick.”
He jumps off the bench and goes to work scrubbing the floor.
You apologize to the little creature and ask him to help you escape.
“I’m very busy, you know.”
If Berwick, whatever he is, can materialize itself in a ray of sparkles and read your thoughts then common sense suggests he would just magic away the mess.
“You’d think so, wouldn’t you,” he says through gritted teeth as he sets upon a particularly nasty spot. “But it’s a condition of my servitude. My master thinks it’s a riot having a magical being do manual labor.”
“Can you help me or not?” you ask.
Berwick stops scrubbing and looks up. “For a price.” He waggles his eyebrows. “I’m sure you know what I mean.”
Accept the not-gnome’s help.<
br />
Tell him you’d rather rot.
You tell him you’re not comfortable being penetrated there. His fingers move back up to your pussy.
“If we had more time, I’d be happy to train you,” he says as he positions himself between your legs. The head of his cock brushes against your clit. He slowly slides into you.
You’re extremely sensitive after already being fucked and it doesn’t take long to come. He does too, moaning loudly enough that you’re sure all the women outside the wardrobe heard him. You hope it stirs up their repressed sexual urges.
You dress and leave the wardrobe. The women who put you in there are no longer there, nor is anyone else. The room stands empty, the doors locked. You’ve been left behind.
As you sit on the empty bench wondering what to do, you notice a shimmer in the air. A sparkle of light materializes by your side. It looks like a reflected sunray until you notice the pinks and blues shining through it. Captivated, you stare as the light solidifies into a rather ugly little gnome holding a bucket and brush.
“I’m not a gnome,” he says.
“I didn’t say anything,” you reply.
“Yeah but you thought it,” the not-gnome says. “And I’m not about to help anyone who calls me a gnome. My name’s Berwick.”
He jumps off the bench and goes to work scrubbing the floor.
