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 Posted: Thu Sep 09, 2010 6:48 pm
Epimetheus and Mendeleeve   At long last, the Mordachean group returned to their own country. It had taken far less time to go the distance with there not being many in the group. There was only Epimetheus, Mendeleeve, the prisoner and a few soldiers. They saved time by traveling on the Sentrian-Estarcian border, too- it was more safe, efficient and overall faster. Although, it did still take around two weeks to make it back to the Mordachean capital, Forgasse.
Once they arrived at the castle, the soldiers grabbed Deborah and began to drag her inside. Epimetheus and Mendeleeve had learned from their past mistake- they would take her to the Baroness first instead of having the prisoner taken to a cell. Thus the two commanders led the way to the throne, where the Baroness was sure to be waiting.
When they got there, they opened the door and strolled in. Epimetheus moved to the left and Mendeleeve to the right, while the two soldiers leading Deborah stood in the middle. The guards outside the throne room closed the doors behind them.
Both commanders bowed and then Epimetheus pointed to the prisoner. "I present to you, Baroness, the woman who had been starting rebellions in our country, the woman who escaped our custody the first time, and the woman who managed to fight off a good amount of our infantry. She's been a pain in our a** for long enough and this time we got her!"
"Also, Baroness, I present you with a gift." Mendeleeve held out the lance that he had taken from Deborah. "I believe it to be the golden lance, Graver. We took it from this woman's possession. I think one of the legendary weapons will be put to much better use in Mordache."
Epimetheus growled lowly. "Yeah, yeah, Mende, it's a good lance! What about the prisoner?" He turned back to Charolais and looked at her with anxious eyes. "Shall we execute her?"
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Posted: Thu Sep 23, 2010 7:26 pm
Vat is left, but my brand of freedom?Charolais
┏━━━━━━━━━┓ The prisoner was long in coming- she had received word of it some days ago, but the soldiers themselves had taken more time than expected. While yes, they did indeed make good time, there was the simple matter of her own impatience that boiled her blood and ignited her soul with anticipation. Who was this mysterious prisoner? All she had been told was that this person was 'of great importance' to the enemies, and nothing more. No gender, no race, no creed, no country of origin- absolutely nothing. The prospect of a prisoner whose age she could not even fathom and whose appearance she couldn't begin to guess... it was both tantalizing and distressing.
What if, for all her fantasizing, the prisoner turned out to be another wrinkled old man? While the elderly were a spice that she sometimes sprinkled in, she found that the fire and vigor of youth was much more desirable. The stamina found in the young simply could not be found in those whose backs would go out if they so much as stood up. With that sobering and rather mood-killing mental image in mind, Charolais was happy to bide her time until she heard the triumphant return of her men.
Perfect.
Standing up with hidden enthusiasm, the Baroness gripped her scepter in her hand, leaving her book behind on her throne. Perhaps, as had happened before, this would give the prisoner a false sense of security. After all, even if the prisoner were to make a break for it, she had two assassins in the wings, daggers ready to throw at the assailant's head. She was truly in no danger at all.
At first, all she could see were her two soldiers- one in deep scarlet, the other clad in vibrant emerald hues. Her green eyes looked over them for a moment- they did look very good, considering their youth and vigor- but they soon turned to the beautiful woman that her soldiers held in their grasp.
She was an exotic beauty- one of dark skin, with exquisite features punctuated by a stubborn jaw. Such a beautiful woman couldn't be put to waste; execution would deprive the world of her smooth skin, the sensuous neck, and those lovely eyes that no doubt smoldered with hatred. Determination, the desire to fight back, and that sense of honor that was alive in every human being... it would be a shame to extinguish such a flame without experiencing its delightful burn.
"Ah, Graver, is it? Simply exquisite." Her voice was genuinely breathless as she lifted the weapon in her hands. Even though her fists had never clenched a lance in the bloody battlefields, she could admire the balance, the sheer magnificence of this weapon. Indeed, it would be safer- and better used- in the hands of a country that understood the value of these relics.
"Vonderful, splendid vork. As for the prisoner... bind her hands, and leave her vith me. The rest of you, leave me." With a smile and a nod that promised that they would live another day, she waited for the doors to close and the lock to click. The assassin's wouldn't leave, despite her orders; another intentional fail safe. With the prisoner's hands bound, the likelihood of attack was lowered, but who could be sure with the wildest of beasts?
"Tell me, who are you?"
┗━━━━━━━━━┛ There is only that or damnation.
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Posted: Wed Sep 29, 2010 5:45 pm
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •  Their eyes locked the moment Deborah was brought inside the throne room. Long had the Kaftian warrior envisioned the moment when they would meet. Unlike most from beyond the Door, Deborah had appeared in Sentria and from there ventured into the not so distant Mordache. It took not even an hour to hear talk of the Baroness' exploits. Deborah was sickened by how someone of color- which Mordache did not seem to be lacking- could commit the acts the mysterious Baroness was undertaking. Those of color were placed beneath others in various worlds and not just her own, as Deborah had learned. And then in a new world there was one of color in a seat of power but such control was used poorly. The Baroness made all other dark skinned people look bad- something Deborah had no ability to change in Elibe, where dark skinned people were reduced to bandits and thieves. All she could do was correct them for making themselves out to be scum of the earth. The fact that the leader of Mordache was a woman did nothing but fuel Deborah's motivation; to awaken the people of the country and call them to action.
That plan, however, was brought to an end. Deborah did begin to sway people to react, but most refrained out of fear or a controlled mind. (The Baroness seemed to have a way of getting people to see things the way she wanted them to.) When the Baroness released her red and green attack hounds, Deborah was silenced in her capture. She expected to be brought to the throne room then. However, fate proved to have a different plan.
And yet, the chance had returned, not much over a year later. It was the first time Deborah had seen Charolais, but she somehow looked very much the way Deborah had envisioned. She was luxurious, acted sophisticated, and yet was grossly over-pampered with thick face paint meant for apparently looking beautiful rather than hunting. Deborah had never seen the sense in putting anything on her face that wasn't for use in intimidating enemies or blending in to surroundings. Although, as Deborah continued staring at the woman's getup, it clicked in her mind that maybe the paint was used for intimidation- Charolais' eyes looked as if they could shred one to pieces.
But the battle of the gazes ended as Graver was presented as a gift. It was a mockery to Deborah that the spear she had taken after defeating Ledreak was now in the hands of one she hated most. Such tainted hands had no right to wield the golden lance.
It was a surprise when the soldiers, even the paladin brothers, were ordered out of the room. It was somewhat of an amusement to see the unsatisfied look on the red armored one's face, though. He would not get to learn Deborah's fate first hand. Deborah withheld her cackle and strengthened her stare on the Baroness as the doors finally closed. The soldiers had been dismissed too hastily. During the struggle in the desert, Deborah had picked up the top of an arrow that aided in cutting the enemy's flesh when other weapons were gone. She had managed to conceal it when she was bound and kept it hidden all the way into the throne room of Mordache. No eyes were behind her- none could see the subtle movements of her hands as the arrowhead began to slowly cut through the rope. Deborah was determined to break free from her binds. But she needed time in order to do so. It wouldn't hurt to carry on a conversation for a while.
"One who would see your powah crumble, witch"
• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •
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