Cherri
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In Her Argent Embrace free porn video
When you finally come to, your head is pounding. Around you, trees are hanging from the sky like stalagmites, and a small group of men is walking among them, upside down.
You’re hanging by your legs from a tree, strung up like a hunk of meat.
Then you remember. You were riding your horse through the forest of Isil on the way to the capital when you were set upon by bandits. No wait, not bandits: the insignia on their worn-out leather armour showed them to be the remnants of Duke Gutizia’s army of irregulars, probably eking out a living by waylaying travellers on the road. You wish now that you’d heeded the innkeeper’s warning about taking a short-cut through the forest.
‘Hey! Get me down from here!’
As soon as the words leave your mouth, you realise how ridiculous you sound. But in your current predicament, there’s little else you can do.
One of the upside-down men, a thin, pale man with stringy black hair, looks up from rifling through the saddlebags newly-stripped from your horse. ‘Sounds like he’s had enough of hanging by the legs, boys!’
Another of the men, a tall man with dirty sandy-blonde hair, chuckles. You guess he’s the boss by the way he’s lounging up against a tree and chewing on a wad of tobacco while he watches the thin man work. ‘Think he might prefer to hang by the neck instead?’
Someone shoves you from behind and you yelp as you’re sent swinging about, your surroundings spinning past your eyes: your meagre possessions laid out across the grass and the thin man pawing over them, the sandy-haired boss laughing fit to burst, the trunk of the tree you’re hanging from, the grimacing, mirthful face of the man who pushed you, stout and fat like a butcher’s son, your horse, tied to another tree.
Your horse. If you can just someone slip your feet from their bonds…
The stout man leaps up and grabs your dangling arms, righting you and slowing your swing.
‘Now then, lad,’ he says, ‘Where’s the rest of your stuff?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘There’s nothing here. Just some rations and water and sundry coins. There’s no way that’s all you have. Where are your crowns?’
There’s nothing else, you say, telling the truth. You tell him that you’re on your way to Hiria to take up a new job and that that you spent the last of your crowns on the horse.
‘That so?’ The boss laughs from against the tree. ‘No, your face tells me you’re an Easterner, from Elkiad most likely. The son of one of those rich banking families.’ His laughter stops suddenly. ‘You’re lying to us.’
You protest, telling him that not everyone from the East is a banker, and even then not every banker is rich. They’re barely listening at this point.
The red-faced man looks over to the boss, who nods, then walks across to where the thin man is still sorting through your baggage and picks up your dagger. He returns to you, leering.
With the dagger at your neck he takes your ear in his other greasy hand.
‘So tell me, lad, where should we start? Nose, ear? There’s a lot to choose from. Better start talking before all you’ve got left to your name is your tongue.’
There’s a hissing sound and the black flash of what can only be a crossbow bolt. The red-faced man jerks away from you as if he’s been struck by lightning, the knife spinning from his hand. He collapses to the ground, but not before grabbing at you in an attempt to stay on his feet and sending you swinging again.
The boss and the pale, lank man’s eyes are drawn to something out of your field of vision – but you can hear what’s startled them.
Hooves. The rapid hoof-fall of a galloping horse.
You’re still twisting in the breeze and on the end of one revolution when you catch sight of the white horse and its rider, their plate armour flashing brilliant in the sunshine filtering into the grove, a sky-blue cloak fluttering around their shoulders.
A knight? In the Forest of Isil?
They’re almost on top of you now and for a moment you wonder if they’re going to ride right through you and finish the bandits’ job for them. The red-faced man, clutching his wounded hand, has already broken into a run, his bulk crashing through the undergrowth at the edge of the clearing. The boss has drawn his own weapon, a long sword, and is sprinting for the cover of a tree, but the knight is on him before he reaches it. You see a flash of brightly polished steel as the knight strikes him across the side of his body, but only with the flat of the blade, the strength of the blow lifting him from his feet and sending him sprawling backwards.
The knight reins his horse in and walks it over to you. The visor of the silver helmet regards you with its hidden eyes.
‘Are you injured?’
It’s a surprisingly youthful voice that echoes from within that visored helmet, so young as to almost sound like a woman’s voice. You give a strangled reply, but it becomes a shout of warning when you notice the lank, pale man leap onto your horse and cut it loose with a thin blade.
He turns and spurs the traitorous animal with kicks and shouts and it smashes its way out of the grove through the undergrowth in the direction of the road.
It only takes a moment for the knight to react, and then he’s spurring his own horse and plunging on after him.
Their hoof-falls fade and silence reigns over the grove. You hang there, feeling the blood slowly flow to your head.
What feels like an eternity later the knight returns. He brings his horse alongside you and grabs hold of the rope in one gauntleted hand. He says something to you, but all you can hear is the roaring in your head from the blood pooling there.
You’re about to black out when you see the knight swing their sword, sheering through the rope just above your feet.
Then you’re on the ground, your head and feet flooding with agony as blood flows back the direction that nature intended. The knight leaps down from their horse and after slipping off their gauntlets cuts the rope around your ankles. He takes your hands and pulls you onto your feet with surprising strength.
The hands in your own are tan, honey-brown, slender and surprisingly soft. The nails are neat and even, as if they’ve been manicured. They’re just like a woman’s hands.
You’re still staring at them when the knight gently removes his hands from yours and begins to unstrap his helmet.
‘My horse,’ you mutter, still dazed.
‘He got away.’ the knight answers. ‘I’m sorry.’ It’s devastating news, but you barely hear it. For far more arresting is the knight’s voice, distinct now that the helmet is off: low and feminine, it’s unmistakeably a woman’s.
You look up into blue-upon-blue eyes.
It is a woman. And she’s beautiful.
Her skin, like her hands, is a gorgeous tanned caramel-brown. Her nose is small, her eyes large and an intensely deep blue. Free of her helmet, her hair is short and pale blonde, the colour of white gold. There’s a dusting of freckles across her nose and beneath her eyes. She seems a few years older than you, but you’re not sure just how much.
She’s also very tall, so tall she’s actually quite imposing.
Her cheeks take on a suddenly rosy hue and she drops her gaze.
Wait. Is she blushing?
You realise it’s because you’ve been staring at her for a while now. You turn away, embarrassed, muttering an apology and thanking her for saving your life.
Dull moaning comes from the edge of the grove and you suddenly recall that the third of your assailants, the boss, is still there. The knight turns and watches him as he tries to get to his feet. The blush is gone, her eyes impossibly cold and steely, her lips a thin line. She strides over and, grabbing him by the back collar of his jerkin, she lifts him, still groaning, up onto his feet.
It’s an unexpected display of strength, and you can’t help but enjoy seeing one of your
tormentors, at least, getting a taste of his own medicine.
The knight pulls back his head so that they’re face to face. ‘As you’re no doubt aware, the punishment for banditry under Regency Law is the noose,’ she says.
The man is still dazed and he stares at her, barely comprehending.
The blonde-haired knight shakes him. ‘Did you hear me?’
Shocked out of his daze he nods feverishly.
‘Go tell your men that the next time I meet any of you, you’ll hang.’ She sends him sprawling with a kick to the torso. Scrambling as best he can with what seem to be broken ribs, he half-runs, half-stumbles away into the forest.
The knight wipes her hands on her surcoat and then looks in your direction. She quickly averts her eyes and undoes the silver clasp of her sky-blue cloak, which she holds out to you at arm’s length.
‘Here. Take this.’
Of course. You’re still in your underwear.
You take the cloak and wrap it around yourself. The knight turns back to find you covered and you see her visibly relax. There’s still the ghost of a blush on her face, though. On one who just routed brigands without breaking a sweat it’s as charming as it is unexpected.
She lifts her eyes from where she’s been looking at the crescent silver clasp in her hand. You jerk your eyes away, worried that she’ll catch you staring at her again and look around the grove.
The guy who escaped on your horse knew what he was doing: there are barely any of your possessions left. He must have shovelled them into the saddlebags while everything was in chaos. You kick the few items of rubbish lying on the ground and curse your stupidity for taking a short-cut through the woods. Now you’ve lost even the little you had.
The knight looks at you with pity in her eyes. ‘My apologies. If only I’d been able to catch him…’
You stop your muttering and shake your head. You apologise for your griping and thank her again for saving your life.
‘I guess the gods were smiling on me,’ you say to her. ‘No one usually comes this way. You must know this area well.’
A surprisingly shy smile appears on her face. ‘Actually, I’m lost. As you might have guessed, I’m not from around here.’
You nod. She’s clearly Elurran, the first you’ve ever met close-up. You’ve seen them at a distance before, traders in the streets of Elkiad, but even in that hub of commerce they’re a rare sight indeed, only occasionally coming to sell the fragrant amber for which desolate, snowy Elurra is famous.
She’s tall, her hair so blonde it’s more silver than gold. It’s a colour you’ve seen women in Elkiad try and replicate with dyes, but it’s never come close to that spun-platinum look that true Elurrans have. The way she picked that bandit up one-handed, she must be well-built beneath all that armour, but it’s hard to tell, the slenderness of her hands seems to indicate toned sleekness rather than brawn, though. Her form is eminently feminine, now that you see her walking around: even clad in armour, the flare of her hips, the narrowness of her waist and the curve of her bust is obvious.
Her cheeks have grown rosy once more and you realise that your staring is making her blush again. Ashamed, you pull your gaze away and mutter an apology. You’ve never met an Elurran before, you tell her.
She nods, seemingly even more embarrassed by your embarrassment. Then she holds out her hand to you. ‘My name Is Leuna Zilarresko Ilargiaren.’
Zilarresko Ilargiaren? Only Mendians have names like that.
You’re not used to shaking hands – in Elkiad you bow – and you take hers in your own and shake it in the manner you suppose it’s done as you tell her your own name. Leuna appears amused by the way you shake her hand, and the awkwardness of the moment seems to lighten the mood. When you drop your hand you can’t help but bow low to her, in the Eastern manner, and thank her again for saving your life.
‘So what do you do when you’re not saving clueless merchant’s sons?’ you ask her.
‘I’m a knight errant,’ she says. ‘On my way to Hiria to swear fealty to the Regent. That is, I was until I got lost in this accursed forest.’
You tell her that Hiria is your destination as well. You’re there to take up a new job with the papers of introduction your master has given you.
‘Then I must insist you ride with me,’ says Leuna. ‘After all, it’s my fault that you find yourself in the unfortunate situation you’re in.’
You want to argue with her, but in truth you’re relieved with the offer. It’s a long way to Hiria on foot, and there are far worse things than bandits lurking the plains and forests.
After she retrieves the crossbow she threw aside earlier, Leuna vaults up onto her horse and pulls you up behind her like you weigh nothing at all. She rides bareback in the Mendian manner, so you’re left to grasp the mane of her horse as she lets out the reins. A few clicks of her tongue and her horse breaks into an eager trot. You’re not used to riding this way and you quickly find yourself holding on for dear life. Leuna notices this and with a laugh reaches back and places first one and then your other hand around her waist. Anchored to her statuesque proportions you feel far steadier, even if your heart is racing even faster.
She smells very nice indeed, a mixture of clean linen, fresh perspiration and her own indefinable scent, a scent you recognise from the cloak wrapped around you.
‘That’s better,’ she says. ‘I’d never forgive myself if you fell off after everything else that’s befallen you today.’
You chuckle, a little bitterly. She’s not wrong. You lost your horse, your crowns, your possessions and even your clothes. But even though you’re little better than naked, your buttocks buffeted from below by the horse’s spine, you can’t help but feel somehow compensated for your earlier trials with your arms encircling the waist of your unexpected saviour and the delightful scent of her body in your nose.
As you ride through the forest, the silence starts to pall and so you thank Leuna again for getting involved in a fight that wasn’t hers.
She laughs, a bright sound. ‘Well, like every knight, I’ve sworn an oath to protect the weak.’
You chuckle, a little ruefully. The weak, huh? Well, it’s hard to argue with that. You were hanging upside down in your underwear when she first met you.
Leuna looks over her shoulder, baffled by your reaction, and then she blushes.
‘Oh. I didn’t mean to imply that…’
You tell her it’s okay. She’s not the first person to ever call you that. Besides, you’re just a humble merchant’s son, and merchants are not known for their fighting prowess.
A slightly awkward silence falls back over the two of you. You’re exhausted after your ordeal, so you let the rocking of the horse’s trotting send you into a strange half-waking sleep.
–
You jerk awake and there’s a moment of terror as you feel the world shifting up and down. You grab onto the nearest steady thing you can find and hang on.
There’s a feminine gasp and then you remember you’re on horseback, riding behind the Elurran knight called Leuna. You’ve didn’t think you squeezed her that hard, but…
You relax your grip and apologise profusely to the back that you’re squeezed up against.
There’s gentle laughter from Leuna. ‘It’s alright,’ she says. ‘The trotting makes me sleepy too.’
You look about with bleary eyes. The forest is thinner now, and you estimate that you’re almost out of it. There are no longer those hanging profusions of vines and creepers and the trees that you pass by lack that primeval hugeness that surrounded you earlier. Light scatters down through gaps in the canopy off the road, while above you there’s a long band of blue sky.
You look up. The sky has that depth of blue that tells you that nightfall is not so very far away.
‘We’ll have to start looking for a good campsite,’ says Leuna, rea
ding your mind.
You tell her that you should be reaching a tributary of the Bihurri soon, and that there’s a secret little spot a short way upstream that you know of that should be comfortable.
You reach the ford. The Bihurri in these autumnal months is quite low and sluggish: if you were here during spring, you’d find it impossible to cross given the swollen mass of waters from the melting snow of the mountains plunging down. As it is now, the river gurgles delightfully, its surface sparkling with the lazy fall sunlight as Leuna guides her horse carefully along its banks and across the numerous little pebbly beaches that spot its length. You soon see the outcropping of a ridge that tells you you’ve almost reached the spot you told her about.
It’s a little cave, set under the ridge, well-sheltered from the wind that often blows in from across the plains. There’s a spring a little further along the river, with pure water bubbling up through layers of sand and rock, making it a perfect camping site.
Leuna hops off her horse and encourages it with pats and clicks of her tongue as it struggles to keep its balance walking along a particularly uneven strip of the beach. She looks around at the tall beeches and the old willow that leans down, obscuring the cave, then turns to you and smiles.
‘A lovely spot,’ she murmurs. ‘I never would have found anything like this on my own.’ She frowns. ‘I’ve been setting up camp in some pretty uncomfortable places.’
You say you’re not surprised. There’s very little civilised habitation between Elurra and the Forest of Isil, after all, mostly just windswept tundra. You assume that it’s the path she took, given that she’s an Elurran.
Leuna shakes her head. ‘Oh no, I haven’t come from Elurra. I’ve never been there, actually. I’m from Mendia.’
Mendia? Well, her name did sound Mendian, but you’re still surprised. It’s a northern region of defiles and craggy ridges, an offshoot of the range that eventually becomes the Elurran mountains. A short and swarthy people live there, the dour and devout ex-refugees of religious conflict a hundred years ago. Their society is infamously strict, bound by the edicts of its council of elders.
Leuna notes your confusion and sighs. ‘Everyone’s always surprised by that. But it’s a long story. Let’s set up camp first.’
While Leuna sets up the camp and starts unloading things from her horse, you duck away with her water skins to fill them at the spring since it’s a tricky spot to find if you don’t know where to look.
When you come back there’s already a little fire going. You come past her horse and chuckle when you see that Leuna has built a little bivouac for him: a tarpaulin over a tree branch. He looks content as he grazes on the sweet meadow grasses and flowers of the riverbank.
He’s a fine animal, and there’s a wildness about his face that you don’t usually see on horses tamed by humans. He’s clearly an elfin animal. But Leuna said that she isn’t from Elurra…
She’s definitely mysterious, you decide.
You hear sweeping from the cave and find her wielding a tree branch as an impromptu broom, sweeping the floor of dust and the remnants of campfires.
She stops and smiles at you. She’s taken off her armour and is wearing her under-tunic and gambison. Her cuirass and the rest of her plate is stacked neatly near the mouth of the cave.
You tried to imagine how she looked under her armour when you first met her, and you weren’t too far off your predictions, but it’s another thing to see just how statuesque she is. Somehow, stripped of her armour she seems even taller. It’s probably the length of her legs that does it, and her bare brown arms hint at just how toned they must be as well. Her hips are generously flared, her thighs broad but shapely. She’s quite busty as well. The cuirass hid the shape of her chest, but since her breasts must still be bound underneath, her already ample gambison hints at a voluptuousness that you hadn’t expected.
Leuna catches you staring again. The smile becomes shy and her gaze drops down to the branch in her hands and she returns to her sweeping.
‘I’m sorry,’ she says. ‘My Academy upbringing. I like things being neat.’
Barbie
- 15.01.2022
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