Elaina M. Roberts's Blog: News from the Between, page 8
November 1, 2013
NaNoWriMo 2013 – The Protector
Once again, I’m participating in NaNoWriMo, the insane project encouraging writers to write an incredibly rough first draft of 50,000 words in 30 days. It’s a rough month for those in the US. November begins what I call the “silly season” – all those holidays everyone tries to act enthusiastic about but are secretly glad when they’re over. Between packing up after Halloween, prepping then cooking or travelling for Thanksgiving, and the insanity of Black Friday (if you choose to go out into that MMA sanctioned event), NaNo asks everyone to write a minimum of 1,667 words per day every day in order to make 50K by November 30.
Crazy, huh? Yet here I am, entering my Sophomore attempt at NaNo with a high fantasy romance story. Chuck Wendig’s blog, terribleminds, asks us to post a link to our first day’s work so here it is – the first 2,072 words of a project tentatively entitled The Protector.
Ayleen gathered her family’s laundry as Father Sun settled below the horizon for his evening rest. A brilliant palette of reds and golds painted the sky and gave the approaching dust cloud a mystical aura. As the small caravan approached the village, hunters sounded their horns in celebration. Young children cheered. Dogs barked. The Robed Ones had arrived.
They were nomadic priests who served the many tribes scattered across the land. They travelled the plains, risking death by bandits or the foul night beasts that roamed lands, to speak their prophecies, bless new unions and babes, and make their promises to those that followed The Way. She snorted as she placed a mended pair of trousers atop the others in the basket. Lately, their words rang hollow. Their promises sounded contrived and empty. They provided no relief to the struggling Tribes. Water continued to be scarce, crops continued to wither beneath the unrelenting sun, and the tribe’s store of grain continued to dwindle.
The central bonfire highlighted the intricate glyphs woven into the canvas walls of the two lead wagons. The flickering light cast dancing shadows upon the priests’ black robes. She shuddered and folded the garments with more haste than care. Instead of holy men come to cast their blessing upon her tribe, they rose from the dark wagons like monsters or demons from legend. She narrowed her eyes as the Head Priest stepped onto the cracked, dry ground. From all that she had seen over the last five turns of the seasons, the comparison wasn’t too far off the mark.
A pair of young boys rushed to take the horses’ reins. Tomáis and Kayor passed their twelfth season with the spring thaw and stood poised on the cusp of their Time of Trials. Short in stature and slim in body, their heads just cleared the underbellies of the massive plainsland mares. As the twins strained to reach the bridles, she caught the sound of mocking laughter from within the wagons. The priests called encouragement to the boys even as they set the horses to prancing. It was only by the grace of the gods that the lads were agile and quick enough to dodge the dangerous hooves. More laughter ensued when Tomáis fell to the ground, a large bruise forming along his side. Silver coins exchanged hands, then more again when the boys at last wrestled the agitated beasts under control.
She swore in a way that would make her mother blanch and her father cuff her on her head. Revered Priests should not taunt or endanger the young. Children were a blessing. A gift from the gods to be revered and cherished. They should not provide malicious sport for their elders. It went against The Way.
Ayleen snatched a tunic from the line as the priests approached the village Chief. Why couldn’t they see the disdain, the sneering condescension of those who claim to be the gods’ earthly representatives? Why couldn’t they see them as men first, priests second? She cursed once more when Shilla, the chief’s youngest daughter, carried a tray of ale, meats, and cheeses towards the group. Her steps were slow and hesitant. Her fear was palpable, even at this distance. Several stitches in the tunic’s seams gave way to Ayleen’s white-knuckled grip as she prayed to Mother Moon that Shilla would be spared.
More Robed Ones joined their leader to surround the young woman. Their flowing robes disguised most of their actions, but not the results. Shilla’s cheeks glowed in the firelight, wet with a flood of tears. Her chin trembled. She shook her head several times, only to receive laughter and more unwanted advances. At the first opportunity, she fled towards her home. Ayleen feared she would find no shelter there. Should the priests deem her suitable, the Chief would order that she serve them in all ways.
Ayleen snatched up the basket of clothing and stomped towards her father’s hut. Revered Priests should not importune the innocent to slake their physical lusts. They especially should not do so when their desires were met with shock, horror, and later shame. The hide flap closed with a thud behind her. It wasn’t enough. She slammed the basket onto the floor and began stuffing the clothing into their bins. Her mother looked up from her table of dried herbs and offered her a soothing smile. It only served to stoke the fire that burned in her soul.
“Have the holy ones come, daughter?”
“The caravan is here.” Her reply was curt, bordering on rude. Her mother’s serene expression never changed. “But you know as well as I, mother, that none of those men are holy.”
“Ayleen.”
“What? You think I don’t know? That I haven’t seen how they are? They mock our boys and lust after our women. Tomáis will have trouble breathing for the next moon due to our “holy men” and their antics. And what of Shilla? She was promised to Wilhelm, but will he want her now?”
“It is an honor…”
“No! It is not an honor! Is it an honor when raiders take our women and force their lusts upon them? Is it an honor when too much ale brings out the darkness in a man’s heart and he attacks an innocent? How is this any different? How many maidens must sacrifice their virtue before the Elders see these men as mere opportunists?”
“That is enough, Ayleen.” Her father’s voice sent icicles down her spine. He used that tone on the hunters when they fouled a hunt. He used that tone on the careless warriors who injure themselves or others with their horseplay. He never used that tone on her. “If you cannot keep a respectful tongue, then you can watch the festivities from the nursery. With the rest of the children.”
“Children?” She clenched her fists so he wouldn’t see how badly her hands shook. She could not avoid the trembling in her voice. “What is childish about wanting to protect our children or our women? Did you see how they treated the twins today? Shilla?”
“It is an honor to catch favor from the Robed Ones!” His roar shook the bottles on the table and drained the blood from her face. Still she refused to back down.
“Shilla doesn’t think so. She ran away from their pawing hands as quickly as she could. Almha didn’t think so either. How long after their last visit did we find her hanging from her timbers quick with child? And what about Roscha?” Her heart sank at his stony expression. “What if they chose me, Father? Would you be so quick to call it an honor then, knowing I would fight them? Knowing I would hate it? Knowing I would hate you for allowing it?”
Her mother drew in a shaky breath as tears coated her wrinkled cheeks. As the village healer, she had seen more than most the results of the priests’ “favor.” Her father, however, refused to yield. He straightened his spine, squared his jaw and turned his back to her. “You would grow to understand and accept. They are the Robed Ones. The Keepers of the Way. To gain their favor is an honor.”
Ayleen covered her mouth as he left the room. Her eyes burned with unshed tears. Her throat threatened to spill the sobs she locked inside. She refused to succumb to her heartbreak. As she drew in great, gasping breaths to control her emotions, her mother’s arms wrapped around her waist and her tears spilled into her hair.
“He is a man, Ayleen. He cannot understand.”
“The main question, mother, is does he even want to.”
******
Drums beat a festive rhythm. Laughter and song traveled on the cool summer breeze. All of the Winterbourne Tribe attended the celebration. The hunters discussed their trophies. The Elders discussed their politics. Inside the tents, the matrons cooked and served a feast fit for the gods. After all were served, the drummers gathered, singers lifted up their voices, and the maidens danced. Some hoped to catch the eye of a brave warrior. Others looked for favor from one of their esteemed guests. Shilla had yet to appear. Away from the festivities, Ayleen supervised the children. It was a job given to the elderly or those on the cusp of adulthood. For her, it was a punishment. She had dared to question the wisdom and sanctity of their most honored guests – the hooded and robed Keepers of the Way.
She tucked the last child into bed and dimmed the lantern to a soft glow. Her father thought this a fitting punishment, but she saw it as an opportunity. The Elders refused to listen without proof. Though she had pointed out their greed, their lust, their disregard for the health and happiness of those in the tribes, they wanted something more. Something they could not dismiss as a twisted form of honor. While the children slept, she wrote a letter to her mother then joined the children in slumber.
Father Sun kissed Mother Moon as she sank into slumber. He bathed the tribe with his warmth as they gathered to bless the Robed Ones’ trip across the treacherous plains. Ayleen slipped away from the obsequious Elders and the idolatrous youth to fill a pack with several days worth of supplies: waterskins, her father’s knives, her best boots, and two days’ ration of dried meat. She placed the letter in her mother’s herb bin. Her mother always checked her stores at High Sun. Plenty of time to ensure the hunters wouldn’t catch up to her.
She kept the caravan at the edge of her visibility, tracking more by their dust trail than by a visual lock on their wagons. She stayed out of sight and down wind as she tracked their movements. The land rose and fell, transitioning from the flats of the Winterbourne Tribe’s village to gently rolling hills. In the distance, she spied her first glimpse of the Dragon Spires, the mountain range that served as a border for the Great Plains. Even at this distance, the towering peaks topped with snow stole her breath.
The priests stopped often, sometimes to hunt, sometimes to eat. When they were stationary, she circled the caravan and caught snippets of conversation. They spoke of the next village, the next haul, or the next miracle. They spoke of the Elder’s silver and Shilla’s beauty. They drank heavily.
As Mother Moon rose in the sky, Ayleen inched closer to the priests’ encampment. She hoped their bonfire would draw the night creatures that played so heavily in their tales. As she offered up fervent prayers for a safe night, she huddled inside a hollow log for the night and learned the truth of the open plains.
No fierce monsters swooped from the sky as she tossed and turned beneath the stars. Instead, the stinging and biting insects made up for the lack. She swatted at the creatures that came to feast upon her blood and sweat. Their itchy bites urged her to spend part of the following day tracking down the proper herbs for a poultice. No bandits attacked the priests’ encampment. Instead, the men feasted on roast hare while trading prime items from their personal hoard of trinkets.
They drained the first cask of ale, growing louder and more aggressive as Mother Moon reached her apex. A fight broke out between two of the priests over a pendant with a gem the size of a duck’s egg. Instead of mediating a truce, the rest surrounded the pair and placed bets on the outcome. Another cask was tapped as the combatants’ blood soaked into the dry ground. Silver exchanged hands when the loser collapsed onto the grass. No one offered to help either man.
The High Priest nudged the unconscious fighter aside as he demanded their attention. With grand gestures accented by prayers that made her blood run cold, the priest detailed the means to execute their next miracle. Ayleen crept closer to hear the details, but the wind and night creatures had not distorted their words. He spoke of travelling to the sacred cave at the base of the Dragon Spires. He boasted of having the means to infiltrate the holy sanctuary and rob it of its greatest treasure. As they huddled together to plan their vile assault, she returned to the cold safety of her hollow log.
October 25, 2013
Draxton’s Destiny – The Traitor
Last week, Draxton and the Minshaari faced a narakir, a genderless creature made of living fire. There were sexy moments and sweet moment, but it ended with a new threat. This week, find out who holds the pulse guns on our heroes, why he wants the Minshaari dead, and whether they triumph or fail.
The usual rules and disclaimers apply. Also, please check out Night Tempest’s blog for links to the other participants and let one of us know if you’d like to join the fun! Word count has a maximum of 2000, genre is up to you. It doesn’t have to be M/M. It doesn’t have to be fantasy, scifi or even romance. The prompts are emailed on Monday-ish, and posts start on Friday. Come have fun with us!
This week’s prompt dealt with laws. My choice is in bold italics. I actually managed to use it twice in the story. The first was more inferred than stated outright, while the second was direct. The second was my original choice but, afraid I would run out of word allowance before getting to that point, I squeezed in the first and decided to leave it.
Law and Order – Pick one of the five listed laws and apply it to a key scene in your chapter/story:
The penalty for a member of a lower class abusing a slave girl is a few years’ imprisonment.
The penalty for a juvenile engaging in piracy is a flogging.
The penalty for a foreigner stealing corpses is a warning.
The penalty for offending a member of a certain bloodline is
a considerable term of servitude.
The penalty for smuggling herbs is whipping.
Previous chapters (in order):
******
“Lorithian.” The Minshaari applied a final strip of adhesive to Draxton’s bandages and eased a slim dagger from his sleeve. The soldier closed his hand around the hilt so the blade laid along his arm, hidden from sight. He flexed his bandaged fingers as the beautiful chieftain turned to face his traitorous tribesman. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You were never shy in your objections to me.”
“Step away from the human chattel and put your hands where I can see them.” The Seshinaar warrior entered the room and motioned with one of the pistols. “Did you really think your people would stand by as you shredded our customs along with the reputation of this tribe?”
“The only reputation in ruins that I can see, Lorithian, is yours.” The Minshaari held his hands level with the floor, palm up. A faint green glow illuminated eyes swirling with fury. “Since my return, I have granted you leniency. Though you’ve insulted me at every turn, I refused to enslave you. It’s a barbaric, dehumanizing practice that should have been abolished before the first starship soared the skies.”
“You haven’t been lenient; you’ve been weak! You say I’ve disrespected you, but you glory in the riches of your position while you spit in the face of our people. You corrupt the ancient traditions with your otherworld ways, and embarrass the tribe with your unnatural lusts. You’re a disgrace. What sorcery did you use to coerce the Circle into accepting you as Minshaari?”
Draxton studied the sneering man with a soldier’s eye – his walk, his stance, his grip on his weapons. His pulse beat at his temple in a nervous staccato. His eyes darted around the room with every shout from the courtyard. While he walked with the innate grace characteristic of all who dwelled high in the tree cities, his demeanor lacked the coldness of an assassin. The hardness that comes with being a seasoned combat veteran. The lack of emotions required to perform murder over and over again. He may be a skilled hunter, and he definitely had a personal grudge against the Minshaari, but Draxton would bet his freedom that he’d never killed another sentient being.
This was information he could use. He assumed the stance and posture he’d seen utilized by Brixys’ concubines – shoulders hunched, head bowed, and hands clasped at his waist. Submissive. Defeated. He shuffled his feet, easing from behind the Minshaari. He now had a clear line of sight to the would-be assassin. He glanced over, but the chief shook his head.
“I didn’t need to use sorcery. Most in the Circle – lunast, most of our people – recognize that we need to throw off these outdated traditions. Just because our ancestors followed them, doesn’t mean we have to. If we applied that sort of thinking to technology, we would still be using pointed sticks, wearing furs, and huddling in caves.”
“And yet you stand here with your own slave at your side. Your concubine.” Lorithian’s lip curled as he spat the word. A shudder swept through his frame, tightening his fingers on the triggers. Draxton shifted his weight onto the balls of his feet, coiled and poised to attack. “Not only do you show your hypocrisy, but you mock basic decency by taking a male.”
“Who I bring to my bed is no one’s business but my own. I won’t lie but neither will I apologize just to make someone else feel better. If you have a problem with my preferences, then it is just that. Your problem.” The Minshaari shrugged.
Two warriors entered the room to flank the assassin. Their blades glinted with blood. Their eyes flashed with hunger. Unlike their leader, these men had killed. And liked it. “I’m afraid it’s now yours as well. It’s such a pity that Lord Brixys’ gift turned on you, but don’t worry. We’ll see that he is punished for his crimes.”
The pair advanced on the Minshaari. Cruel smiles curved their lips. One twirled his sword in a smooth circle. The other chuckled. The chief returned the smile as he drew the blades from his back. Green fire licked along the blades’ edge.
The three Seshinaar met in a flurry of clashing metal and green sparks. The Minshaar chieftain was a study in deadly grace and elegant violence as his twin blades blocked attacks with unnatural skill and speed. The trio danced and weaved, thrust and parried with such speed that it was hard to distinguish the arc of one blade from the slash of another. The sight was mesmerizing. Alluring. Arousing. Draxton dragged his eyes away from the battle when a pulse blast crackled past his right ear to scorch the wall.
Cursing beneath his breath, Draxton sent the dagger through the air with an expert flick of his wrist. It sank into the back of Lorithian’s hand, knocking the pulse gun from his fingers. The soldier followed the dagger, kicked the second gun from the assassin’s uninjured hand, and followed with a backhand to the man’s jaw.
The Seshinaar bent backwards to dodge the blow and pulled the dagger from his hand. Draxton let the momentum carry him in a full circle, ducking to pull his combat knife from his boot. It felt good in his hand – familiar and reassuring in both size and weight. He raise the blade to eye-level. The razor-sharp serrations formed a jagged grin that matched the one teasing his lips. The pale light glinted off the edge, enhancing the hard gleam in his eyes.
They circled like a pair of Silaurian listertharks. The assassin slashed and jabbed with the bloody dagger, testing his range and Draxton’s reaction times. Draxton dodged one and batted aside another, gauging his opponent’s skill. Though the Seshinaar was faster than he was, more agile, his training with a short blade made up for his slower speed.
He ducked an awkward thrust, but caught a fist to his solar plexus. Grunting as his abdomen muscles absorbed most of the blow, he feinted a jab high and to the right, then slashed in a low arc across the Seshinaar’s exposed thigh. The serrated blade sliced through leather trousers and soft tissue to scrape across bone.
“Who are you, slave?” Lorithian ground out, clutching at his leg. The blood oozed between his fingers to splash onto the floor.
“Better than you.” He blocked a weak thrust, sweeping out with his foot to catch his opponent on the side of his injured leg. The Seshinaar’s knee buckled and he crumpled to the floor.
Draxton leapt onto the cursing assassin. The dagger scraped his ribs as wrestled the man onto his back. He retaliated with a knee to the groin. He needed to end this. The Seshinaar was slippier than a Walsingian swamp eel. He slammed his forehead into his opponent’s nose. There was a second of resistance, then a sickening crunch as bone and cartilage gave way. Yeah, Lorithian may be quick, but he was bigger, stronger, and trained to fight dirty. He pinned the man’s wrists to the floor. Captured his legs with his thighs.
“Dead or alive, Minshaari?”
“Alive, sergeant. We need answers.”
Transferring the male’s wrists to one hand, Draxton delivered a bruising strike to his chin. Lorithian fell limp beneath him. He hit him again to make certain the Seshinaar wasn’t faking, then rolled off him with a groan. He stripped the assassin of his weapons, shoes, and belt. He tied one of the long laces around the male’s wrists, looping them over his thumbs to limit his mobility. He cinched the belt around his ankles. The second lace tied his wrists to his ankle bindings behind his back.
Rising to his knees, his chest heaving, he glanced around the room. The Minshaari rose from cleaning his blades on the shirt of one of his foes. He sheathed his weapons and offered his hand to Draxton.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Yeah, it happens when they use your own weapon against you.” He probed the slit in the suit. Though his fingers came back red, he shrugged. “It’s shallow.”
The Minshaari retrieved his dagger from Lorithian, wiped it clean, then returned it to the sheath at his wrist. “I had the situation under control, you know.”
“You were outnumbered three to one. Ugly and Uglier were the true muscle, but Lorithian there had a pair of altered pulse guns ramped to kill, not incapacitate. He was also twitchy as a cherry going through puberty. If the other nut had dropped, he would have splattered that beautiful face of yours all over your wall.”
“How…colorful.” The Minshaari’s lips twitched. He waved his hands over the restraints, covering them with a faint green glow.
“That’s me. I piss a veritable rainbow of colorful metaphors, and fart glitter.” Draxton grabbed Lorithian’s pulse guns and moved to the far door. A peek outside showed no movement. “So, do we wait for the cat or advance?”
“We wait. I don’t want to mistake him for an enemy in the heat of battle.”
Draxton propped the door open with a piece of debris. Resting his shoulder against the door frame, he glanced over at the Minshaari. He definitely approved of the skin-tight breeches. They hugged every inch of the male’s exquisite body, from his firm ass to a rather impressive bulge in the front.
He wanted to run his fingers along the side seams. Untie the laces and peel the clingy leather from his skin. Free his cock and run his tongue from base to tip and back again. He licked his lips. The bulge twitched and grew. Swallowing, he forced his eyes from the tempting sight and met the Minshaari’s heated gaze. They stared, lost in each other’s eyes, for a long span of heartbeats before Draxton looked away. His hands felt clammy and his heart pounded in his chest. Damn but he was sexy as fuck!
Checking the halls again gave him an excuse to rein in his raging lust. If he didn’t get it under control, he was going to bend the beautiful male over the ruined table. “You’ve only recently returned to Seshinaar?”
“Four cycles ago.”
“Travelling for business or pleasure?”
“Neither.” The Seshinaar wrapped his fingers around his wrist and twisted. The motion caught Draxton’s attention for how familiar it was. It was one he did often, adjusting the loathsome slave bands. “I stepped between a chieftain’s heir and the terrified daughter of a miller. He wanted her to be his first concubine. She did not. He sought to force the issue, and that’s when I stepped in.”
“Good for you.”
“Well, good for her. The chief accused me of assaulting his heir without cause. I stated my case. The Circle, hiding behind tradition, ruled in favor of the chief. For my punishment, I was forced to work off my offense on one of the penal colonies.”
“You were a slave.”
“Quite.” The Minshaari stared at a spot on the wall. His eyes clouded as time and distance fell away. He shook his head, returning to the present with a deprecating smile. “I spent four cycles working off my offense. Since my return, I’ve fought to end the practice.”
Draxton stared at the slender fingers rubbing at imaginary bands. He wanted to soothe the Seshinaar’s pain. “What of the girl?”
“The chief’s heir brought her to my trial. As his concubine. He gloated about claiming her. How pleased he was to have her in his harem.” The Minshaari’s jaw clenched as his hand fell away from his wrist. “Before I left for the penal colony, I learned that they found her hanging in his chambers.”
“It was Brixys, wasn’t it?” Draxton caught movement at the end of the hall. He adjusted his grip on the pulse gun, tracking the shadowy figure. A low growl rumbled down the hall. Fieryl had returned.
“Yes. One day I will kill him – not for enslaving me, but for enslaving our people.”
October 18, 2013
Draxton’s Destiny – Under Attack
So, I’m running late yet again in getting this posted. Absolutely no excuse this week as I had extra time to prepare and still managed to slack until the last minute. I even came up with the prompt and still managed to run late. Twenty lashes with a wet noodle for me! Anyway, most folks know the routine by now. Visit my partner in crime, Night Tempest, read her super hot fantasy story, and check out the links to our fellow flashers (no, not that kind, silly). Then come on back and see what Draxton is up to.
A little side note here – I was very unhappy with the Minshaari’s first name that I used in the last chapter so I changed it. He was a Grantham. He’s now a Kasseus. I think that’s a bit more ‘him.’
This week’s prompt sounded easy at first. Then I started writing and realized what a challenge it was going to be. The prompt -
Edgar Allen Poe – Read the poem The Raven. Use at least one line from the poem in your chapter/story. Dialogue is okay, but narrative is even better. You can read the poem online here.
The Raven has such wonderfully dark descriptions that I thought it’d be easy. It wasn’t. Then it was. I’d planned to put my chosen lines in a certain place in the chapter, then I realized I wasn’t going to get to that point in this chapter. After that, the line that I did use flowed into the narrative with relative ease. The line is footnoted, bolded, and italicized. Enjoy!
Previous chapters (in order):
******
They attacked as the last rays of daylight faded into inky darkness. The warriors, sleek and silent as the setting sun, slipped between the branches of the trees like the fading light. Three Minshaar guards fell to their blades before one managed to raise the alarm. Draxton leapt to his feet, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The Minshaari slipped from the room while the klaxons screeched their warnings. As Fieryl prepared to join the battle, Draxton remained relegated to the sidelines. Unarmed. Half-naked. Helpless.
“Remain here, human.” The rakshasa’s growl raised the small hairs on his neck. “These crushás cannot penetrate the Minshaari’s personal defenses.”
“I’m a soldier. Let me fight.”
“And put you in the position to strike at the Minshaari during the chaos of battle? I think not.”
“Do I look that stupid? I’d need to have space dust for brains to side with a man like Brixys.” He held up his arms. The etched dragons on the disguised bands glinted in the light of the flashing alarms. “He’s the reason I still have these. He’s the fucking reason I’m even here at all!”
“Lack of loyalty to Brixys doesn’t equate to loyalty to the Minshaari.” Fieryl secured a bandolier of pulse grenades across his chest, smoothing his fur beneath the supple leather. “You remain here.”
“At least don’t leave me locked in this cage without some way to defend myself.”
“I’m not arming a potential enemy.”
“Fieryl.” Kasseus Minshaar entered the room with effortless grace. Skin-tight black leather breeches molded to his muscular thighs and disappeared into a pair of supple leather boots. A lamellar breastplate crafted from hardened leather plates protected his torso. He wore a pair of swords across his back and a pulse gun on each hip. He was beautiful and deadly. Draxton felt his body harden in response. “Sgt. Larimore needs weapons and protective equipment. He will accompany us.”
“My chief…”
“Now, Fieryl.” The Minshaari’s tone didn’t alter, nor did he raise his voice, but it had the same result as a drill sergeant’s expletive-laden shouts. The rakshasa assumed a submissive pose with his head bowed, his tail trailing the floor, and his ears flattened to his head.
“Yes, Minshaari.”
Fieryl led Draxton to a smaller chamber better equipped than most Alliance armories. Bladed weapons lined one wall. Pulse weapons of all shapes and sizes filled another. There were cabinets full of armor and boots, even harnesses designed to fit around wings and tails. The rakshasa’s tail swished in agitated pique as he flung open the cabinets. “Choose and dress quickly,” he hissed. “The battle rages while we waste time.”
Used to changing in an open bay environment, Draxton tossed aside his lounge pants without thought. As he turned towards the cabinet, he caught the Minshaari’s quick intake of breath, and the appreciative glow in his fascinating green eyes. He turned towards the gorgeous Seshinaar and arched a brow. He had spent years honing his body into a fit and strong weapon for the Alliance. It pleased him more than it should that the enticing male enjoyed how he looked. Before the wrong head attempted to rule his judgment, he stepped into a pair of standard issue padded leather breeches.
Not only was this familiar, it also felt inexplicably right. He caught his new owner’s gaze, felt its heat burning into his back as he buckled a Legionnaire’s breastplate over his chest. Slipping his feet into a pair of leather boots, he cinched the straps with efficient expertise. He rocked onto the balls of his feet, stretched until the uniform settled into place and moved cleanly with his every motion. He tugged on a pair of fingerless gloves as he moved to the selection of pulse weapons.
“This should do.” Draxton checked the power levels on a pair of pulse pistols then slipped them into thigh holsters. He grabbed a pair of serrated hunting knives with boot sheaths. The longer swords intrigued him, but he had little training in them.
“Sgt. Larimore.” The Minshaari stopped just before they reached the door and turned towards him. “Once we leave this room, remain at my side at all times. Don’t give me a reason to regret my decision.”
“I won’t.”
The rakshasa curled his lip, revealing a fang, then took point. He moved with feline grace. His paws made no sound on the tiled floor. His ears swiveled this way and that to catch any sound as he scanned the empty halls. They traveled several flights of stairs before they encountered the first evidence of the battle.
A pulse blast had scorched along one wall. In the center of the room, a roaring fire devoured a massive banquet table. A pair of curtains dripped ashes onto a pair of chairs, where their charred remains smoldered. The flickering light from the fire cast dancing shadows into every corner. The table snapped, throwing sparks into the air. As they floated downward, each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor(1).
The Minshaari strode into the room with a curse. Muttering in his lilting chant, he clapped his hands sharply, holding them closed as they began to glow. When he spread his hands, a cool, damp breeze flowed over the room. It coated the walls and floors, extinguishing the dancing flames and cooling the charred wood.
Draxton brought up the rear, senses on alert. He stepped around the broken furniture, a pistol held at his waist, while he scanned the shadowy corners and corridors. He nudged aside the remnants of an end table with his toe and stomped on a mound of velvet. Something bothered him about the room. Frowning, he let his gaze drift.
“Hold.”
The Minshaari turned, a frown marring his brow. “Yes, sergeant?”
“This is wrong.” He adjusted his grip on the pistol as a chill ran down his spine. “Something’s off. What is it? You know the room better than I do.”
“In what way?” The Seshinaar chieftain chanted an arcane phrase. His eyes glowed with power, the light forming an aura that surrounded him. Twin tendrils of a faint green light stretched from the Minshaari’s aura and moved toward his guards. Draxton shivered as it crept across his skin. It left a tingling wave of sensation in its wake, like a million ghostly fingers trailing over his body. The bands on his wrists pulsed in time with the spell’s subtle glow.
“I don’t know. Call it a gut feeling.” He scoured every inch of the room as his fingers flexed on the grip of the pistol. What wasn’t destroyed looked correct on the surface, perfectly in place. “Maybe something’s missing? Something’s added?”
“You’re jumping at shadows, human. There is no one here, nothing wrong.” The rakshasa’s growl raked along Draxton’s nerves.
“Listen, cat, I’ve been on the front lines enough to trust my gut. It’s saved my life on more than one occasion. Either something in the room is wrong, or someone’s in here.”
“Even had they been shielded, the Minshaari’s muykeesh would have detected them.”
“And if they’re familiar enough with his brand of hocus-pocus to counter it? What then?”
“Search the room, sergeant.” A ball of green fire floated above the Minshaari’s left hand. His right pulled a slender sword from the scabbard on his back. The blade glowed in the dim light with motes of green sparks dripping from the edge. “Be thorough but quick.”
“Understood.”
Draxton moved around the perimeter of the room in a counterclockwise circle. He moved every remaining piece of furniture, prodded every curtain. Ash blackened his fingers when he touched the scorch marks on the wall. Sweat rolled down his back from the heat from the smoldering table. The feeling they were being watched refused to go away.
He stepped toward a tree whose branches formed the shelves of a bookcase when he caught movement out the corner of his eye. The outline of a humanoid figure formed from the blurred heat waves above the broken and charred table. It’s fiery eyes sought and focused on the Minshaari. The temperature rose in the small room. Twin spheres of fire formed in its insubstantial hands.
Draxton raised the pistol in a smooth and practiced motion, firing off two shots in quick succession. The short bursts of pure energy struck the shimmering figure and fizzled into harmless sparks. Cursing, the soldier holstered his pistol and leapt at the figure. His shoulder struck the creature’s abdomen. The spheres of fire dissolved into smoke as they tumbled to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs and sizzling heat. Behind him, Fieryl roared.
The heat was unbearable. His lungs screamed for cool air. His hair singed. His skin reddened then blistered anytime he or his opponent managed to land a punch. The creature summoned another sphere. Draxton batted it from his hand, grunting as his glove melted away. Some of the leather stuck to his damaged skin. Skin that split and bled when he pounded his fist into the creature’s jaw.
“Sergeant, disengage!” The Minshaari’s tone demanded obedience. Years of training ensured his compliance.
Draxton knocked away the creature’s hand and rolled to the side. As he rose to a crouch, a beam of green light shot from the Seshinaar’s fingers. The creature screamed and thrashed on the floor as smoke poured from its body. Fieryl pinned one of the creature’s hands to the floor with a dagger. The shimmering haze blurred and faded, revealing a hairless, androgynous creature with jagged teeth and fiery eyes.
“Explain your presence, narakir.” The Minshaari approached the pinned creature, another green sphere hovering above his palm.
“Chaos and fire and floating ash,” giggled the creature. Its eyes flashed as flames licked along its body. A flick of the Minshaari’s fingers sent another wave of green energy to snuff the burgeoning fire. “Pulse guns blast and swords will clash. Brother to brother, father to son, who survives the rising sun?”
“You speak in riddles, narakir. Who sent you into my realm? Who is your master?”
“Tongues of fire lick the sky, dancing flames bring day to night. Hatred fuels the hungry wolf to reclaim what is his by right.”
“Your master is foolish if he believes he will win.” The Minshaari sheathed his blade, adding intricate gestures to his enchantment. The creature howled as the flames banked then died entirely. “I bind your fire, narakir, until the Circle decides your fate. Fieryl, take him to the holding cells.”
“What of your safety, My Chief?” His fangs flashed as he worked his knife out of the floor. The narakir’s screams sounded like the hiss of a raging fire doused in water.
“Do you doubt the sergeant’s skills?”
“He is injured, and his loyalty is still in question.” Fieryl tore a strip from the charred curtain and bound the creature’s arms across its chest. He wove the material between each finger to prevent intricate movement.
“You would doubt the loyalty of a bondmate, my friend.” The Minshaari chuckled. “I’m not without my own skills. I can take care of myself.”
“Regardless, My Minshaari. I will be swift.”
Fieryl wrestled the narakir to its feet and half-escorted, half-dragged it through a side door. Draxton rose onto shaking legs as pain radiated from most of his body. The worst were his hands, which were covered in deep red patches and ugly blisters. He fumbled with the small first aid kit in his pocket until cool fingers wrapped around his arms just above the slave bands.
“Let me, sergeant.”
His hands tingled as a pale green glow covered them. His arms tingled from the touch of the Seshinaar’s fingers. The cream stung until the anesthetic soothed the burns. The Minshaari applied the bandages, allowing for a full range of motion.
“How sweet.” An unknown Seshinaar stood in the doorway, a pair of pulse guns in his hands. His voice dripped sarcastic venom. “Too bad you won’t live long enough to kiss it and make it better.”
******
(1) – Paragraph Two, Line Two:
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
Draxton’s Destiny –
So, I’m running late yet again in getting this posted. Absolutely no excuse this week as I had extra time to prepare and still managed to slack until the last minute. I even came up with the prompt and still managed to run late. Twenty lashes with a wet noodle for me! Anyway, most folks know the routine by now. Visit my partner in crime, Night Tempest, read her super hot fantasy story, and check out the links to our fellow flashers (no, not that kind, silly). Then come on back and see what Draxton is up to.
A little side note here – I was very unhappy with the Minshaari’s first name that I used in the last chapter so I changed it. He was a Grantham. He’s now a Kasseus. I think that’s a bit more ‘him.’
This week’s prompt sounded easy at first. Then I started writing and realized what a challenge it was going to be. The prompt -
Edgar Allen Poe – Read the poem The Raven. Use at least one line from the poem in your chapter/story. Dialogue is okay, but narrative is even better. You can read the poem online here.
The Raven has such wonderfully dark descriptions that I thought it’d be easy. It wasn’t. Then it was. I’d planned to put my chosen lines in a certain place in the chapter, then I realized I wasn’t going to get to that point in this chapter. After that, the line that I did use flowed into the narrative with relative ease. The line is footnoted, bolded, and italicized. Enjoy!
Previous chapters (in order):
******
They attacked as the last rays of daylight faded into inky darkness. The warriors, sleek and silent as the setting sun, slipped between the branches of the trees like the fading light. Three Minshaar guards fell to their blades before one managed to raise the alarm. Draxton leapt to his feet, reaching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The Minshaari slipped from the room while the klaxons screeched their warnings. As Fieryl prepared to join the battle, Draxton remained relegated to the sidelines. Unarmed. Half-naked. Helpless.
“Remain here, human.” The rakshasa’s growl raised the small hairs on his neck. “These crushás cannot penetrate the Minshaari’s personal defenses.”
“I’m a soldier. Let me fight.”
“And put you in the position to strike at the Minshaari during the chaos of battle? I think not.”
“Do I look that stupid? I’d need to have space dust for brains to side with a man like Brixys.” He held up his arms. The etched dragons on the disguised bands glinted in the light of the flashing alarms. “He’s the reason I still have these. He’s the fucking reason I’m even here at all!”
“Lack of loyalty to Brixys doesn’t equate to loyalty to the Minshaari.” Fieryl secured a bandolier of pulse grenades across his chest, smoothing his fur beneath the supple leather. “You remain here.”
“At least don’t leave me locked in this cage without some way to defend myself.”
“I’m not arming a potential enemy.”
“Fieryl.” Kasseus Minshaar entered the room with effortless grace. Skin-tight black leather breeches molded to his muscular thighs and disappeared into a pair of supple leather boots. A lamellar breastplate crafted from hardened leather plates protected his torso. He wore a pair of swords across his back and a pulse gun on each hip. He was beautiful and deadly. Draxton felt his body harden in response. “Sgt. Larimore needs weapons and protective equipment. He will accompany us.”
“My chief…”
“Now, Fieryl.” The Minshaari’s tone didn’t alter, nor did he raise his voice, but it had the same result as a drill sergeant’s expletive-laden shouts. The rakshasa assumed a submissive pose with his head bowed, his tail trailing the floor, and his ears flattened to his head.
“Yes, Minshaari.”
Fieryl led Draxton to a smaller chamber better equipped than most Alliance armories. Bladed weapons lined one wall. Pulse weapons of all shapes and sizes filled another. There were cabinets full of armor and boots, even harnesses designed to fit around wings and tails. The rakshasa’s tail swished in agitated pique as he flung open the cabinets. “Choose and dress quickly,” he hissed. “The battle rages while we waste time.”
Used to changing in an open bay environment, Draxton tossed aside his lounge pants without thought. As he turned towards the cabinet, he caught the Minshaari’s quick intake of breath, and the appreciative glow in his fascinating green eyes. He turned towards the gorgeous Seshinaar and arched a brow. He had spent years honing his body into a fit and strong weapon for the Alliance. It pleased him more than it should that the enticing male enjoyed how he looked. Before the wrong head attempted to rule his judgment, he stepped into a pair of standard issue padded leather breeches.
Not only was this familiar, it also felt inexplicably right. He caught his new owner’s gaze, felt its heat burning into his back as he buckled a Legionnaire’s breastplate over his chest. Slipping his feet into a pair of leather boots, he cinched the straps with efficient expertise. He rocked onto the balls of his feet, stretched until the uniform settled into place and moved cleanly with his every motion. He tugged on a pair of fingerless gloves as he moved to the selection of pulse weapons.
“This should do.” Draxton checked the power levels on a pair of pulse pistols then slipped them into thigh holsters. He grabbed a pair of serrated hunting knives with boot sheaths. The longer swords intrigued him, but he had little training in them.
“Sgt. Larimore.” The Minshaari stopped just before they reached the door and turned towards him. “Once we leave this room, remain at my side at all times. Don’t give me a reason to regret my decision.”
“I won’t.”
The rakshasa curled his lip, revealing a fang, then took point. He moved with feline grace. His paws made no sound on the tiled floor. His ears swiveled this way and that to catch any sound as he scanned the empty halls. They traveled several flights of stairs before they encountered the first evidence of the battle.
A pulse blast had scorched along one wall. In the center of the room, a roaring fire devoured a massive banquet table. A pair of curtains dripped ashes onto a pair of chairs, where their charred remains smoldered. The flickering light from the fire cast dancing shadows into every corner. The table snapped, throwing sparks into the air. As they floated downward, each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor(1).
The Minshaari strode into the room with a curse. Muttering in his lilting chant, he clapped his hands sharply, holding them closed as they began to glow. When he spread his hands, a cool, damp breeze flowed over the room. It coated the walls and floors, extinguishing the dancing flames and cooling the charred wood.
Draxton brought up the rear, senses on alert. He stepped around the broken furniture, a pistol held at his waist, while he scanned the shadowy corners and corridors. He nudged aside the remnants of an end table with his toe and stomped on a mound of velvet. Something bothered him about the room. Frowning, he let his gaze drift.
“Hold.”
The Minshaari turned, a frown marring his brow. “Yes, sergeant?”
“This is wrong.” He adjusted his grip on the pistol as a chill ran down his spine. “Something’s off. What is it? You know the room better than I do.”
“In what way?” The Seshinaar chieftain chanted an arcane phrase. His eyes glowed with power, the light forming an aura that surrounded him. Twin tendrils of a faint green light stretched from the Minshaari’s aura and moved toward his guards. Draxton shivered as it crept across his skin. It left a tingling wave of sensation in its wake, like a million ghostly fingers trailing over his body. The bands on his wrists pulsed in time with the spell’s subtle glow.
“I don’t know. Call it a gut feeling.” He scoured every inch of the room as his fingers flexed on the grip of the pistol. What wasn’t destroyed looked correct on the surface, perfectly in place. “Maybe something’s missing? Something’s added?”
“You’re jumping at shadows, human. There is no one here, nothing wrong.” The rakshasa’s growl raked along Draxton’s nerves.
“Listen, cat, I’ve been on the front lines enough to trust my gut. It’s saved my life on more than one occasion. Either something in the room is wrong, or someone’s in here.”
“Even had they been shielded, the Minshaari’s muykeesh would have detected them.”
“And if they’re familiar enough with his brand of hocus-pocus to counter it? What then?”
“Search the room, sergeant.” A ball of green fire floated above the Minshaari’s left hand. His right pulled a slender sword from the scabbard on his back. The blade glowed in the dim light with motes of green sparks dripping from the edge. “Be thorough but quick.”
“Understood.”
Draxton moved around the perimeter of the room in a counterclockwise circle. He moved every remaining piece of furniture, prodded every curtain. Ash blackened his fingers when he touched the scorch marks on the wall. Sweat rolled down his back from the heat from the smoldering table. The feeling they were being watched refused to go away.
He stepped toward a tree whose branches formed the shelves of a bookcase when he caught movement out the corner of his eye. The outline of a humanoid figure formed from the blurred heat waves above the broken and charred table. It’s fiery eyes sought and focused on the Minshaari. The temperature rose in the small room. Twin spheres of fire formed in its insubstantial hands.
Draxton raised the pistol in a smooth and practiced motion, firing off two shots in quick succession. The short bursts of pure energy struck the shimmering figure and fizzled into harmless sparks. Cursing, the soldier holstered his pistol and leapt at the figure. His shoulder struck the creature’s abdomen. The spheres of fire dissolved into smoke as they tumbled to the floor in a tangle of flailing limbs and sizzling heat. Behind him, Fieryl roared.
The heat was unbearable. His lungs screamed for cool air. His hair singed. His skin reddened then blistered anytime he or his opponent managed to land a punch. The creature summoned another sphere. Draxton batted it from his hand, grunting as his glove melted away. Some of the leather stuck to his damaged skin. Skin that split and bled when he pounded his fist into the creature’s jaw.
“Sergeant, disengage!” The Minshaari’s tone demanded obedience. Years of training ensured his compliance.
Draxton knocked away the creature’s hand and rolled to the side. As he rose to a crouch, a beam of green light shot from the Seshinaar’s fingers. The creature screamed and thrashed on the floor as smoke poured from its body. Fieryl pinned one of the creature’s hands to the floor with a dagger. The shimmering haze blurred and faded, revealing a hairless, androgynous creature with jagged teeth and fiery eyes.
“Explain your presence, narakir.” The Minshaari approached the pinned creature, another green sphere hovering above his palm.
“Chaos and fire and floating ash,” giggled the creature. Its eyes flashed as flames licked along its body. A flick of the Minshaari’s fingers sent another wave of green energy to snuff the burgeoning fire. “Pulse guns blast and swords will clash. Brother to brother, father to son, who survives the rising sun?”
“You speak in riddles, narakir. Who sent you into my realm? Who is your master?”
“Tongues of fire lick the sky, dancing flames bring day to night. Hatred fuels the hungry wolf to reclaim what is his by right.”
“Your master is foolish if he believes he will win.” The Minshaari sheathed his blade, adding intricate gestures to his enchantment. The creature howled as the flames banked then died entirely. “I bind your fire, narakir, until the Circle decides your fate. Fieryl, take him to the holding cells.”
“What of your safety, My Chief?” His fangs flashed as he worked his knife out of the floor. The narakir’s screams sounded like the hiss of a raging fire doused in water.
“Do you doubt the sergeant’s skills?”
“He is injured, and his loyalty is still in question.” Fieryl tore a strip from the charred curtain and bound the creature’s arms across its chest. He wove the material between each finger to prevent intricate movement.
“You would doubt the loyalty of a bondmate, my friend.” The Minshaari chuckled. “I’m not without my own skills. I can take care of myself.”
“Regardless, My Minshaari. I will be swift.”
Fieryl wrestled the narakir to its feet and half-escorted, half-dragged it through a side door. Draxton rose onto shaking legs as pain radiated from most of his body. The worst were his hands, which were covered in deep red patches and ugly blisters. He fumbled with the small first aid kit in his pocket until cool fingers wrapped around his arms just above the slave bands.
“Let me, sergeant.”
His hands tingled as a pale green glow covered them. His arms tingled from the touch of the Seshinaar’s fingers. The cream stung until the anesthetic soothed the burns. The Minshaari applied the bandages, allowing for a full range of motion.
“How sweet.” An unknown Seshinaar stood in the doorway, a pair of pulse guns in his hands. His voice dripped sarcastic venom. “Too bad you won’t live long enough to kiss it and make it better.”
******
(1) – Paragraph Two, Line Two:
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—
Nameless here for evermore.
October 3, 2013
Draxton’s Destiny – Decisions
Draxton is back in this Flash Fiction entry! I’m still finding my feet with this one or something isn’t clicking. It took me several days to write this one chapter when it usually takes me a few hours. It’s not easy for me to switch gears between projects and I may just have too much on my plate. We’ll see. Hopefully, I’ll find my groove with this story (or aliens will land, eat them all, and I’ll move on to something else).
Please check out our hostess with the mostest – Night Tempest – as she woos and wows us with The Great Mage. Then, click on the links for the other participating authors because support is lovely and they rock.
The prompt this week was -
A Morphing Object – A key object in the chapter/story has (or gains) the ability to morph into a completely unrelated object (returning back to the original form or morphing at will is up to the author)
I fell a little short on word count this week at only 1985 (and struggled for that).
Previous chapters (in order):
******
Draxton prowled the elegant room looking for exits or possible weapons. After a twisting maze of corridors and transport platforms, the rakshasa led him to a grand suite of rooms. Their size and elegance rivaled those suitable for a member of the Alliance’s High Council. Or a Seshinaar Chieftain. He was reluctantly impressed.
The feline warrior ordered a simple meal, then gave him a quick tour of the suite. The bathing chamber offered both sonic and traditional showers. The massive bed in the sleeping chamber was rumpled but available if he wished to rest. The living area contained several vidscreens disconnected from the main network. Each contained innumerable books spanning a variety of genres. Fieryl instructed him to eat his fill and wait. The Minshaari would question him later. As the door closed behind the rakshasa with a distinctive click, Draxton’s slave bands snapped apart. He was caged again, but at least his hands were free.
Alone in the suite, he searched each of the rooms with swift efficiency. The kitchen contained little beyond the delivered meal – a tray with a carafe of cool water, bread, and a bit of cheese. Draxton removed the smaller plates from the tray and tested its weight. It was light, but might serve as a distraction. Setting it aside, he resumed his search. He rummaged through the cabinets and drawers. Nothing. There were no knives, cookware, or heavy drinking mugs. He slammed the last drawer shut with a muttered curse.
“Who the fuck has an empty kitchen?” He drummed his fingers on the counter, giving the pristine room a final look before giving up.
Carrying the tray into the living area, he checked the perimeter of the room. The furniture was of no help. Twisted tree branches growing from the main trunk formed the seating area. The living chairs were covered with dark green cushions trimmed with gold threads. A giant mushroom served as a table in the center. Brilliant tapestries lined the walls. Some depicted tranquil scenes of vast forests and gently flowing rivers. Others showed villages woven into the branches of the massive trees. He checked behind each for hidden doors, caches, or safes that might contain a weapon. They were a marvel of skill and craftsmanship. They were beautiful pieces of art. But, unless he was going to try to smother someone, they were completely useless.
He picked up one of the vidscreens. It was smaller than the tray, but heavier. With the right amount of force, he could break the screen and gain a cutting weapon. He scanned the room for a sturdy corner.
“Contemplating my demise already, Sergeant Larimore?” Draxton turned and dropped into a defensive stance. The Minshaari lounged against the front door, arms crossed over his chest. A teasing smile curved his lips. “What a pity. I’d hoped you’d make a powerful ally.”
“I still might.” He stepped from behind a leafy branch that formed a reclining chair, his eyes fixed on the Seshinaar chieftain. “Depends on what you’re offering.”
The Minshaari picked up the tray and carried it into the kitchen. He returned with the light meal, placing it upon the mushroom table. He popped a slice of cheese into his mouth as he settled upon a mound of cushions. “For starters, let’s say passage off Seshinaar to the planet of your choice.”
“In exchange for…?”
“Information and assistance.”
Draxton sat in the chair opposite the Seshinaar, the vidscreen balanced in his hands. “I don’t know how much I can do or tell you. My movements have been rather curtailed recently.” He held up his wrists which, while no longer locked together, still bore the hated slave bands.
The Minshaari frowned. “Those should have released when Fieryl left the room. I don’t approve of slavery and won’t keep one, even to please the Circle. May I examine the bands?”
Draxton leaned forward and held out his arms. He shivered as the Minshaari’s cool fingers traced the edge of the bands. His body responded to the light touches. To the male’s fresh scent of willow and patchouli. He gritted his teeth as the diaphanous material did little to conceal his enthusiastic interest.
“They aren’t jammed, but they’re not unlocking.” The Minshaari pulled his vidscreen from his pocket. “Fieryl, have you scanned that code stick, yet? The bands didn’t release.” He hummed and nodded as he pushed this button or typed that sequence. Lights flashed. Locks clicked. The bands remained closed. “Nothing. See if you can get into the code and find out what that cantrielle did to the release mechanism. Yes, Mikyl can help in his spare time. Very good. Thank you.”
“Well, this explains a lot. Brixys offered me my freedom. I wondered how he could follow through if you had the codes.”
“In exchange for an untimely accident, I assume.”
“Something like that.”
“This makes no sense!” The Minshaari stood and paced. The living chairs bent to avoid his touch. Draxton followed his steps in fascinated awe of his effortless grace and casual sorcery. “Brixys doesn’t go off-world very often, and never this close to a meeting of the Circle. So, why would he choose to leave now? Why purchase a soldier from a pleasure-slave auction to serve as assassin?”
“I don’t know what to tell you. There weren’t many males in the auction. Of the ones they sold, I was the only human.”
“Did he say anything to you during the auction, a reason for choosing you over the others?”
“Nothing that made sense.” He rubbed his wrists where the Minshaari’s fingers had trailed cool fire that shot straight to his groin. The man was an alluring distraction he did not need. “He said I was the perfect gift. He also hinted that you preferred the company of men, and that the public knowledge of this would work to his advantage.”
“Did you agree to help him?” Draxton snorted; the Minshaari laughed. “Eloquently put. Fieryl’s working on removing the bands. He’s tenacious when it comes to such things and won’t stop until he’s mastered it. While you wait, perhaps I might interest you in a temporary alliance?”
******
After an hour of negotiations, they came to an agreement that satisfied them both. The Minshaari ordered a proper dinner and called Fieryl for an update. The rakshasa’s voice hissed and growled with frustration as he struggled to peel apart each layer of altered code. They tried several more combinations, along with a mixture of technology and sorcery. The bands refused to release.
“The best I can do for now is disguise them.” The Minshaari wrapped his hands around the slave bands and murmured an arcane phrase. The bands glowed without heat, shifting and contorting around his wrists until they resembled protective bracers. “I’m sorry I can’t do more. Fieryl is the best decoder on Seshinaar. He’ll have them open soon.”
“Thanks.” Draxton ran his fingers over the bands. Tooled and dyed leather replaced the slick plasticene. A stylized dragon decorated each band. Their eyes flashed in time with the bands’ signal codes; the only reminder of their original function. “At least these don’t advertise how I got here.”
“The change is only cosmetic. They’re still functioning slave bands.”
“Understood.
And he did. He wasn’t a techie, but he understood most of the rakshasa’s growling technobabble. At some point during his time with Brixys, his buyer had interwoven layers of different codes into the slave bands’ programming. Fieryl removed one, only to discover it linked to three others. Each of those linked to more. It was like peeling an onion and trying to find a pearl in the center.
When a roar echoed through the vidscreen, Draxton suggested they focus on understanding the purpose of the new code over removing the bands. He’d rather wear them longer than discover too late they’d been turned into a weapon. The Minshaari agreed. The rakshasa hissed and complained, but agreed to alter the focus of his research.
Appetite gone, Draxton welcomed the offer of the Minshaari’s shower. Traditional showers were a scarce luxury upon his last duty station, reserved for those of the highest rank or the biggest amount of credits. The rank and file had to make do with an open-bay style sonic bathing chamber. Several of the wave conducers were faulty, giving unsuspecting recruits a nasty shock if they stood in the wrong place.
He tossed the flimsy harem pants into a corner. He wanted to rip them into confetti, but the appreciative gleam in the Minshaari’s eyes stayed his hand. The Seshinaar was an alluring male, one that would encourage him to mix a bit of pleasure into his business. His cock stirred as he stepped into the booth.
Closing the door activated the shower’s spray, which fell from the ceiling like a waterfall. An overhang allowed him to wash without the water rinsing the soap away too quickly. He groaned as the water pounded against his shoulders. It washed away the cloying perfumed oils from Brixys’ concubines. It removed the stink of the Alliance slave pens. It freed his mind to think of other things. Interesting things. Arousing things.
Grantham Minshaar.
As he lathered his cropped hair, the faint scent of patchouli in the soap conjured a decadent image of the gorgeous Seshinaar. In his mind’s eye, he peeled away each layer of clothing covering the Minshaari’s body. Broad shoulders. Trim waist. Corded muscles in his arms. Toned stomach. Draxton groaned and wrapped a soapy hand around his throbbing cock. He stroked from the hard base to the spongy head, teasing the rim with a light scrape of his nail. His heart stuttered to a stop then kicked in the afterburners. His breathing struggled to keep up.
He rubbed his palm over the sensitive tip, clamping his lips shut to stifle his moan. Bolts of pleasure burst across the smooth head and travelled to the base and beyond. Like a pebble dropped on a smooth lake, the tingles spread through his body in rippling waves. He leaned against the cool tile wall and stroked from head to base and back again. Each pump of his fist was another pebble, another wave of pleasure.
Draxton propped his foot onto a root. His thumb stroked his balls as his fingers sought, and found, the sensitive skin of his perineum. He rubbed the area and fantasized it was the Minshaari. His hands. His tongue. His cock. His cock stiffened until it was steel wrapped in velvet. His hand flew over the slick skin. His hips thrust against his hand. A flush swept his body as his muscles tightened. He threw back his head as the first spurt of come painted the shower wall.
He staggered beneath the heavy spray of water once the last contraction shook his body. His legs felt like overcooked noodles. His balls ached from the force of his orgasm. His kidney reminded him of the guard’s earlier attack. He lathered his body with shaking hands, careful not to overstimulate his twitching cock. If that was even a hint of what was in store for him as the Minshaari’s concubine, he wasn’t sure he would survive the experience.
But, damn, what a way to go!
He remained in the shower until his skin started to wrinkle and no trace of oil remained. He wrapped a towel around his waist and scrubbed the water from his hair with a second. He took his time in the bathing chamber, shaving the stubble from his face before slipping into a pair of loose breeches provided by his host. He knew he was delaying. The orgasm left him tired. Shaken. He trailed his fingers over the magically altered slave bands.
As much as he wanted his freedom, he realized he had no place to go. Was being a slave to a man like the Minshaari really any worse than his time with the Alliance?
September 30, 2013
Monday Mumbles – Shel Silverstein
The Monday Mumbles will be a semi-regular series of stuff I find of interest that may, or may not, be writing related. Sometimes it’ll be thoughtful, sometimes informative. Sometimes it’ll be full of rampant WTFuckery. I may discover the subjects online or during my normal day to day. They may turn ranty (I will try to avoid discussing traffic, driving, and anything that deals with my local interstates because… RAGE). I’m not going to guarantee a Mumble every Monday, because I’m pretty certain I can’t sustain that along with my current projects and a weekly Flash Fiction serial. I have trouble with commitment, see? Hold me!
Anyway, the subject of my very first inaugural Mumble is the beloved children’s poet, Shel Silverstein. For those unfamiliar with Silverstein, he wrote the terrific and thought-provoking The Giving Tree, the adorable and award-winning Where the Sidewalk Ends, and his last collection of children’s poetry, Falling Up, along with many others.
Believe it or not, Banned Book Week brought Silverstein to my mind. Several of his best and most entertaining books have landed on various banned books lists around the nation.
The Giving Tree
The Giving Tree was dinged due to the “vicious, one-sided relationship” between the tree and the boy; with the tree as the selfless giver, and the boy as the greedy person who takes but never gives. While I think the psychologists may be overthinking things just a tad, that (to me) is the entire point and purpose of the tale. You’re supposed to see the one-sided relationship, and how unfair it is to the tree. That’s a lesson that should be taught to everyone – kids and adults!
A Light in the Attic
In A Light in the Attic, several school districts stated that the poem “How Not to Have to Dry the Dishes” “encourages children to break dishes so they won’t have to dry them” because the boy wonders if his parents will remove him from this chore if he dropped enough. They claimed it would encourage such behavior in their children. By the end of the 20th century, it was at #51 for the 100 most banned books of the 1990’s. Florida objected to the poem “Little Abigail and the Beautiful Pony” because the girl dies in the end. I suppose they felt this would encourage, I don’t know, suicide as a form of parental manipulation?
Where the Sidewalk Ends
Many school districts around the world take issue with the poem “Dreadful” in Where the Sidewalk Ends because they feared some of their more impressionable students might actually be encouraged to engage in cannibalism due to the line “someone ate the baby.” Seriously? If a single line in a silly poem causes your child to start munching on toddlers, you have more issues to worry about than a kid’s book! Either that kid ain’t firing on all cylinders or we’ve found Patient Zero of the zombie apocalypse. Find the problem and fix it, but don’t blame a poem for his strange appetite.
While reading up on the very talented Silverstein, I was astonished to learn – though afterwards it made complete sense – that he was an accomplished and award-winning songwriter. Since songs are simply poems put to music, it makes sense. What surprised me, though, were the songs he wrote and for whom. He was a major contributor to the band, Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show, writing many of their biggest hits such as “The Cover of the Rolling Stone” and “Sylvia’s Mother.” He wrote “One’s on the Way” which became a huge hit for Loretta Lynn. He wrote silly songs such as “Three-Legged Man,” hilariously recorded by Ray Stevens. And the one that really raised my brows and made me say “wow!” was “A Boy Named Sue.” Recorded by Johnny Cash, the song won him a Grammy in 1970.
The other WTF moment came as a result of learning that he got his biggest break in a start-up magazine by his close friend, Hugh Hefner. Yes, Shel Silverstein, writer of delightful children’s poetry, wrote for Playboy. During the 1950s and 1960s, he produced twenty-three articles called “Shel Silverstein Visits…” They paid him to travel to various locations and write about his experiences there. He utilized a sketchbook style, with cartoons and notes in the margins, that was extremely popular.
So yeah, that’s probably more than you ever wanted to know about Shel Silverstein. I hope you enjoyed the very first Monday Mumble. I hope I remember to do this again sometime soon!
September 26, 2013
Draxton’s Destiny – The Gift
It’s Flash Fiction time (yes, I know it’s early… shush!) and I’ve not forgotten, run late, or got caught up in Real Life™! Yay me! Anyway, I’m sure you guys know the routine already – stalk and perv on Night Tempest‘s blog, open up tabs for each of the participating authors, and throw the love around! This week’s prompt? In 2000 words or less, take an established mythology and give it your own twist. We all know how much I love doing that. I ended at 2100 words and attacked the story like a serial killer, cutting unnecessary phrases and adverbs with unholy glee. I ended at precisely 2000 words. Yay me pt. 2!
Technically, any paranormal story could fall within these parameters. Few modern PNR authors depict vampires, werewolves, etc true to their ancient mythological origins. Draxton’s Destiny already contains a variation on elves which I hope to expand upon during the course of the story, but I wanted to include another race to fulfill the FF requirements. I chose the rakshasa.
Originally part of Hindu mythology, the rakshasa were believed to have been created from the breath of Brahma, the Hindu god of creation. Later epics named them supernatural humanoids, fierce warriors for both good and evil. They were masters of magic and illusion. They were shapeshifters. Some were man-eaters, consuming the dead on the battlefield like giant carrion birds.
My greatest influence for the rakshasa included in Draxton’s Destiny is the ultimate geek game, Dungeons and Dragons. In its lore, the rakshasa were a race of evil outsiders who now live on the Prime Material Plane. They, too, were masters of magic and illusion. Instead of being shape-shifters, though, they were a race of feline humanoids – tigrish features on a bipedal body.
So, I took a bit of this and a bit of that and formed my own race of rakshasa. You only meet one in this chapter, but I hope you enjoy him.
The previous chapters (in order) -
******
Draxton stared at the smooth tile beneath his knees. He focused on the green lines that spread like spider webs through the pale cream stone. He drew deep, soothing breaths through his nose, exhaled through his mouth, and forced the tension from his body. As the two Seshinaar chieftains glared at each other over his head, he risked a second glance at the Minshaari.
He was stunning in his fury. His eyes flashed with emerald fire. His shoulders stiffened, accentuating his sleek, defined muscles. “Sentient beings are not commodities to be bought, sold, or given away. What did you hope to accomplish with this gift?”
“I only wish to help. Since the untimely death of your predecessor, you have had little time to find a wife or a proper harem of concubines to tend to your needs.”
“You know my opinion of harems.” The Minshaari’s eyes drifted towards Draxton. The heat from that brief glance suffused his body and went straight to his groin. He was grateful for the damn strap around his cock as his lust flared. “And slaves.”
“Yes. Your disdain for our culture has been noticed and commented upon in more than one Circle. If you’re not careful, you’ll lose the respect of your peers.”
“Better to lose the respect of a few barbarians clutching at outdated traditions than to perpetuate and encourage the depersonalization of any species. Especially our own!” The Minshaar indicated both Draxton and the concubine with a sweeping gesture. “Do you really think this is the way to treat our allies, our women? This human didn’t ask to be enslaved. Did your concubine? She had dreams, goals, a life before you took her into your harem. Where are her dreams, now, Brixys?”
“Dreams, Minshaari?” Brixys yanked the girl into his arms. She bit her lip to silence her cry as his fingers dug into her arm. “I fulfill her dreams. My pleasure is her goal. I took her from a squalid hut in a backwards village on the Edge. I dress her in exquisite gowns. I shower her with priceless gems. What could she want that I have not granted her?”
“Her freedom.”
“You don’t want to leave me, do you, Precious?” Brixys murmured the words into the young concubine’s ear, though his hard gaze remained fixed on the Minshaari.
“N-No, Master.” Two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. Draxton’s hands clenched behind his back as he strained against the slave bands. The girl whimpered as Brixys pulled her against his chest. His cruel grip left bright red marks upon pale skin.
“You see? My concubines love me.”
“They’re scared of you.” Draxton pulled his eyes from the terrified girl to the indignant Seshinaar chieftain. He drank in the coiled violence, the leashed anger, all too aware of the definition of male’s muscles when he crossed his arms over his chest. The thin tunic molded to his arms and across his back. The snug breeches hugged an ass that made him want to bite each rounded globe. The ring dug into the soft flesh at the base of his throbbing cock. “Surely you can see the difference.”
“The difference is miniscule in the grand scheme of things and unrelated to my purpose.” He whispered something into the concubine’s ear. She nodded and moved to kneel beside his advisor. Her shoulders shook. “I did not come to discuss my harem or your radical opposition to our traditions. I came to discuss the upcoming treaty.”
“And present this ‘gift’.” Draxton’s heart thudded in his chest as the chieftain approached. With his arms held by the damnedable bands, he couldn’t hide his interest in the beautiful male. An interest that became more obvious with each passing moment. “He’s not trained as a pleasure slave. The scars on his body declare him to be a warrior. His musculature suggest a fitness regimen few civilians find necessary. His haircut confirms his ties to the military, either present or recent past. So, again, I ask you – what is the point?”
“We must end this war between us. We lose warriors to the incessant skirmishes. Population has plummeted in both tribes, from attrition and fear. Our women avoid reproduction, afraid to raise more sons only to have them die in this senseless conflict. Trade has slowed to a trickle. Our enemies stand on the sidelines, gloating, waiting for one of us to fall. I say it has gone on long enough!”
Draxton’s brow furrowed at the chief’s impassioned speech. Brixys hit all the high points, said all the right words to stir his audience, but there was something missing. Or something added. Perhaps it was the way his dark eyes assessed his audience’s reactions. Perhaps it was the slight quirk of his lips when one of the Minshaari’s guards murmured an assent. Perhaps his fury at his situation clouded his judgment. Regardless of the cause, something about his delivery felt off. After six years with the Legion and numerous combat campaigns, Draxton trusted his gut.
“Next week, the Circle meets to discuss this tiresome war. Ceatai and Oralix already oppose your position as Minshaari. If they discover you refused a generous gift, a selfless tribute made in good faith and at great personal cost…” The chief left the sentence hanging between them, his arms spread wide. He shrugged and let them fall to his sides.
Draxton racked his brain for information about Seshinaar’s political system. It wasn’t much. The planet was beyond the fringe. Outside the influence and jurisdiction of the Alliance. Only the elite unites received training on the Outer Rim, and he’d never been interested in joining. His apathy cost him valuable knowledge. As a pawn in this game, his ignorance could prove fatal.
Silence hung in the room, stretching from a pregnant pause to an uncomfortable lull. The Minshaari stared a hole in the offensive chieftain, his expression devoid of any thoughts or emotions. His gaze moved across each man in Brixys’ party – from the arrogant chief to the youngest guard shifting his weight, uncomfortable with the rising tension. It lingered upon the young concubine with her head bowed. It settled on Draxton. The vibrant green eyes swept over his broad shoulders and sculpted chest. Did he like what he saw? His heart hammered against his ribs as the ring tightened around his throbbing cock. A smile curled the Minshaari’s lips, before the neutral mask felt back into place.
“Very well.” The Minshaari released him from his mesmerizing appraisal and returned his attention to Brixys. “I’ll accept your gift, but I want the release codes immediately. His freedom is at my discretion – whether I do it in the next second or the next year is irrelevant.”
“Naturally.” Brixys’ bow hid his triumphant smile from the Minshaari, but not from Draxton. It was another confusing piece of the current game in which he was a reluctant player. “Anders, the code stick.”
The advisor passed the microchip to his master, who in turn offered it to the Minshaari. Draxton’s brows rose to his hairline at the fascinating being that stepped from the shadows to take possession of the code stick. Few believed in the existence of the rakshasan race. Some claimed the feline-humanoid hybrids were extinct; others declared them the product of creative storytellers. Both were wrong. The guard’s tiger traits seamlessly integrated with his human ones, creating a being that was deadly and beautiful.
Brixys closed his hand around the code stick and refused to acknowledge the waiting guard. The rakshasa’s growl rumbled through his chest and reverberated in the small room. His yellow eyes narrowed. His striped tail swished in agitation. Several of Brixys’ guards rested their hands on the handles of their pulse guns.
“Is there a problem?” Draxton smothered a grin as the Minshaari studied his immaculate fingernails. Then he saw the small, etched stone that rested in his palm. The Seshinaar brushed his thumb over the pebble. It pulsed with a faint green light.
“The codes are for you, not this… rakshasa.” Brixys spat out the word as if he’d bitten into a pie and found it filled with rotten meat marinated in feces. He even took a step back from the feline warrior.
“I see. If there are no other items you wish to discuss, then I believe we’re done here. I’m sure you can find your way out of my territory?” Draxton looked up at the Minshaari and fell captive to his piercing green eyes. There was such a maelstrom of emotion in his gaze – from anger and frustration to admiration and lust.
“Wait!” The Minshaari stopped but did not turn to face his enemy. A smile teased his lips; Draxton suppressed his own. The beautiful Seshinaar knew his opponent well. “I reacted without thought. I assure you, I meant no insult.”
“I’m sure you didn’t. Fieryl?”
The rakshasa’s lips curled, revealing jagged fangs as he plucked the code stick from the enemy chieftain’s fingers. “I’ll scan the data and report back, Minshaari.”
The guard slipped the code stick into a pouch on the bandolier across his chest, backing away until he was even with his master. He moved with the grace of his feline nature. His paws made no sound upon the tiled floor. A hole in his simple breechcloth allowed his thick tail freedom to move. Slightly shorter than his master, the warrior’s tufted ears gave him the illusion of greater height. His hair fell over his shoulders like a mane in shades of deep orange broken by irregular streaks of ebony. It complemented his creamy mocha skin and framed his mostly-human face.
“Thank you. If he has no objections, please take our new guest with you and see to his comfort.”
Draxton glanced over at Brixys as he rose to his feet. The man arched a brow with a slight tilt of his head. The chief’s knowing smirk made his skin crawl. He turned away. The Seshinaar offered him freedom at the cost of his honor. Fortunately, he knew how to wring an alternative out of even the worst-case scenario. It would simply take time. Time was something he currently had plenty of.
Brixys’ guard gripped the slave bands when he stepped towards the approaching rakshasa. He shook his arms free, only to receive a blast from the pulse baton in his kidney. As he fell to his knees, he struck the guard’s knee with his heel. There was a satisfying snap followed by a howl of pain. Draxton rolled to the side to avoid the falling guard and tried to remember how to breathe. He hated kidney shots. They made his balls ache. They made him piss blood. They just fucking sucked. He swallowed the bile that roiled in his stomach.
The rakshasa wrapped his paws around the guard’s throat and picked him up off the floor. The Seshinaar’s leg dangled at an awkward angle. The guard gurgled, clawing at the massive paw around his throat. The feline warrior pulled a curved blade from its sheath. He placed it below his hand against the guard’s neck. His grin revealed rows of razor-sharp fangs.
“This is how you treat a guest in my territory, Brixys? In my own home?” The Minshaari faced his enemy, no trace of the genial host remained in his expression or demeanor. His guards closed in with swords and blast pistols drawn. Archers took aim along an upper balcony.
“He is my slave.” Brixys’ lip curled in a sneer. “I will treat him as I please.”
“How soon you forget. You offered this man as a gift, and I accepted. We have witnesses to the transaction. If I say he is a guest in my home, then it is so.”
Brixys turned to the guard who dangled from the rakshasa’s unrelenting grasp. “Amin feuya ten’ lle! You stupid fool.”
“The Circle will hear about your unprovoked attack. As compensation, I claim the guard. My warriors will escort you to your territory. Good day, Chief Brixys.”
September 20, 2013
Draxton’s Destiny – Brixys
I must apologize for the delay in this week’s Flash Fiction entry! Things have been crazy since the hubby’s motorcycle accident with dealing with insurance (for motorcycle, hubby, prescriptions, etc), dealing with an increasingly bored (but still injured) hubby, and trying to fit the Flash piece in around Brian’s woefully neglected story (on my old blog) and a new work in progress.
Still, I’ve finally got the piece written and it comes with the usual disclaimers – it’s another M/M SciFi romance set in the same universe as Petri/Grokhaar, so expect adult situations between two men. If that’s not your thing, just move along. Also, please for the love of all that is good and holy in the world, check out Night Tempest‘s series, The Great Mage, (or anything by her because, yummy!) and show her and the rest FFFers some love.
Now, on to the story. This week, we remain locked into our 2000 word maximum, but our prompt was a freebie. Use whatever you wanted. I knew how I wanted this story to begin, so I searched for a picture that I thought did the beginning justice. The item is, in realilty, a really groovy watch.
An Alliance Slave Band
I fell a little short on word count this week at only 1986 (a decent year, I was a junior in high school, you can stop laughing now).
******
Draxton Larimore glared at the open doorway. He clenched his fists, tightening the bands around his wrists. The sharp pain reminded him of what he was now, and what he would never be again. Once, he had been a sergeant in the 23rd Legion of the Alliance Army for the Federation of Galaxies. Tall and fit, he trained with the best and excelled. He mastered small arms and hand to hand combat. He triumphed over every type of terrain his superiors subjected him to: desert, swamp, glacial, and temperate. He obeyed his orders, mentored fresh recruits, and gave six years of his life to the Legion. Once. Today, they repaid his loyalty with the worst sort of betrayal.
A sharp prod at his back propelled him onto the platform. The host, an android announcer programmed with overwhelming enthusiasm and a grating voice, announced his name and number, and listed the highlights of a once-distinguished career. He let the sounds wash over and around him. He stood ramrod straight, shoulders back, feet the appropriate width apart. He stared straight ahead as his training demanded. He ignored the heat. The crowds. The stench of livestock in nearby stalls. The steady hum of the bands around his wrist.
He ignored the fact that he was naked.
Numbers appeared on the vidscreen behind him. The bidding had begun. At requests from the crowd, his handler ordered him to lift his arms, turn around, squat, bend over. For the last week, he had watched the slavers ply their trade on Kandaria. He knew their sadistic enjoyment of applying reminders of their superiority over their stock. He complied with stony silence and a burning hated in the pit of his stomach.
As the figure rose, the bidders thinned though the crowd grew. When only five potential buyers remained, the handlers allowed them onto the platform to inspect him. Four of the buyers circled him like crows. Their lustful gaze crawled over his skin. Their breaths made the hairs on his neck stand on end. They disgusted him the way they panted over his pale skin, this broad shoulders, his flaccid manhood. He wanted an old-fashioned shower, with water and soap and a harsh sponge to wash away the way they made him feel. Thank the gods, they were not allowed to touch.
Yet.
The fifth stood to the side, wrapped in a voluminous cloak the colors of a forest in autumn. A pair of deep brown eyes burned into his from within the shadows of the hood. A play of the scorching sunlight gave them the illusion of glowing. He narrowed his eyes and returned the stare.
The exorbitant price weeded out three more bidders. They stormed from the platform, muttering about “tree-dwellers gaming the system.” Draxton eyed the robed figure with greater interest. There were plenty of arboreal races scattered across the known galaxies. The Glanshylaar carved their homes from the massive trunks that emerged from the dangerous swamps on their planet. The Avatrix soared the skies above the fringe world of Pyper. He knew there were others. Which planet did this mysterious bidder belong to?
He squashed both his curiosity and the brief surge of relief at the loss of two of the three. The third had eyed him with a buyer’s impersonal appraisal. He felt no more interesting than a crate of fruit or an order of lazanthium crystals. The other two, on the other hand, discussed his various assets with lustful glee. They questioned his handlers about his skill with his hands and whether that skill overflowed from self-defense to love-making. They inquired as to whether he had ever successfully produced offspring. They estimated the size of his cock when fully erect. His clenched fists and the throbbing pulse in his temple were all that revealed his simmering rage and loathing.
With two remaining, he steeled himself for what came next. The arm bands hummed then snapped apart. They attached themselves to a pair of posts set into the platform, spreading his arms wide. A hard smack to his ankles spread his feet farther apart. He was open to their eyes. And their hands. For this round of bidding, the potential buyers were allowed to touch.
The female approached first. Silver-tipped horns spiraled from her vibrant red hair. A Den’Lastrian. She opened several buttons on her form-fitting top, baring her impressive breasts to the captive. She smiled as she trailed a finger from his bound wrist to his flat nipple. He gritted his teeth and focused on a distant building over her shoulder.
“You’re a beautiful specimen, human. Big. Strong.” She reached down and stroked his soft dick. “Impressive. We could have a lot of fun, you and I.”
She continued her inspection, rubbing her body against him like a cat in heat. She cupped his balls. She probed his ass. She did everything but fuck him on that stage. He rejoiced that his body did not betray him. It remained unresponsive. His expression remained impassive. The only sign of his inner rage was in his arms and shoulders. The muscles bulged with restrained violence as he strained against the arm bands.
“Your control is impressive, human.” Her body pressed against his back as her breath played over his neck. She reached around to stroke him. He allowed the ghost of a smile to play about his lips. There was little this woman could do to gain the reaction she wanted. Her hand tightened around his shaft until spots swam before his eyes. She hissed her fury into his ear. “You can’t resist me forever. I’ll have you begging to fuck me once you’re mine!”
Draxton’s handler forced her to step away. While they argued over her fine for potentially injuring the merchandise, the robed figure stepped forward. He braced for another humiliating round of unwanted touches and violating probes. The soft glow from within the hood narrowed. A musical chuckle emerged, its joy tainted with maliciousness.
“You’re perfect.” The supernal voice sent a chill down his spine. How could something be so beautiful and still be so evil? This was his alternative? He darted a glance at the irate female. Her breasts had burst free from her shirt, the silver hoops piercing her erect nipples mesmerizing his handler. “You’re filled with such delicious fury, such coiled violence. You’ll make a fine gift.”
The robed male never inspected him. Never touched him. Never even spoke to him beyond those first few sentences. He remained silent after the host awarded him the win. Draxton’s slave bands compelled his arms behind his back as credit chips changed hands. The robed man inserted the infostick into his personal vidscreen that contained his new slave’s personal information along with the codes for the slave bands. The handlers tied a simple loin cloth around Draxton’s waist and conferred ownership to the purchaser.
They boarded the robed male’s transport as soon as the legalities were finalized. As the pilot guided the craft towards the nearest jump gate, the buyer locked the slave bands to the arms of a leather seat. Throwing off his robe, he claimed the seat opposite Draxton. “Such a pity you’re destined for the Minshaari. Such skills and strength would be valuable to my tribe if I could be assured of your loyalty.”
Draxton arched a brow, but remained silent. Bought, he may be. Stupid, he was not. People of all races abhorred silence. They tended to fill it on their own. They often revealed more than they wished when they did so.
The buyer’s deep brown eyes glowed with malevolence as he leaned back in the chair. Hair streaked with varying shades of brown spilled over his shoulders to his waist. An intricate web of braids kept it out of his face and revealed the tips of his pointed ears. His skin matched his hair. The multiple hues creating a natural camouflage.
“It is rumored that the Minshaari takes his pleasure from other males.” The man’s lip curled and a shudder shook his slim frame. Draxton filed the knowledge away for later study. “I’ve read your record, human. The comments by your superiors were… enlightening. I’ll offer you a deal.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, dark eyes glowing. “Remove the Minshaari, and I’ll remove those bands on your wrists.”
“If I’m to be his gift, won’t he have the codes to the bands and not you?” Draxton kept his voice neutral. Information was a powerful bargaining chip. He simply had to decide who would provide the best deal – the buyer or the unknown Minshaari.
“Codes can be duplicated or broken.” The man dismissed the question with an elegant wave of his hand. “Do this, and I’ll purge your record and transport you to the planet of your choosing.”
“Tell me more.”
******
Three days later, the women of Losha Brixys’ harem dressed him in gossamer breeches that enhanced rather than concealed his nudity. They bathed him and rubbed him with scented oils. They removed all of his body hair from the neck down except for a trimmed patch around his cock. Amidst the short curls, an elastic band gripped its base and connected to another around his testicles. Traces of iridium in the bands made them twinkle with each step.
He felt like a whore.
Three platforms transported the negotiation party to Minshaar. Two guards armed with short, curved swords and pulse guns rode in the lead platform. His buyer, the Chief of the Brixys Tribe, rode upon the middle platform with his trusted advisor. They discussed the upcoming negotiations while the chief fondled his favorite concubine. The woman played her part well, cooing and sighing at the appropriate times, but her eyes betrayed her. There was a haunted look in them that Draxton knew well. He saw them in many of the slaves stepping onto that platform before him.
Draxton stood upon the trailing platform with a second pair of guards. The hated slave bands secured him to the hand rail. He overheard snippets of the guards’ conversation. His hands gripped the rail until his knuckles were white. If he ground his teeth any harder, he feared they would break. He eyed the guards. They were close enough. He could trip the first with a sweep of his legs and crush his throat before the second reacted. He could catch the second in the jaw with his heel, breaking his spine instantly. He could drag the bodies over and take possession of their weapons.
If he weren’t chained to the rail like an animal!
He ran every escape scenario he could think of in his mind, and all ended the same. Defeat. Recapture. Death. So he waited. He bided his time. He planned. And his hatred grew.
“Brixys.” Draxton struggled to maintain his military bearing as they entered the modest reception hall. Standing in the center of the room was the most beautiful man he had ever seen. Dappled sunlight played upon the stranger’s hair, bringing out the vibrant green highlights hidden amongst the deep brown locks. His eyes, green as the leaves upon the tropical planet, glowed with an unearthly radiance. Supernally beautiful, his voice was no less irritated at the intrusion. “Negotiations aren’t scheduled for another week. What warranted this unorthodox meeting?”
“Chief Minshaar, you wound me.” Brixys returned the respectful nod with a imperceptible dipping of his head. The insult was clear. “I’d hoped to strike an accord before the formalities. I even brought a gift for you as a token of our future friendship.”
The guards prodded Draxton forward, kicking him behind the knee when he refused to kneel. He clenched and unclenched his fists as his shoulders heaved. Heat seeped into his face as he realized his admiration of the Minshaari chieftain had gone straight to his cock. A cruel chuckle drew his gaze to his buyer.
“It appears my gift is more perfect than I had ever imagined.”
September 12, 2013
Subject 5691 – Epilogue
Hurrah for the return of Flash Fiction Friday! As I’m sure folks can tell from the title, this is the final installment in the current storyline of Petri and Grokhaar. I’m not discounting a return to my space boys in the future, because I’ve grown attached to them. Anyway, NightTempest remains our lovely hostess, so head over to her site, give her boys some love, and check out the others who are playing along.
Again, this story contains explicit sexual content between two loving men. If you are below the correct age (18 in US) and/or don’t like reading M/M romance and/or sexytimes, then please pass this by.
This week’s prompt was… WEATHER. Use some element of the weather (sunshine, clouds, storms, rain, thunder, etc) as an integral part of the story. I chose RAIN.
The previous chapters in order -
******
Warm, soft lips slid over his hard cock and teased Petri from the fog of sleep. Cracking open his eyes, he watched his length disappear into Grokhaar’s mouth. Pleasure crackled along his nerves as the agile tongue stroked and teased. Sharp bursts of ecstasy danced up his body from his tight balls and aching cock. His fangs dropped without warning, slicing into his bottom lip. When he slid into his lover’s throat, he forgot to breathe. The sucking warmth constricted and massaged his sensitive head. Teeth scraped along the tender skin. A low hum caressed him with delirious vibrations. He exhaled on a growling moan. Gripping Grokhaar’s horns, he planted his heels onto the bed and thrust.
A slick finger eased into his ass. He tightened his grip on the titanium-tipped horns and spread his quivering legs. Each thrust and withdrawal offered different levels of sensation. The gripping heat followed by the welcomed intruder wrenched a guttural plea for more from his lips. Grokhaar hummed his approval.
A second finger joined the first. They stroked deep. Preparing him. Relaxing the tight muscle. They teased along his prostate. He gasped. He growled. He tugged on the horns with strength enough to cause pain, but his lover refused to relent. A third finger pressed inside. The pleasure built, the pressure. It wasn’t enough. He wanted…needed…
“More, Grokhaar Xandria!” He surrendered his pride when strong fingers prevented his release. “Please!”
Petri whined at the loss of the wet heat of his lover’s mouth. His cock twitched in the cool, night air, seeking to return to the delicious warmth. He chased it with his hips. His hands tightened on the etched horns. Grokhaar’s chuckle was wicked decadence. Sensual evil. A dark promise. He repeated his plea.
The blunt head of Grokhaar’s cock pressed against his entrance. He welcomed the intrusion. The titanium ring breached his sphincter and drew a ragged groan from his lips. The burn made his fangs ache. The fullness made his cock twitch in his lover’s hand. But it was Grokhaar’s eyes, those fascinating crimson orbs, that made his soul rejoice.
Soft curls brushed against his tight balls. He pulled the Den’Lastrian down for a bruising kiss. “How do you do it? How do you make me feel such want, such need? How can it continue to grow with each coupling?”
The larger man swallowed his words, piercing his tongue on Petri’s sharp fangs then healing the cut with the blood upon his lips. He released a horn to tangle his fingers in Grokhaar’s thick hair. He wanted to devour the man, taste his blood, crawl into his skin and surround himself with his love. His breath stuttered when the ring scraped across his prostate. The long, slow, deep strokes scattered his thoughts. His cock drooled its approval.
“You know how, lad.” The deep rumble of Grokhaar’s voice vibrated through his chest where they pressed together. “We’re life mates. It’ll only get better.”
“Show me.”
Petri hissed at the new angle when Grokhaar rested his legs over his shoulders. He twined their fingers when the larger man pinned his hands to the bed. Their eyes locked. His lips quirked into a sultry smile.
“You asked for it.” The lusty growl caused his balls to tighten to a painful degree.
He met Grokhaar’s every thrust with growls and hisses for more. Harder. Deeper. More. The Den’Lastrian did not disappoint; he also never took his eyes off his lover. Petri’s pleasure rolled over him in great crashing waves as he coated their stomachs. He watched with awe as Grokhaar bellowed his release to the twin moons. Afterwards, Petri nestled against his broad chest and released a contented sigh.
He traced each of the Den’Lastrian’s ribs in a tender caress. He retained his simple delight in physical touch. It soothed his spirit to know all was well with his lover. “The Rains will end soon.”
“That they will, lad.” A large hand stroked along his back, another along the thigh he draped over Grokhaar’s legs.
“We should travel to Drak’Tauria. You need supplies. I need to check on a special item I ordered before the Rains began.”
“A special item? Is there a point in asking what you’ve got up your sleeve?”
Petri flicked a nipple ring with his finger as he moved to lay on Grokhaar’s chest. He wriggled into place, delighted by the feel of their slick, sticky cocks rubbing together. “You say the strangest things, Grokhaar Xandria. I am not wearing sleeves.”
“Trust me, lad, I noticed.” Grokhaar winked, a rumble of laughter bubbling from his chest. “You’ve been naked more often than not. I’ve gotta say I’m a fan.”
“I have little use for clothing. For either of us. It prevents me from exploring your body when I wish. It prevents you from doing the same to me.” Petri smiled and teased one pierced nipple with his tongue.
Soft sighs took the place of words as each took the opportunity to renew some of that exploration. Hands and lips stroked bare skin. They stimulated known pleasure spots. They discovered a few more. Petri marveled at the body that was so like his and yet so dissimilar. He stole sips of his mate’s heady blood. Grokhaar stole even more pieces of a heart he once feared did not exist.
“Are you sure you want to risk the trip?” Grokhaar mumbled against his lips as they traded playful nips and kisses.
“It has been a complete cycle of the moons. Two Alliance years.” Petri caught his lover’s swollen bottom lip with his teeth. He nicked it with his fang and lapped at the tiny bead of blood. “According to official records, you are dead and I never existed. Flanishaar fulfilled his contract well.”
“If it means so much to you, lad, we’ll go. Until the Rains stop, though…”
Petri sank into Grokhaar’s kiss with a throaty growl. The steady rain beat against the clay-tiled roof, providing an accompanying rhythm to the sensual vocals within the modest home. As the first of the eight suns peeked over the horizon, the lovers snuggled in each other’s arms. The clouds caught an easterly wind and scattered across the great desert. The Rains were over for another cycle.
******
Being officially dead didn’t mean that Petri relaxed his vigilance. He remained alert and tense while within Drak’Tauria, the bustling capitol of Den’Lastria. Already the largest city on the desert planet, it doubled its population in the months following the annual Rains. Merchants from the nearby galaxies bartered for the unique herbs, spices, and fruits only available during this time. Everything had a price. Nothing was sacred. It was one of the few times the Alliance deigned to notice the world on the fringe of their influence.
They wandered the market, taking note of the prices of the goods on offer. Grokhaar purchased a crate of iridium light wands to replenish the village’s supply. As the larger man haggled over an exquisite set of throwing blades, Petri wandered towards a platform in the town’s center surrounded by beings of all race and form. A growl formed in his throat when the guards pulled the first reluctant creature onto the stage.
“Watch the fangs, lad. Dead or not, they’re unique enough to make folks talk.” Grokhaar’s arms wrapped around his waist from behind. He relaxed against the hard, naked chest.
“You did not tell me your people tolerated slavery.”
“The slave market is a gift from the Alliance, forced upon us during the initial planetary negotiations.”
“Den’Lastria has been a member of the Alliance for fifty cycles. Why not renegotiate?”
“We try, but each time the Alliance threatens to cut us loose. It would mean war, lad.”
“You should not allow it.” Petri glared at the men and women around him. Each held a small vidscreen synched to the auctioneer. With a touch on the screen, they received a picture, a number, and a list of vital statistics along with all known useful skills. He shook with repressed fury. They were the same units, running the same software as the livestock auctions.
“No, we shouldn’t.” Grokhaar ran his hand through his hair. “The settled tribes protest the practice, but many of the nomads profit from it. There are enough to sway the vote.”
Petri stomped away from the auction, hissing and growling beneath his breath. The auctioneer announced the next creature on offer, a human soldier, much to the crowd’s delight. He had to get away from the platform before he caused an international incident. As he shouldered his way through the crowds, Grokhaar’s presence soothed much of his anger. The rest remained, simmering low in his gut like smoldering embers. The merest spark would fan the flames back to a raging inferno.
“This must change, Grokhaar Xandria.” He turned into a narrow alley to get away from the oppressive crowds. “The practice is barbaric. Dehumanizing.”
“That it is, lad.”
“Good.” Petri scanned the tents until he saw the one he needed. He grabbed Grokhaar’s hand and pulled him along. “Come, I have something for you.”
As they ducked into the tent, the merchant looked over his current customer’s head and waved. Petri nodded in reply and pulled his lover into a dark corner. He gripped the Den’Lastrian’s larger hands as he chose his words with care. “For an entire cycle, I have lain by your side and in your arms. Because of you, I have known wonder, pleasure, and tenderness beyond compare. Because of you, I gained my freedom. Because of you, I feel like a normal man.”
Petri glanced up when the lone customer exited the tent. Sweat dotted his upper lip and coated his palms. Nerves assaulted him, scrambling his thoughts and planned speech. He ducked his head and let his hair create a curtain over his eyes.
“I came to you with nothing but myself. You have always made me feel like that was enough. I wanted to offer something more.” Petri stared into his lover’s eyes as he addressed the merchant. “Casshielyn, were you able to deliver?”
“It’s here. Want to see it?”
He brushed his lips against Grokhaar’s and nodded. “I do.”
Dragging his confused companion onto the platform, no one spoke on the short ride. Tourists and merchants crowded the space dock. The trio wove through the mass of bodies like a disjointed cantiopod. Petri gripped Grokhaar’s hand as doubts pelted him from every angle. He wasn’t sure what entailed a proper gift. He hoped he hadn’t failed in expressing his feelings.
“Here we are! Ain’t she a beaut?”
They stopped before an intergalactic merchanteer in pristine condition. Petri led Grokhaar through the ship, pointing out the navigational system, the lazanthium augmented biofuel engines, and the latest in pulse weaponry. A fully stocked armory hid behind a locked panel within the closet. Large cargo chambers nestled beneath the grated floor. It was a smuggling ship, perfect for an Independent Trader. It was the Diamond reborn.
“You gave up the stars for me, Grokhaar Xandria, then spent every night showing me their beauty. With this ship, The Desert Warrior, I give them back to you.”
“How?” Petri smiled at the tender reverence in the pilot’s touch as he caressed the navigation panel. His crimson eyes shone with unshed tears.
“I used the merchanting credits you gave me at Kandaria. I paid in reasonable increments. There will be no questions. The ship is yours.”
“No, it’s ours.” Grokhaar’s voice broke, and he pulled Petri into a tight embrace. The larger man’s shoulders shook, and tears wet Petri’s shoulder. “I won’t be leaving without you.”
“No, you will not.” Petri wiped the tears from his mate’s cheeks with trembling fingers. His heart thudded in his ears. “I will not be parted from you. You have shown me that even an experiment, a genetically created being with no past beyond implanted memories is capable of love.”
“I never doubted it, lad. I love you, too.”
September 7, 2013
Kindle MatchBook
First off, I must apologize for the lack of Petri this past week. Labor Day held the insanity of Dragon*Con. On the first day back to work for my husband, he wrecked his motorcycle and faces reconstructive surgery on his right shoulder. We do plan to run Flash Fiction Friday this week so stay tuned for another chapter of Petri and Grokhaar. In between it all, Amazon made an exciting announcement. No, it’s not the new Kindle PaperWhite. It’s the Kindle MatchBook program.
The Kindle MatchBook, available in October, is an exciting new way for those who created paperback copies to make them more appealing in the digital age. It is also retroactive. If you bought a book that participates in the program, it seems you’ll be able to pay the small additional fee for the e-book once the program goes live. In a nutshell, MatchBook allows authors to offer their e-book at a discounted price if their readers buy the same title in paperback. The best part? You don’t have to be a member of KDP Select to use it!
If you have a book that is in both ebook and print formats, you go into your book’s Pricing page on KDP and tick the box to enroll the title in the MatchBook program. You must then choose a discounted price for your e-book that is at least 50% of the e-book’s retail price. The price breaks that I’ve seen are FREE, 99c, $1.99, 2.99, etc. Be aware that for the bundle, you will draw royalties on the paperback as normal and on the adjusted e-book price. So, if you set your book to FREE, you will draw no additional royalties from the e-book bundled with the paperback. If you choose $1.99, you will draw royalties at the 35% rate. But this is for the bundled e-book ONLY! The retail price for just the e-book will not change.
Once you’ve opted in and set your price, Amazon will republish your book. This means it will go offline for a few hours while they link it all together. I chose to make my changes before bed. It was ready for purchase when I woke the next morning.
I see this program as being advantageous primarily for self-published authors. Those who are contracted with the Big Six (Five?) in New York City already see such a low percentage beyond their advances that I could see it hurting the author if their publisher even participated. According to Publisher’s Weekly, only one major house does so, Harper Collins, and it only participates in a limited fashion. For the self-published author who rarely sees their books in brick-and-mortar stores, I think it’s a great way to encourage readers to buy physical copies without feeling the need to purchase twice.
Here are a few more articles concerning Kindle MatchBook for those who are interested in the program:
Again, the program won’t launch until October so you’ll have plenty of time to decide if MatchBook is right for your particular situation. Also, since not many of the big NYC publishers are participating, the numbers of bestsellers utilizing the program may start off at a trickle.
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