The Labyrinth Extended Prologue
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Interregnum Ch. 00: Prologue free porn video
I will tell you my story, dear reader, if you happen to have six silver pennies to buy me a cup of Celean hippocras wine from up the hills of the Sipine way, for such is my custom when telling such stories, to think fondly of home and hearth and to keep my head in good wine.
Nay, I’ll tell it to you for free, but only this once, and only a tiny piece of the story.
I am Boyueard, Boyueard Therauz and I come of the land of Vallien, from the northern regions of the canton of Orldelux, about four countries apace from Wrydia. If one were to travel from Wrydia to Vallien, one must first sail through the narrow sea straight to Ballingar, then through the country of Celea where the men speak Cletian. Then a man must linger through the narrow and pilgrim-laden lanes of La’ngrier, where the men therein speak Lanar. Finally, you must pass through the border of the kingdom of Aardeny, wherein the men speak Aidone. We Vallish men of Orldelux speak the hearty tongue of Valgar, no tongue fairer. Such a long journey, and one I wish I could take instead of residing here in this bore of a country.
I have found, to my distaste that the dialects in this most high and foul place, This Wrydia… and the accents, so dreadful, and that there is little that could be said but for me to say that even the voiding of my bowels would sound far better, for I have no good to say of Wrydian. Only the faint presence of the Ballingar tongue, that is it’s only good point. The regional dialects… horrific.
But I should not distract myself on the subject of the horrible Wrydian tongue…
I am a simple regale-er and teller of stories, for which I am, or rather was, renowned for my wit and for the silvered tongue that lay in my head, both products well-honed in courts to and fro of distant shores. I have even had occasion to meet a Dabardi, or an Ardark as the Orcs say, or a Plegardi as the men of Sartodia call them, or, in Wrydia… an elf. These Dabardi’s, these elfs, well-kept as they are with their great long ears and sheening black hair are a very tall men, with a lilting voice like that of a happy bird. Elf’s are good dancers, and in Sartodia, they follow the Plegardi in a great manner of ways, dancing along as their way of things, a custom therein to copy one another in strides, or so I have heard. And they, the Sartodian’s and Dabardian’s fight as though they were siblings fighting over a bowl of pottage, such unmannerly beasts of high religious spirit brought to bear with swords and maces, cudgels and stones.
And here I find myself, in Wrydia.
To think then that I was told to watch from the sidelines, in the livery of my lord whose name was Odo. He is an orcish man in high condition, strong and stout as is a boar, though humanly in his manners, for he is a half-orc.
I could scarcely believe it then, myself.
Why, if a great wise man had told me of this coming time, I would have slapped him well across both cheeks and set him straight!
I looked down and saw the jealous-angry faces of my ‘guardians’, like creatures they were, bodyguards or dogs I could not decide, hounds for Odo that they are.
It became clear to me that my liveried bodyguards had wanted to fight then and there, but were instead relegated at my defence, my castle and my walls blue and green as was their livery, and I could not blame them. Rebellious schemers that they are, these men of the field, mustered away at the call of battle.
I must admit to being afraid of my ‘guardians’, afraid of being knifed in the back, but what Odo says must be done, or heads would be removed for Odo sets the rules in a land without a king. The Interregnum, it is said, was a pox to this land, or to some, it’s saving grace. In my case, it was the latter for me.
I remember turning my head, squinting into the distance as two columns of men fought in rank. Swordsmen, axemen and those with cudgels and maces long as an arm, or sometimes longer, where with their shields outstretched. These men were those who guarded the flanks whilst the spearmen, the main body at the center covered the men-at-arms a rank back, they standing as the final line and the last defence. Whilst the spearmen were deflecting spear shafts with their shields or their shafts, they were waiting to pin their opponents before the entrapping men at the flank could seize upon their villainous foes and set them to rights… that is to say, to have them slaughtered as though it were the autumn call to cull the sheep and the pigs.
I saw that most of the men wore the well-pricked jacks of the footmen, good armour with great layers of linen and sheep’s wool entwined and quilted into a solid piece, and most fashionable. I’ve seen men, some distance away from me looking like the famed porcupines of far-away lands, their spikes being the arrows of their foes, and they were little harmed except for scratches and aches. To my dismay, they were not rolling around and hoarding fruit as a real porcupine would do, for the sight of the ripe grape draws them out with no exception.
I guess to men… the only grape to draw men to such extremes is through the virtue of good wine, for give a man enough, and he will go rolling around in any ditch or hole, and find himself swindled blind by a whore. But I must digress…
Odo’s men were less in number than the enemy, but the enemy wore lesser quality wares, faded and weakened from a lifetime in the storehouses, worn and eroded, or rusty-linked armour not well-kept and of the previous hundred year’s make or era I might hazard a guess.
Numbers mattered for nothing to the enemy because Odo’s men were the greater experienced and were most righteous in their devotion to their lord, such that they would naught fly in heat of battle, whatever hell beast may bare their teeth at them or bark or bite, for none would think it right to run from such a man as Odo. Was it out of fear, or loyalty, I sometimes found myself wondering.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw a standard, and that was then that I saw Odo’s warhorse sputtering forward, its nose steaming breath that misted in the cold air.
It was rainy ground, soddy. It squelched and sang with every footstep, and there were many of them, the chorus of the great many squelching footsteps from Odo’s soldiers as they trampled the ground in their rush to pursue their now retreating enemies, men of the Queen, as pugnacious a woman as I have ever heard.
A shame that her men were not as such, running off as they were, true cowards they are. To my eyes, they were like capons flapping about the battlefield, unmanned as they were with no balls to speak of, all bark and no teeth.
I heard a trumpet call, and I turned my head to see as Odo bid his horse to charge forth at a slow gallop, his lance a good seven outstretched arms in length or some deal more, was placed up to an arm-full and ready to pierce, the tip honed sharp and well, glinting in the eye of the sun.
Now the horse was at a full gallop and ready for the carnage, with ten other knights twenty or so paces behind, lances at the ready. It was a scary sight, and would bring me nights of terror if I were to face him directly in front.
For all that could be said of Odo’s figure, with his lance outstretched at a full gallop, he was the mortal visage of strength and vigour personified and a sight of terror to his enemies, a great sundering blow would be dealt to any enemy that Odo faced, I knew this to be true in each and every fashion of my being, within my very heart itself. I feared the man-boar, Odo, very much so that I quaked in my hose.
A scant moment later, I saw as Odo’s lance pierced through a mailed footman. The maille squelched inwards to the chest, giving way with the cracking of rivets and the tearing of padding. The lance emerged out the other end of the mailed man before the shaft broke off into many-fold pieces here and there, hither-thither about the field. Men nearby set forth their shields a
gainst the rain of wooden splinters, like hellish rain it was.
Odo set his falchion right from the scabbard, birthing death on the battlefield. She hearkened and sung, her breath cold and sharp and did many mortal injuries strike true at her call.
The blade was quite a sight to see, man marvelled before the blade, beauty and beast both hewn in solid steel. There are many stories, fanciful contraptions and tales that are told about the blade, of that I am very sure, but if I say so myself I do seriously believe in them. It is as long as an arm outstretched, sharp on the edge which seems odd to me, for the back is sharp but the front is not so and with a flat spike of steel a finger long from the tip, fierce and strong, through which the bird pecks the flesh of man. On a hacking sweep, I have heard it commits the most terrible damage, and tales are told of her ability to cut through a man and all his accoutrements of war, that is to say through his hauberk.
I saw as Odo’s horse bit and kicked as he charged by his own admission at another one of the queen’s scum. A spear point was repeatedly thrust towards Odo’s face all the while but had no real impact upon glancing off his front-caged helmet.
In return, Odo reared his horse to sweep to the side, getting closer and closer until he sent his falchion down with might. Odo levered the blade to rest near his shoulder and hacked down fierce as rain. With mighty vigour, the blade parted flesh. An unseemly and off-putting amount of flesh was carved out in a red-gashed line for all to see, off-putting before my very eyes was this sight of heinous carnage. His left arm hung useless from the wound, nearly sheared off by the slice, shield arm useless, and so he stood, his white gambeson dyed red with streaks of blood, beautiful in a way, but also distressing, off-putting.
The warhorse did the rest to the pain stricken man, kicked and bit and kicked and bit again and again until the gambesoned spearman was on the ground and so the end came to that very man. That terrible noise of cracking bones, the screaming of men dying on the battlefield, they would chill my spine for a lifetime.
That was the ambush of Stragglers field… the year was 1212 of the Second son, Odo was about 38 years of age or so, and though I may now be grey in hairs, I shall remember that event within my head with great clarity. Every scrap of heraldry recorded by my very own eyes and stored within the library that is my brain.
So with the battle ended, I knew what I must do.
And so I started down my path, no more turning back.
If you wish me to tell you more, I will need some time… for my head is very hazy off this wine. I will encounter upon you soon, and tell you more at another date… this, Boyeaurd Therauz, the fool of Revau, the silver-tongued fox of Laro, so swears it to be true, for I would never sully my name in vain.
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Next up on the Agenda? Something featuring a sex scene or two. Who doesn’t like Medieval loving?
The Main story won’t all be sex though, so some chapters might end up being in the Non-erotic section, so keep that in mind.
This is also my first submission to Literotica. I think I might like it here.
Myra
- 10.08.2021
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