Captain Horatio Horn and the Slutty Space Pirates
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A Daemon-Horn BladeChapter 19 free porn video
If Boyle had been amused by the Lady Ayleth's modesty back at the hot tub in Dragontooth, her reaction to the casual partial nudity that was common in Corælyn, was even more entertaining. Even in the late autumn, the humid and warm winds from both sea coasts kept the temperature quite pleasant and the attire rather stimulatingly casual. For women, the presentation of mostly bare breasts, and their virtually always pierced nipples, was quite the art form. The Foole, quite sincerely, tried to explain to the newcomers the august importance of the many strung colored beads that hung from most nipple rings ... and the even more personal piercing rings hidden below the very short dresses, skirts and loincloths.
If read correctly, the Lore-Master insisted, the types and colors of the beads and styles in which they were strung, could recite the entire social history of a woman. They indicated exactly who her lovers had been, male and female, their status, if she was married, how many children she had borne, and if any of them had died with honor in duels. At a glance, two strange women could tell which of them was the social superior, regardless of their normal jewelry or their minimal sheer clothing. In fact, the fashionable dress this year was a slight silk sheath that was hung from a strap from the nipple rings, exposing most, if not nearly all of the breast to view. Most noble women, and ladies of the very richest factor and merchant classes, gilded their aureoles and nipples with gold leaf, with the ladies of the middle class usually wearing some sort of silver shield or ornament around and through the nipple, to display their wealth and status. Men of the upper classes had intimate piercings of their own, but after the Foole started to describe exactly where they were located, both lads decided that they'd much prefer to remain happily ignorant. The idea of poking large needles through that sensitive body part frightened both of them beyond any remote measure of esoteric curiosity.
Even before settling into an upscale inn, the Histrio guided his charges quickly up and down the winding hilly streets to the southeast quadrant of the city, where the famed great temple to Árfæsliss was located. This area also held the palaces of the Imperial Court, and most of the finer houses of the aristocracy as well. The inns in this quarter were expensive and exclusive, but the gléaman laughed that he'd have little difficulty getting them suitable accommodations. Although he normally stayed at in the merchant quarter, across the great canal to the northeast, he had acquaintances in this part of town as well, being the best place to gather gossip and tales of the ill-doings of the great nobles.
Despite the extremely long walk, which took most of the entire day, the thought of recovering their horses and riding them across town was laughable. Corælyn was a very old city built on marshes and hills on both sides of the great long canal. The streets were too narrow and winding, even along the docks of the canal for horses. On the main streets, the prosperous hired palanquin's, sedan chairs or even curtained litters, complete with club wielding attendants to clear a swift path through the crowds. No one who claimed to be anyone of any importance, ever walked anywhere. Usually the main streets were jam packed with bearers, attendants, hangers-on, and armies of well-wishers publically praising their patrons, or would-be clients, boldly accosting their betters to lavish them with praise in hopes of obtaining some sort of largess in return, perhaps a small business deal, scraps from their would-be master's table.
Exhausted from pushing their way through the noisy and unruly crowds, it was quite time for the evening service before the frustrated gléaman had guided his charges to the temple. Now, finally at the end point of their quest, the group had to wait for well over an hour before a senior priest could be made available to speak with them, and even after being told what they had come for, the decision to grant this request could only be given by the high priest himself, and another two hours were spent in waiting before that exalted personage came to speak with them.
From the frown on the High Priest's face, as he entered the private meeting room to speak with the group, Rowan could tell nearly at once that their entire original quest had been for naught.
"Am I to correctly understand that you require the gift of one of Árfæsliss's Tears?" The elderly priest inquired.
"Indeed, that is quite so." The Foole replied, making a slight bow before the holy man. "The Lady Ayleth, here now before you, was attacked and bitten, scarred seeming forever by the fangs of one of very great Infernals. The foul creature was slain, by this young hero, Rowan, at my right, and he bears the hopes and prayers, and the writs from nearly all of the Southern Duchies, petitioning that a single drop of Árfæsliss's Tears be granted to us, that her restoration might become possible. We ask this not for ourselves, or for vanity, but that via this process the duchies can more easily unite, to stand all together against the vast army of Eorfleode that threatens their entire destruction."
'So," the wise old priest mused, not entirely unkindly, "then the rumors that we have heard are indeed quite true. That vast uncountable armies of Boar-Men have gathered south from their desolate mountain homes and now ravage the lands of men, slaying all in their path?"
"That is indeed quite so, but I can now report some happier news that under the command of this young man, Rowan of Swanford, that the entirety of the eastern hordes have been met in battle and resoundingly defeated. With the aid of the Dukes of Broadmore and Everdun, his army broke their forces and slaughtered them without mercy. The southern lands of the east are saved, for now ... but the lands of the west remain very much in even greater peril, and if our task was not so critical, we would be even now with our army, traveling there to stop this last great danger to all of humanity, for should they win, their wickedness would not stop in our lands, but fair Aldaria would fall into mortal peril as well, and perhaps all of the other lands of men."
The priest looked more attentively upon the young lads, and especially Rowan, giving his sword an especially careful glance. One of his senior priests whispered for a moment into his elder's ear, and the High Priest nodded.
"Indeed as well, some odd stories, undoubtedly much embellished with the miles of the story's passing, had reached the city of this lad's prowess as well. That his sword bears the anger of the very gods themselves, and all that face it perish in fire. Surely this account is somewhat exaggerated!"
With a sigh, Rowan slowly drew his out his sword and taking it into hands, the lad held the softly glowing weapon before the priests, that they might examine it. After a moment of silent reflection, the high priest slowly but directly placed a single finger onto the blade, and let it slide for just a moment over a single glowing rune before he withdrew his hand backwards, with a slight clinching of his teeth. His hands once more in his lap, the high priests eyes shut and he remained silent in mediation and reflection for many long minutes, before his sad eyes reopened and he spoke his judgment to Rowan, and to the Foole.
"That such a blade alone should have ever been crafted, let alone wielded by any young mortal, no matter how goodly of heart, speaks much about your Foole ... or rather Cisalo, the very hands of your God Gléagerád. Such an unthinkable undertaking should never have been done, regardless of the dreadful need. It marks the absolute ending of this age and the start of a very new uncertain one that perhaps shall be even worse and spell the ruin of mankind. There will be more death and destruction than even your mind can conceive of, Cisalo! And not all necessarily for the better! Lands shall rise and fall, and the Weaver's will, ever uncertain, will be make manifest in new uncertain ways, and not always for the better. Such an action, to precipitate this change, was foolish, even for you Foole!"
"Aye, it was! And my path will consume yet uncounted thousands more, err it is completed, but I believe the future that comes will be a better one ... perhaps directly leading to the return of The Seven themselves, and the lost one, my god's sister, who sacrificed herself for us."
"True. This is but the first step, our own prophecies say, for their return, and indeed that day shall come sooner as a result of this first reckless step, so perhaps not everything is be regretted. Still, I would have had these deeds befall one of my later successors, in a time when our means might have been more able and our strength, more significant."
"Of your aid, we require little. We do not call to Corælyn for more armsmen, although a stronger force would indeed be welcome. We ask only for the Tear; that alone shall sustain our efforts until the next great stitch of the weaving of the loom has befallen us."
"Alas, such a holy and rare gift, one of the very real and physical tears from the eyes of our Goddess, is now beyond our gift to grant, even should we be so inclined to surrender such a powerful and irreplaceable relic. Ours has been seized from our vaults, taken with force and malice by the arms-men of the Justice God, and their own champion duelist, the Viscount Gart d'Bournyss. They overran our temple grounds with great force but a week ago, taking all that could be easily and quickly gathered and destroying all that could be not, slaying any and all that stood in their path. Our priests are sworn to non-violence, and we could not raise a hand in our own defense."
"Do the minions of the injustice godling bear arms now, as well as ill-will to the memory of his brothers and sisters? That the streets of this peerless city now run with holy blood? Such a deed is quite unthinkable, to my mind and to my astonished eyes." Oddtus said, rather quite astonished at the news.
"Indeed, our war of words descends now into a baser, more dangerous path that we are forbidden to follow, even in reprisal. This has stained our reputation much in court, and we have indeed suffered now much since, with no champion of our own to uphold our honor, as none will dare to face the deadly blade of the Viscount."
"I shall uphold your honor!" Rowan stated, plainly and with little emotion, raising his sword up held in oath, and grasping the old priest's hand with his other free hand. "Even without our expected reward, such an unspeakable doing must be avenged, and before the very court itself. Such a fearsome pride, to have untaken such a forbidden act, shall cause them to pay dearly. Upon a suitable provocation, they cannot tolerate the honor loss to be ignoring a challenge to their usurped authority, to remove the final traces of The Seven, so that the injustice god can reign alone. Of this I shall swear!"
"Such a deed of honor indeed speaks well of your lad, but your opponent is dangerous and cunning, and entirely without your code of ethics or honor. He will not face you willingly as an equal, and he has many lackeys to do his ill-bidding, so be wary of him. But should our honor be restored to us, as well as our divine artifacts that were stolen from us, your boon shall be granted, and the gift of the Tear bestowed unto you, but I cannot think highly of your chances. Still, my young friends, and even you Foole, I offer you our blessings and prayers, for such alone is all that we can offer you!"
With the meeting now very much at an end, the discouraged quest companions traveled in silence to a nearby inn where the Foole could make himself welcome and obtain them some rooms for the night while he performed, mostly musically and without song or jest as his heart was rather heavy still that night.
Together, in their own room, Gwenda and Rowan tried to find some comfort in each others arms, but the mood for more intimate embracing eluded them both. Rowan's skills of swordsmanship had much improved in the months that Gwenda had been tutoring him, but with her most recent injuries she had not been able to fence with him at her best skill. Even with the help of other experienced swordsmen from the Brigade to help hone his developing skills, he wasn't at all sure that he could be considered an expert and deadly swordsman, such as his new rival, the Viscount, who was accounted by everyone he asked in the inn to be a murderously efficient and cold-blooded killer with a blade and no conscience. Gwenda was a bit more hopeful and confident in her lover, and she soothed his many fears and worries in her arms long into the night, until at last they managed to sleep a little.
The Lady Ayleth was in a more pessimistic mood, and she feared with the Tear now in the possession of the most legendary duelist and murderer in the entire city, that her last chance for saving her Duchy was gone. The Foole had been insistent, as had the batty old Moon-Woman; without the success of the quest, all back home would be lost. If this Tear was indeed essential to everything, then no option could be dismissed when trying to obtain its recovery. She brooding most of the night, but at length she thought that she had a plan that might recover the Tear and save Rowan's life from certain suicide or murder. She would need a little help to pull it off, but she decided it was her best and probably only hope. Spoiled or not, angry at her so-called friends or not, she found that she did care very much about what happened to her homeland, and a little sacrifice and a few indignities were well worth the cost of its preservation. With a smile on her face as she considered her plan, she fell into a happy and rather contented sleep.
The lads were all for going straight to the Imperial Court, right straight after breakfast, and after an especially lengthy bout of sword practice for Rowan, but the Foole disagreed. The nobles kept late hours with their play, and the court only rarely began to get assembled a few hours after lunch. This was well enough time for the lads to put on their own set of court clothes, but the Lady Ayleth was in a panic because nothing remaining in her limited wardrobe was quite suitable for this court. Her few well travelled gowns had much too high of a neckline, far too low of a hem, and they most certainly didn't expose her non-pierced nipples for public inspection. She did need a new gown, probably scandalous by Tellismere court standards but still rather modest for Corælyn, and Boyle cheerfully agreed to escort her to a nearby fashionable dress shop and back.
This delay suited everyone fine. Gwenda wanted to take Rowan with her to visit her uncle, who lived in the northeast merchant quarter, and Oddtus and Ashburn wanted to visit their own temple to Gléagerád, also across the canal to the northwest. They agreed to separate for the morning and meet again back at the inn in the early afternoon.
Together, Boyle and Ayleth left in a sedan chair for the dress shop, in the hopes that something already prepared would suitably fit the thin young Lady, and indeed, after discarding several far too immodest gowns, Ayleth found a thin silk sarong style gown that mostly covered her delicate regions. Her shoulders and much of her back were indecently bare, as was far too much of her thighs, and the thinness of the costly material didn't hide her poking nipples in the slightest. Still, for Corælyn, this was a fairly conservative outfit, and it would have to make due. She paid for the gown and left her older one to be wrapped in brown paper and delivered to the waiting Boyle outside. As she had hoped and expected, he had quite tired of the view inside of the dress shop and he was waiting outside, sipping a cool drink sold by a street vendor and watching the constant parade of society passing by him, with plenty of bare, or nearly so bouncing breasts to watch.
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