Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by Tatterdemalion
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Sjakal. The City of Blue Chains. How it groans beneath its misrule. By Day, it may seem serene, as things continue as they should, as ships berth at its grand harbor, as the affairs of the Faithful are attended to by master and slave alike. What of war in the north, one may say in the heat of the afternoon, drinking tea and enjoying the pleasures of the greatest city on earth. But by Night, the city throws off its cloak and shows its raging heart. Its taxes are ruinous, the people go hungry, and unlike her beloved grandmother, Grace-of-Heaven does not issue forth from the Adamant to soothe the hearts of the people, nor does she accept their audience within the palace's grand walls. Her barbarian mercenaries rage through the city unchecked, and the common citizens (who can barely afford to feed their households) turn to the Stewards of the Faith for guidance. Soon, there will be turmoil. Soon, there will be chaos. Soon, the city will reach its grand climax, and maybe it will be that the Vulenid will not remain masters of the empire.

But for now, it is still the heat of the DAY, and life continues in its leisurely way in the palace, and all strife and discord is smothered by the rule of the Grand Vizier, illustrious Ruz...


***

Nahla!

"Will it be tonight?"

Grace-of-Heaven leans in closer, the pretense of a private bath for the moment forgotten. Beside you are the buckets of ice-cooled water and the perfumed soaps, and in your hands the sponge you have been using on her bare back. The young sultan is many things, but the prospect of escape would be a heady brew for anyone, let alone someone as comparatively inexperienced as she.

To her, you do not just represent security, but a chance at escape from the walls of her harem unaccompanied by the vizier's mercenaries. She is placing her trust in your cunning, your discretion and your loyalty. After all, if you turned around and informed Ruz that her caged bird was trying to stretch her wings, you would be richly rewarded. And yet, you still haven't gone to her. Why is this young woman's smile worth protecting, even at risk to yourself?

Because if you are caught, both of you will be punished terribly by the Fire Wheels. Ruz's fury will make punishments in your past look like mere slaps on the wrist. Grace-of-Heaven has assured you that tales of criminals being thrown into snake pits are historical relics, nothing more, but can you really trust someone who's been cloistered for half of her life? After all, you've seen what Ruz is willing to do (or rather, to order the Fire Wheels to do) to the girl who legitimizes her control of Sjakal. How much worse would she treat you, a mere heathen concubine?

***

Silsila Om!

"du Vas! du Vel! du Shan!"

Honored Rosethal slams into you, hard. She catches you by the wrist, leans her shoulder into your collarbone, and uses the strength of her armor to lift your feet off of the ground and slam you down onto the mosaic floor, sending precious tiles splintering into the air. From the sidelines, raucous cheers and yelled bets fill the air. Who's going to win? The vizier's terrifying daughter, or the Khan's pet Host?

Rosethal kicks you in the side and sends you sprawling, then turns and poses for the Fire Wheels gathered to watch. Merov Ekh hisses from her seat, and your bindings throb in your muscles, your spine, the backs of your eyes. Your mistress is willing you to win, so that she can not only profit from the bets placed on your victory, but so that she looks all the better for having mastered you in the scrublands, o most ferocious of spirits.

This wouldn't be a fair fight for Rosethal if she wasn't using her own Hosts. But instead of commanding them to fight in her stead, she has wrapped one around her to serve as armor. When you grapple with her, you grapple with both the sorceress and her slave. Your one advantage is that she is showboating, using a second Host as a bladed whip which she spins around her body, turning this into a showcase of her sorcerous talents.

Well, Host? You have been commanded. Fight. Win. Prove that your mistress is the strongest in the palace.

***

Soot!

"Nnnngh."

The Draconic templar gives you a glare that suggests he's willing your bones to tear out of your body and throttle you. Not that he can do anything about it, because he's your model for today. This would normally be a relaxing process, a chance to let your mind wander as your body translates his vulnerability to the canvas, but today your Patron is hovering over your shoulder, carefully watching the piece, and she's ready to make Recommendations.

Ruz has given you conflicting orders for this piece: the Dragon Kingdoms must look threatening, but vulnerable. We must demonstrate the active danger they represent to the Faith, but naturally they must be shown to have a weakness that our brave soldiers will use to overcome them. It should not be too dark, but you need to avoid too many colors, we will have copies made by scribes. And while you're at it, work in the iconography of both the Army of the Faithful and the Fire Wheels, to represent that they work in unison against the perfidious foe.

How are you approaching this piece, then? What aspects of the costuming, the pose, have you arranged just so? And what about Ruz looming over you is making your heart beat a little faster-- her perfume, her gold-trimmed robe, her air of experience and effortless command?

***

Birsi!

"as vren mej ra thor duv ha kha..."

The Room of the Manifold Stars is sacred. It is used by the Sultans of Sjakal to read the stars, the signs and omens and portents of the Almighty, her commands for her loyal slaves below. No one is permitted to enter the room save those mystics and astrologers, those sorcerers and holy women who the Sultan entrusts. Even stepping into the room, one is struck by the golden sigils on the black walls, the narrow windows tilted upwards towards Heaven, the way the walls drink in any sound. This is a holy place.

Which makes it all the more insufferable that three Fire Wheels are being very drunk in the Room of the Manifold Stars, having forced the lock in search of more entertainment. One is staring, dazed, at the sigils, while another guzzles from a bottle of wine and the third sings some discordant barbarian hymn. All three are half-naked, built lean and strong, and are rather drunk, which would make one against three fair, right?

Behind the door, a serving-girl quivers, sneaking looks inside. She's fulfilled her role in life, not daring to challenge free warriors, even barbarian ones. It's your role to protect not only her, but the sanctity of the Faith and the traditions of the Adamant palace. What sort of guard are you? One who loudly admonishes them, one who tries to put on a severe face and use quiet words, or one who beats sense into them with her sword still in its scabbard?
Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by TectonicRobot
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Silsila Om grunts as Rosethal's body smashes into her. Yet again, Silsila has been taken off her feet, sent crashing to the floor. The ability of her foes to so cleanly knock her down grates on the woman's nerves: Is she not a host specialized for war? Does her true form not have four arms, and horns long enough to skewer a goat? Is it not large enough to tower over these would be conquerers and show them their true place when confronted with the mystical power of a spirit bound to gold and iron!?

Basically, this match is soooo unfair and Merov Ekh is making this so, so much harder. If she wants to have her favorite pet genie wrestler with Rosethal, she should at least let Silsila use her true shape! Honestly? She's being unreasonable. But since when have the Fire Wheels ever acted even a little reasonable?

Silsila kips up, practically bouncing in the air as she flips right-side-up, a little poomfh of dust rolling out from her bare feet smacking against the floor. The djinn crouches low--while Rosethal is grandstanding, Silsila is already moving. One might assume the bronze-skinned girl is slow--and that person would be a fool.

Before Rosethal can turn, Om is already behind her, powerful arms curling underneath the girl's armpits. She flexes them up, hoisting the shorter woman into the air, dangling from the grasp of the taller woman. "You have skill." She whispers into her Rosethal's ear, lips just barely brushing skin. Then, Om falls forward, crashing Rosethal to the floor underneath her, all of the djinn's weight heavy on her back, feet pressed and arched into the floor, hips flush with hips, body curling over hers such that they may be mistaken for lovers. The gyrations against her--for Merov Ekh's benefit, mostly, damn that woman and her bindings!--certainly don't help with that image. "But not skill enough to defeat me. You are mine." Lips once again brush against an ear, breath as hot and steamy as the air from a forge.







Birsi was the kind of guard to first make sure the Serving Girl was unharmed, as with Fire Wheels in the area, one can never be too sure… The guardswoman approached the cowering woman and held out a hand, using herself as a physical divider between the servant and the scoundrels for the comfort of the other. “Are you alright, Ma’am? Are you injured anywhere?” She would ask as calmly as she could, her face getting the slightest hint of red crossing it as she looked at these… These blasphemous brutes. “If you are able, please find anywhere else to be. Preferably somewhere safe. I shall attempt to handle this, and your services are most certainly best used elsewhere right now.” She would offer her a small smile before gesturing for her to go, and returning her attention to the three brutes.

One hand firmly gripped the handle of her sword, the other raising up slowly for a gesture, like she was charging it up for added effect. She cleared her throat, focused her gaze as intensely as possible, and thrust her open hand out towards the three with as powerful of a point as she could muster up. “Attention Reprobates! You three have broken holy and sacred law by entering the Room of the Manifold Stars. As such, you will all be detained and punished accordingly. Please exit the room, and walk yourselves off to be punished.” She hoped that if they were drunk, they might just be malleable enough to convince that leaving was their best option.

After all, surely even the Fire Wheels were smart enough to be reasonable, even if at the rarest of times, right?

Whether the intensity of her stern glare, full of contempt for these roughhouses, was lost in translation was unknown to her, but a few things were unmistakable. The way the cotton clung to the muscle she had, the definition of which wasn’t entirely shown through the fabric, but enough of it came through to make her point all the more noticeable. As for the hand that pointed, the leather creaked as she had made the gesture, adding to the intensity of it all… Was she coming off as intimidating, or was she looking hot by mistake?


Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by FraughtFaun
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Soot sits, rigid under the scrutinization of her Patron. Ruz is intimidating, and not just in the way that an employee fears the careful eye of her boss. But dealing with royalty is always stressful. Especially one with such an overbearing presence. Ruz looms: graceful, omniscient, her perfume cloying, every part of her demanding one's attention. Causing Soot to fidget, uneasily.

‘It is simply the desire to perform’ Soot tells herself trying to shrug off the feeling of being watched by this all encompassing power. Real power. Someone who could destroy Soot’s professional or mortal life with a firm glance demands extra attention. For a palace worker can enjoy a lot of comfort, but it hinges on not disappointing this political titan.

She waits still and silent in front of the fresh canvas as her confidence slowly returns mulling over the requests. When she had spent the morning preparing her studio, a difficult task with how uncooperative her subject had chosen to be, she had assumed that it would be a standard affair. But to satisfy her patrons demands would require… adjustments.

Unceremoniously, she stands, slowly pacing around the room. Moving around to the various anchor points that keep her subject still. Making small adjustments to the rigging as she tries to visualize her finished piece. The background must be dim, to emphasize the figure. The templar must be displayed in rage, a danger. But placated, conquered.

Finally, she nods contentedly. Walking over to move her canvas and seat, and marching her gear over into a new little space. Jammed into a corner of the studio as light poured through the windows of the studio, dancing over the silken lines criss-crossing the room.

The artist is diligent, her work consuming her mind as brush is put to cloth in delicate strokes.

After some time, the piece presents itself in finished form. The final painting is fragmented and divided, the scene slashed into fine shards by lines of silver and rope, all the harsher still is the thick lines of Red paint creating contrast and form in the image like broken shards of stained glass. The figure remains clothed, imagined military gear making him seem larger and imposing, yet unable to move. Above all, his blushing face presents a visage of captured rage. The background is dark, minus the window, a gorgeous blue and gold washing over the scene and reflecting over the figure as the light of the Faithful sheltering the world.

With a heavy sigh she sits back, delicate palace garb stained and with ruddy marks over her face, resting her brushes in foil smelling solvent. She takes a step back, wiping the sweat from her brow and gesturing to the canvas.


Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by Larsene108
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“Yes, yes, my Sultan, but we need to remain discreet. If the others overhear our plan, tonight would be ruined, any future endeavors may be far more difficult. Now,” Nahla leans forward, her hand wringing out the sponge and gently tracing it along her back, “we must review our courses of action. When the others have fallen asleep, we may try to quietly leave, but there is always the risk of waking Yasmin, Taima, or Lila. If any of them wake up in the night and notice our absence, they would also certainly relay that to Ruz.”

Nahla never understood the frequency of her Sultan’s bathing. She had bathed more times in the last three days than she had needed to lift something with her own hand. To be cleaned so often, it seemed to Nahla, would be akin to honing a blade already as sharp as a razor. Then again, Nahla didn’t need to understand her Sultan’s mind. It gave the two of them good cover to plan in private. Besides, she had been no stranger to sharpening and polishing a blade that saw no wear.

“If we are to succeed, we need a cover to excuse our absence. That is why, at dinner tonight, I shall make a blunder. I shall clumsily spill wine onto your lap, and you shall burst out in anger towards me. You shall swear to personally show me the consequences of my mistake. None shall look for us if they believe you to be in a foul mood, in the midst of punishing me.”
Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by Tatterdemalion
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Silsila Om!

Rosethal is a woman who chases whatever she wants. When something no longer interests her, she drops it without a qualm. She is dangerous, capricious, cruel. And she cares very little about the opinions of others when she wants something.

Any other woman would hesitate, would think about the watching crowd, would think about the bets being made. Any other woman would lower her head, blushing furiously, and stammer out a heated demand for you to remember your place.

Rosethal grabs the back of your head by your hair, drags you down, and forces you into a kiss. She’s the aggressor: her lips are plump, wet, soft, painted. Her tongue is a lashing whip, her breath a scouring wind.

The crowd explodes into yelling, cheering, vulgar suggestions, ones that Rosethal could give less of a fuck about, but you’re not quite that composed, are you? Merov Ekh wants Rosethal defeated, everyone who bet on you wants you to deliver a decisive victory, and Rosethal is likely to make even makeouts a challenge, a clash of towering egos.

How do you use that String on her, o terror of the desert? Do you pursue victory, or are you melting into a tangle of limbs and possessive kisses?




Soot!

Ruz fell silent during the last parts of your work, as you mastered the interplay of color in the piece. Now that you have finished, now that the templar slumps in his ropes, the Grand Vizier finally leans over your shoulder to inspect the painting closer.

This close, her perfume is almost a solid thing, sweet and rich, the scent of far-flung flowers mixed with the rarest notes that the Faithful natively have to hand. Rich in more than one sense: you could gather up everything you own, sell it all, and sell yourself in the bargain, and you still wouldn’t be able to afford the scent that she is free to dab on her fine wrists, her strong neck, her heavy breasts.

“Yes,” she breathes in reverent delight. This is the strongest reaction you have ever gotten out of her: usually it is a content nod, some words of praise, a promissory note scribbled off to be taken to a treasury clerk. But today, you have her attention.

“As the poet says, a rare talent is more precious than diamonds; let your garden wither before the skillful woman starves.” One hand, heavy with jeweled rings, rests on your shoulder, possessively. “How are we to cultivate your talent, little Soot?”

This is very literally the opportunity of a lifetime. Say the right thing, right here and now, and you can have whatever you want: a dizzying thing, isn’t it? Say the wrong thing, and it might all come crashing down around your ears.

And while we’re at it, why don’t you tell us all why the Soot that Ruz finds so praiseworthy isn’t the real Soot, who she would never accept. It wouldn’t have anything to do with your extracurriculars, would it? After all, she spent years serving among the Stewards, and she’s very conservative…




Nahla!

“No, that wouldn’t work,” Grace-of-Heaven says, frowning. One hand lifts from the water to caress your cheek, guiding you just that little bit closer. (She’s nervous. Not about tonight, but about what she’s about to say.) “Who would believe that? That I would get angry at you over a dress? It has to be— it has to be worse than that.”

She takes a deep breath, her toes curling in the water in that way she does when she’s trying to wrap herself in courage. “I think we need to invite the Grand Vizier to dine with us tonight, Nahla. Then you need to tear my top open by mistake, and— and then make some clumsy joke about it. So that when I yell at you, when I stamp my foot, everyone believes it.”

The blood is already rushing to her ears. She’s been humiliated many times before by the Fire Wheels at the Vizier’s instructions, but being humiliated while she’s ostensibly trying to impress the Vizier would be a devastating blow, another indignity heaped on a head that has withstood so many.

It’s a miracle of her Faith that she’s still fighting, still rebelling, despite what the Fire Wheels have done to her. The heart of a lion beats in her chest, for all that she desperately clings to you as someone she can trust.

Then she looks at you, and her smile is as bright as the sun in this hot land. “But it will be worth it when we see my grandmother’s city.” She still thinks of it as belonging to her grandmother; she hasn’t been allowed out, and the Vizier makes decrees in her name until “such time as she is prepared and able to assume her duties.” A time that the Vizier makes excuse after excuse to push off, until she can make Grace-of-Heaven marry Rosethal.

What are your thoughts on Rosethal, anyway, while we’re at it?




Birsi!

The singer is the one who stands up. She’s taller than you, but not by too much. Her wrap only covers half of her chest, and an impressive scar snakes its way down her ribs. She stands there for a moment, and then she throws one arm over your shoulders.

Palace girl,” she says. “You’re upset at us? We didn’t know a better place for it.” Her breath stinks of wine, and at a guess, you’d say even that was plundered from the palace cellars. “Tell you what. Angry little puppy. Come and show us where we can have some private time to ourselves, and we’ll share. Your stuck-up bitch doesn’t need to know, hey?”

It’s an expansive offer, clearly. The barbarians get handsy when they’re drunk (and even now, the singer is rubbing your shoulder in an overly familiar way), and it’s probably very good wine. Do you drink, Birsi? Do you drink expensive wine set aside for the sultan and her court? And do you want to be touched by barbarians?
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Nahla couldn’t help but wince ever so slightly. Of course, a dress seemed excessive to earn such a punishment, especially from Grace-of-Heaven. Anyone who knew her would question the excessive reaction, but she had hoped that it would be enough, nonetheless. She looked into the Sultan’s eyes, and she knew that she was truly determined in her mission.

“If that is your wish, my Sultan, I shall do my best tonight.” Then, with a wry chuckle, added, “I only hope that she does not see it as an excuse to further tarnish your good name, nor to take matters of educating me into her own hands.”
The northerner grabs the soap nearby, and begins to generously lather her royal mistress. She would shudder to think of the Vizier’s burning gaze that bore into her form the second she had arrived in Sjakal. Even worse, she thought of how that accursed Rosethal looked at Grace-of-Heaven, the harsh paragraphs of insults that were screamed by a simple look. She knew just what it felt like, to be treated as a plaything, to be casually used by a girl who thinks herself superior, only to be tossed aside when it suited her-
Nahla stopped herself. She had become lost in thought, and Grace-of-Heaven was plenty lathered up.

As she began to clean the sultan, making sure to set aside a sample of the same soap, Nahla felt something in her words. Her grandmother’s city. Nahla wanted to be honest with her- tell her of the thieves and mercenaries that roam the street, the cruel glares that her consort had received on her journey to the palace- but this was not what the girl needed now. The work for improvement came later. For now, she had a dream, and Nahla needed to be part of her dream.

With a reassuring gaze and a smile, she held up the towel as she suppressed the truth and told Grace-of-Heaven what she wanted- what she needed to hear, all while looking into those eager eyes for confirmation. “It’s a beautiful city. I’m certain you’ll love it, my Sultan. No amount of Ruz’s meddling can ruin the beauty of Sjakal, and you’ll love the light of the heavens bouncing off of the surface of the coast. And when the cool night air combs its fingers through your hair, I promise you, it will be worth all of this planning. And one day, it will be yours.”


Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by TectonicRobot
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Silsila had reduced so many girls and boys around the palace to stuttering, trembling messes, it had almost become second nature. This shaming was reminscent of a few rude tricks she's pulled on palacial staff or her fellow Fire Wheels; so it's much to her surprise when Rosethal doesn't quit out of humiliation on the spot, but instead grabs her head and pulls her in, her glowing orange eyes widening as plump, heavy lips press into her own, smothering her mouth and ruining her hold on her opponent. Hmmnpphh!

It was said by some that Om was a girl who could not be embarrassed, a Host who knew nothing of society, who did what she wanted and never knew any guilt in the face of others. This was only partially true--Silsila could dish it out, but taking it was another story. Her ruddy, brick-red cheeks turned a soft, tender pink as the crowd cheered and jeered, burning all the way up to her long, pointed ears, stunned by Rosethal's sudden counterattack.

This wasn't fair. Rosethal should just fold up like the other girls. The fact she was wearing armor made of one Silsila's siblings was bad enough, and now she refused even to fluster and blush like the daughter of a vizier should when confronted by a brutish, barbaric host! Unfortunately, the counter-attack was successful--Om regripped, arms no longer pinning wrists but wrapped around Rosethal's body, clutching her tight as the duo rolled over the floor, tongues furiously pressed against one another, lips meeting, pressing, and grinding into one another. Silsila would rather roll on top of her and pin her down again, but the armor made things a total toss-up. Every rough grind of lips together, every exploratory slurp inside her mouth making her vision fog and body tingle. A small voice in the back of Silsila's head screamed for attention: "Let her pin you! Let her pin you and then keep kissing you, idiot!"

That thought was squashed, swiftly and mercilessly, by the imaginary thumb of Om's psyche. Spirits did not yearn to be dominant by hot sorceress girls. They yearned to pin hot sorceress's to the wall, their clothes destroyed, helpless and trembling as dire threats and promises were whispered into their ear. To feel the opposite was a betrayal of all things a Host was! Om had never known such a feeling before her capture by the Fire Wheels, but the indignities placed upon the spirit had awoken something... unusual in her. Fuzzy memories were also squashed by the same thumb, but it just made her cheeks blush worse, thinking of it. It was slowing her down, this yearning and tingling, this trembling. She needed to refocus. During the struggle, she managed to wrench her lips away, panting and drooling, locking eyes with Rosethal. What would make this proud warrior submit?






Birsi

Drink? While on the job? As well as offer something that wasn’t the blandest of waters a Guardswoman could get her hands on? Birsi was a bit more than annoyed, and the fact that it was such a tall, powerful Fire Wheel Barbarian who had no sense of order made her cheeks burn with annoyance. Clearly it couldn’t be anything else.

“I will have to decline your offerings, as proper procedure must be followed. To ignore, much less join in, this fragrant disregard for Holy Law is unacceptable behavior. You three will pick yourselves up, follow me closely, and be led all the way to holding cells while your punishment is decided. Knowing your ways, I doubt being stripped of all possessions and paraded around in public would do much. Also, remove your hand from my shoulder, I do not know you that well.”

Her desire to follow orders was just… A bit too powerful for the offer they were making. She would not relent on her duties, and she was going to see Law and Justice be served, or die trying. Well, not really die, even Fire Wheels knew that doing such a dark thing to a Royal Guard was stupid.

Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by FraughtFaun
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Soot froze. The hand on her shoulder causing her to lock in place, suppressing a shudder. Her eyes dart back and forth, between the painting and Ruz.

The artist thrives on praise, proof your work is paying off is as good as gold. Although the praise of an onlooker, your friends, parents, or peers is good; the praise of your patron has a special touch. The person who has committed to you, trusted your ability with employment. Knowing that they are taken by your work is more encouraging than any paycheck.

Especially with Ruz. She had always been cold or perhaps just professional. Which is something Soot can appreciate; she also considered herself a little closed off, focused on work and going home. Save your emotions for the Canvas. But seeing the emotional response invoked in Ruz by Soot’s work, such a tangible feeling, it struck a chord. It consumed Soot in a way she didn’t think possible; she had to stop herself from leaning into Ruz’s touch.

The Grand Vizier’s presence was overwhelming, as she stood thinking, staring perhaps a moment too long before blushing and looking down at the painting, thankful for her veil.

The painting. She found an easy time finding the flaws in her work; it was always the same thing. The figure, the human form. A distraction, pulling away from the complex silk-work, the beautiful light, the beauty of the world itself… But it was what people wanted and was thus required. The intended focus, such a weakness. But, the Faith considers the human form sacred, and to reject it could have an artist taken from a rising star, to a market urchin. Assuming you can avoid the Faithful demanding you receive any ‘Reeducation’.

Subconsciously her mouth curled into a snarl, only partially contained by the face covering while staring down at her work before finding her composure. With a small shake of her head she turned to face the Vizier with a soft smile, thoughts finally coalescing. “Perhaps it would be a bold ask, but a Larger studio would allow an increased complexity with my work” She gestured to the anchor points around the room. “More control of the lightning.. But of course, with a finer space my craft would need to be tempered. By the finest subjects. Mayhaps your schedule has place for a few personal pieces.” She said, trying to present the information professionally, but her voice betrays herself with a light tremor.
Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by Tatterdemalion
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Nahla!

Grace-of-Heaven shines. Her eyes are bright with that irrepressible hope that her guardian has tried her best to stamp out of her. Even so, she refuses to let this hope smother her affection for Yasmin, Lila and Taima; she wants to be back by dawn, and sleep away the morning (as, to be honest, is customary in the harem anyway; late nights and lazy mornings are common).

“Yes,” she says, and takes one of your hands in hers. “We’ll do it. Together.”

Then she leans in and impulsively kisses you on the mouth. This isn’t the first time it’s happened; there’s not a lot of personal space in the harem, even if mouths are usually covered. It’s her way of showing affection. But just when it could, maybe, be a little more than that, she pulls away.

Are you disappointed?

Even if you are, you’d better hide it. She’ll need a lot of preparation: a beautiful dress, strategic weakening of the top, braids and decorations, and plenty of makeup to accentuate her features. Who helps you with everything but the weakening?




Silsila Om!

Submit? Submission is not in Rosethal’s vocabulary. Not while she has tricks and Hosts and pride. The only way to win this is to physically render her incapable of battle. To make her armor clatter to the floor, unable to recohere without her command; to stop her from talking and summoning up her slaves to defeat you when she becomes desperate; to smother her in shining, sweat-slicked gold until she goes limp and you can carry her off the battlefield.

Then Merov Ekh will reward you, your name will be elevated and praised by the Fire Wheels, and Rosethal will be dangled from her ankles to make fun of her. (And nothing more; Merov Ekh would punish any of her followers for risking Ruz’s favor by pushing too far.)

But if you were to throw, to yield, to allow yourself to be overthrown, then Merov Ekh would allow you to be dragged off by the victorious sorceress, and judging from her demeanor right now, the Almighty alone knows what would happen next…




Soot!

Ruz’s eyes flash with… intrigue? “Perhaps some pieces to reassure the people that I am their guardian. Their mother, even. Have I not protected them? Kept them safe? Fed them, disciplined them, allowed them to aspire? And, after all, if you can do this with a barbarian brute, I wonder what you would do with a better—“

“Word from the Sultan, your most illustrious excellence,” says the servant at the door. Ruz lets her hand fall from under your chin, where she was tilting your head up. Did you even notice? Where were you staring, little Soot?

She takes the missive and scans it as you fumble your paints and brushes into their lacquerware cases. And then she chuckles, in that self-satisfied way of hers.

“Yes, allow me an answer, just a moment. Soot: stay.” And then, well, you have to, right? There with the model and the servant and the cases, until Ruz returns a sealed note to be returned to the Sultan. The messenger leaves, and she turns to you, appraising you.

“No, that won’t do at all,” she says. “Not for dinner with her. Follow me, girl.”

You’re about to get a makeover.




Birsi!

“Don’t be like that,” the Fire Wheel says, not yet angry but starting towards it. She grabs at your glove, tries to pull it off, drunkenly laughing. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Working together? Keeping the peace?

Her voice suddenly lowers. She’s stumbled into a resentment unexpectedly . “Yeah. We’re friends. Which is why we let you all parade around and play soldier. You ever been in a battle, palace girl? Ever used that little knife of yours?”

Are you going to let her keep controlling the conversation? Is she right that you’re untested by battle? Is that one of the sacred walls she’s backed you up against?
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Birsi

It was one of the holy walls she was being pressed back into and cornered against, unfortunately for her. Her sword was yet untested, but that doesn’t mean she hasn’t fought before. It simply meant the sword was yet to be needed for such roughians. And clearly, these ruffians didn’t deserve the sword just yet. She had a much better idea.

Tugging her glove to keep it on still, she solidified her stance, fortifying her position, and attempted to reason one last time with these drunkards. “You are not keeping the peace. You are disrupting it. These hallowed walls are not meant to be sullied with wine you most likely took from the Sultan’s Reserves and disgraced with the presence of drunkards. Please, prove that you are worthy as guards and as people: Follow quietly and be collared, contained, and treated properly.”

She pulled her glove down a bit more to fix its positioning on her hand, eyes half lidded in intensity. Behind them burned a fiery passion for justice, and if binding was law, then so let her be the one to ensnare these three and bring them to the perfect justice: Silence, Restriction, and Order. Birsi had some experience with punishments and prisoners, and already she was organizing them by height, unruliness, chest size, and several other methods of ‘filing’ prisoners. The thought of enacting justice made her heat up, bite her lip, and stare with utmost conviction. If she didn’t look hot before, hopefully she did now.







Sisila Om

To lose now, at this, would be a humiliation Silsila could not bear. Was she not Om, spirit of earth and gold, bound to a proper and synergistic vessel, grappling with her opponent on the floor? A more perfect situation for her to thrive had hardly been concocted, and to... surrender the battle because she was still a little out of sorts from her rough treatment during her capture was ridiculous! It was far too early to entertain those thoughts. No, it was time to perform; after that, take vengeance on the fire wheels as best she could while bound by their magic; only then, to consider these strange feelings.

Any lingering thoughts of submission were shoved to the side, as Om's black-nailed hand dug into the armor that Rosethal was wearing. As they grappled and rolled, kissed and rubbed, and tried to pin the other, bits of the the Host-Armor giving Rosethal such strength were peeled away. An arm brace here, a shin guard there, and both hands working together to undo straps from behind and peel away the chest piece.

Each piece of equipment stripped, paid for in sweat and exertion, would make putting Rosethal down easier and easier. Silsila feigned exhaustion, like she was on the verge of submission, until she had enough off--then grabbed the girl's face and rocked her shoulders, force Rosethal flat on her back. The host's chest (voluptuous and heavy, large and round, a pretty dark red and soft and giving despite the body made from iron and gold) hovered over her face like the sword of damocles, giving her enough time for just a word or two...

Which would be sadly cut off, as the sword was dropped on her face without a hint of mercy.

Host's are otherwordly creatures, spiritual and strange, but those bound into human shapes tend to take human traits. One might not expect iron and gold to sweat, or to smell quite so pungent and potent, or to be soft and overwhelming; But here we are. Om rolled her shoulders, grinding Rosethal's unfortunately trapped features left and right, forcing her to breathe and huff and let sweat pool against her, even as the scant few whiffs of air she could muster were so richly flavored by the djinn's mind clouding bouquet. T'would only be a few seconds, should she fail to escape, before she went limp--without her armor, she may as well have been trying to escape from the earth itself!


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Soot stared back into Ruz’s face, leaning forward unknowingly as the Grand Vizier cupped her chin, stumbling when the hand was removed. Stammering and returning upright with a shake of the head, when had that happened, had they gotten quite so close… She waited nervously as the note was written, and didn’t dare open her mouth as Ruz’s orders continued. She followed alone, face slightly red and staring at the ground in such a manner the onlooking servants likely assumed a punishment was in progress.

Soot had never been one for ‘extra curriculars’ silly events after work that a patron demands you attend, to eat up more of those precious few personal hours. Especially for Soot, who spent the evening hours perfecting her craft and seeking out new inspirations.

But she was unable to protest, trodding along at the Grand Vizier's heels. ‘It is relatively early in the day’ and ‘We are in the middle of business negotiations, so I couldn't leave now.’ She told herself. Heart still pounding in her chest.

After a walk that felt like eternity through the halls of the palace Soot had never seen, she was led into a grand room. Twice the size of her studio and seemingly just for clothing. A handful of attendants perk up as Ruz storms in, Soot in tow.

It takes only a few simple instructions from Ruz, before the Maidens descend upon Soot like a Swarm. The Painter voicing muffled protests, soft screams and a multitude of yelps as her Palatial uniform is stripped from her. The exposed Soot rapidly being worked over by the tailoring maids in a flurry of silk and gold.

Her previous clothes were already not her own, blue and gold silken robes, with light sarouel. The outfit tied together by excessive jewelry and a fine face covering. Dressed every morning when she arrived at the Palace, her waist length hair tamed by a half-hour of servant labour. She needed to look fitting for a palace worker, decorated like any other piece of décor. Ensuring that she wouldn’t look out of place if a dignitary or royal happened to see the painter by accident.

But the new outfit was on another level entirely. Her hair had been brushed out and re-braided into a complex network of hair, golden threads and bows; the sections maintained by jeweled rings. Her tired eyes highlighted by complex makeup, heavy black and gold making her look bright and awake. The normally obscuring layers Soot wore to hide herself stripped clean, and replaced with delicate almost translucent clothes, with revealing cuts and ethereal fabrics giving a delicate volume to her lanky form. The previous jewelry, originally intended to show the wealth of Soot's employer had been replaced, finer bangles and rings that helped draw the eye across her form.

The attendants back away from the flustered Soot, presenting the girl for Ruz’s approval with self assured smiles. Previously a fine-dressed workman, Soot's form was now almost that of a high-class dancer delicate and refined, but dripping with luxury. The girl looked down, blushing and grumbling.
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Nahla simply smiles in return to Grace-of-Heaven. She could let the kiss gnaw at the back of her mind as she remembers the last royalty to- nope. She could, but she won’t, so she does not so much as finish entertaining the thought before locking it a way in a mental box labelled “for later consideration,” a “later” that would never become “now.”

For the current now, the preparations were to be made for the Sultan’s appearance. The dress, a deep blue halter dress, made sense for their purposes. It was fine enough as clothing for the sultan, and a strategic weakening of the fabric near the neck made it easy to tear down, while also hiding any signs of sabotage with Grace-of-Heaven’s beautiful, soft hair, the long dark brown locks were brushed out and left freely down her otherwise exposed back. A gold chain necklace with an amethyst pendant shone against her chest, which would draw one’s eye to the fact that this dress may have been a size or two too small for the princess with how it clung to her torso.

While Nahla did focus her efforts to what she believed the best suited their secret plan, she could not allow the other girls to grow suspicious by excluding them from preparing the princess. Each member of the sultan’s concubine was considered a close confidante and assistant to the sultan herself, and each would assist Grace-of-Heaven in being as presentable as possible. Taima’s hands gently brushed against the sultan’s legs, gingerly swiping a razor against any errant stubble of body hair until her limbs had been as smooth as her silk veil. Taima’s hands, admittedly, did feel up against the sultan’s physique a tad longer than she should have. Taima had a bit more of a lustful side, even compared to the other concubines.

Lila, on the other hand, relished in the luxury and wealth and power of being close to the sultan, and she lent her discerning eye and attentive hand to applying the allure of their lady’s makeup. Lastly, Yasmin examined her overall appearance and ensured that the sultan emanated Faithful virtue, slicking into place any out-of-place hair, pulling the fabric of the dress taught over her hips and bosom to eliminate any wrinkles, and deciding to instead swap out the amethyst pendant for one with a deep sapphire gem (“The sapphire carries within it the blue of our waters. Our Sultan’s beauty is itself a prayer, may the Almighty bless our ports.”).

Each of the women were charming and helpful in their own ways.

And each of them, for their own reasons, would report Grace-of-Heaven’s plans to Ruz in a heartbeat if they knew what would happen soon.

Nahla, on the other hand, prepared herself scantily. She had no jewels or extravagant makeup like Grace-of-Heaven. Instead, she simply wore a simple black veil and a matching two-piece outfit that would be fitting on a belly dancer. With a gentle, reassuring pat to the bare flesh of her lady's back, she whispered, "It is nearly time."
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Birsi!

“Contained? Treated properly?” The Fire Wheel grins like a hungry wolf, and her companions bestir themselves behind her. “I think we know a thing or two about this ourselves, palace girl.”

She has her fingers around your sword hand before you can draw on her, and twists it up above your head. Then she shoves forward and pins you against the wall with her body, burying your cute little face beneath her bulk long enough for her friends to get involved. Three against one is hardly a fair fight at all, and soon enough she lets you slump against the floor, panting through your nose, chewing on the leather glove stuffed in your mouth.

“Now, the real question is…” The singer winds back, and then smacks your raised rump hard. “Do we take her back to the quarters?” Another swat, this one aimed to make what you’re working with bounce and jiggle. “Or do we help her back to her barracks?” A third, a fourth; you can feel blood rushing to your cheeks.

“Or do we take her out for a night on the town,” the drinker growls. “Lots to carry, and she looks like she’s good for it.”

Smack! Smack! “Really?” the singer drawls, dragging your ass back up by your belt, thwarting your pitiful attempts to squirm away.

“Yeah,” the drinker says. “Cows are good at carrying things.”

Which one do you think they’ll end up agreeing on? Being taken as a trophy back to their friends, being left humiliated to explain yourself to the House Guard and Strategist Hai Lin? Or being removed from the palace and taken out into the city to help the Fire Wheels on their “errands”? And while you’re considering that, how are those cheeks of yours holding up? Don’t tell us you’re making a mess drooling around that glove…




Silsila Om!

“Ekh! Ekh! Ekh!”

Rosethal dangles from a trellis by her ankles, and when she wakes up, she’s going to be furious with you for beating her— and ruing the fact that she was wearing a skirt. This is the first time she’s ever been subject to the Fire Wheels’ brand of humiliation. Of course, you could tell her stories.

When they decided to break you in, you weren’t protected by a mother’s wrath. If they subjected her to half of what you went through, Ruz would have their heads.

“That’s right,” Merov Ekh crows, and with a twirl of her finger, forces you into a spin. “Who turns the wheel?”

“Ekh! Ekh! Ekh!” The roar is deafening. The Fire Wheels know how to amp each other’s energy up.

“Now, tonight, I say we follow the wheel where it spins!” She’s amping them up. Tonight, you’re going to cut loose on the streets of Sjakal. Stealing kisses, purses, and wine in the name of order and the wheel itself.

Do you enjoy that, Silsila, or are you more often dragged along by Ekh as they make merry and teach the citizens of Sjakal not to fuck with the Fire Wheels?




Soot! Nahla!

The Lotus Hall is for private dining, overlooking the palace gardens. It’s nowhere near one of the outer walls of the sprawling Adamant, but it’s high up enough that it gets some magnificent views of the setting sun.

Here, soft couches with their backs to the sun look out over a mosaic of parading soldiers and dancers, a cleared space for dinner entertainment lit by the dying sun. Here, Grace-of-Heaven sits alone, hands folded in her lap, as her guardian examines her.

“And have you been keeping out of trouble? It’s very important for you to avoid besmirching your station.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It would be terrible if you stumbled now, after so much hard work. We would have to go back to practically the basics to finally get them to find fertile ground in your head. And you wouldn’t want that, would you?”

“No, ma’am.”

Ruz tuts, doing her best to project the persona of the harsh but fair mistress of the house. Grace-of-Heaven doesn’t raise her head, for fear of being accused of ungracious manners, or of neglecting graceful movement, or of exhibiting unbecoming haste. As her guardian, Ruz has the right to discipline her until she’s ready to assume the throne— a time which seems as distant now as it was when she first took the post.

“Now, my dear,” she says, turning her attention to Soot, running one hand along the back of the artist’s, “what do you think you could make of her?” Another test; be careful with what you answer. Feel free to consider the question first.

Nahla: what do you think of the Vizier’s guest tonight? Have you had the pleasure of meeting the court painter before? There’s obviously something there, some chemistry between the two. While the artist is judging your lady, judge her right back. Feel free to lurk behind Grace-of-Heaven’s couch and think whatever you like while you wait for your performance.
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Silsila Om

The Fire Wheels hoot and holler and clap as Merov Ekh spins her little finger, making their prized host twirl, the djinn's face a familiar mask of flustered outrage. She hated being made light of, so of course the Fire Wheels did so constantly, mixing their jokes with praise and brazen flirtation. It was so much that Om wondered if she hated being made light of quite so much...

Om doubted that even if Rosethal had no mother and was just meat for the Fire Wheels to play with, she would have experienced even a tenth of the punishment the Host had received.

Arms folded, Om's expression was a stoic frown, failing to hide the rapid reddening of her already dark red skin, however. Memories unbidden sprung to mind.

Otherwise naked and exposed, her body vulnerable to the many wandering hands of the Fire Wheels: pinching, cupping, squeezing, overstimulating the body she found herself trapped in. Of course, that was the point, and an important part of taming her: to make her accept that the body was her…

Laid out on the floor, a drunken Fire Wheel's ass plastered her face, bound spread-eagle... feeling the bare feet of a half dozen Fire Wheels using her proud body as carpeting, drinking and laughing like she wasn’t even there…

Fighting three Fire Wheels at once, arms bound behind her back, ankles tied together, hopping in humiliated frustration as once again she was dragged down, once again she was filled and pistoned and made to squeal out a submission...

Tied in stocks, horns grabbed and used as handlebars, suffering the roughest, heaviest, rudest kisses from barbarian after barbarian, drool from others pooling in her mouth or down her throat as she was given "practice"...

Pinched, slapped, squeezed, milked, spread, pressed, ravaged, loved, praised, admired, bragged about...

Could Om really blame them? She had been the catch of a lifetime. Few host were as strong as Om, accidentally bound to a form well suited to her wild, proud nature. Silsila grinned, even through the furious shame, remembering the face of the sorceress who summoned her--how surprised she was when Om broke free of the circle with ease! Or her expression as Om pinned her to the wall,and kissed her, feeling her surrender immediately to the Host's golden lips.

(She had been commissioned to bind a construction spirit to a powerful vessel of iron and gold. Om, far better suited to war and domination then stacking bricks, had been chosen by accident.)

During her rampage through the countryside, countless bounty hunters and eager sorcerers were shamed at her hands. All cried, one way or the other, their submission to the Host; left in puddles by the road, dangling from tree branches, naked and humiliated, marked thoroughly by the affection of her domineering hands. It was paradise; ruling like a queen over the countryside, taking what she wanted, eating and drinking and laughing.

And then Merov Ekh and her Fire Wheels beat her. How!? They bound her with the name Silsila, sapped her size and strength, even sealed 2 of her arms. They cried out to humble her, to initiate her, to make her know her place. They praised her strength, her durability, her pride, while also praising her body, with words and carnality, seeking to humiliate, uplift, flatter, fluster, all the while insisting she join the Fire Wheels...

W-well, is it any wonder she had conflicting feelings about it!? Silsila snorts. No, that was quite normal. The Fire Wheels had confused her! Confused her very badly. She would get her revenge on them soon, confuse them like they confused her, drink from their bodies until they sang submission. It was fate! For now, though, she was slave champion.

Going wild at night? Stealing kisses and purses? That was natural for her. Comfortable, almost. A reminder of the time before she was bound by Merov Ekh's rituals and spells. She felt a pang of guilt at the more inventive cruelties of the Fire Wheels, though… perhaps she could relate?

For now, though, she was going out with them, on another nightly excursion of lust and drunkenness and chaos…





Birsi

“I don’t think you do, and please remove yourself from my sw-Hnmmmph???!!” Birsi was left baffled and unprepared for such a method of attack, for her mouth was open just wide enough to her own glove to be jammed past those pretty lips of hers. Of course, she didn’t have time to react to that first injustice against her, as then her face was buried in the barbarian’s bulk… Oh goodness it was hot, sweaty, and reeked of a long day of not doing their damn job.

Oh her condition was terrible right now, her face was a warm pink from the heat of her ‘anger’. The sweat on her brow was hers, but the tiny droplets and strokes of it on her cheeks were from this brute’s bust, where her face had been stuffed while they messed with her attire and humiliated her. They had even gone and taken her cuffs, which were a thick leather similar to her own gloves, but purposefully made to restrain one’s wrists or ankles as tightly as possible without causing discomfort. Where were those cuffs now? Binding Birsi’s own, now helpless, wrists. Clearly it couldn’t get much wor-

“GHN?!” The first smack forces her eyes to go wide, the stinging feeling coursing through her body like lightning, only to be followed up so soon that she can’t even get the breath back into herself. “MNFFFH!!?” Her backside bounced almost hypnotically, for while it wasn’t much compared to the brute beating her, it was a rather nice ass due to her daily routine. The third and fourth strikes finalized the red color crossing her cheeks, the guardswoman unable to even process why her face could be so flushed right now. Fifth, Sixth, the last two spankings made her wriggle and writhe on the ground like a pleasure slave, only to then be hoisted up into the air by her own belt.

How… How Embarrassing… And it was only going to get worse for her, as far as she could tell. The spankings had left her a little disoriented from the sensations being forced onto her sensitive ass, but she could make out most of what they were talking about. They wanted to take her back to their barracks…? Take her out of Errands? Wait… Were they planning to further this humiliation into public degradation!? Were they going to take her out on their errands, AND THEN TAKE HER BACK TO THEIR BARRACKS?! This couldn’t get any worse… Aaaand she was drooling on the holy floor.

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Soot had been trying to maintain her normally cold demeanour and failing. Between her new formal outfit, the amount of skin it was showing, and Ruz barking instructions. She was mostly just staring at the back of the Vizier’s feet, following along like a hungry mutt. But the beauty of the lotus hall pulled her eyes upwards, she stood for a moment, mouth agape, taking in the sights of the room. She stared out to the palace grounds, soaking in the eventide sun as it lit the dining hall.

As Ruz spoke, her hand brushing against the painter. Soots' wits snapped back as she spun around, becoming aware of the room's inhabitants. She looked down to Grace-of-Heaven and tilted her head slightly, before stammering ‘Y-your Excellency’ and offering a clumsy bow, hampered by her unfamiliar outfit.

For being the palace painter, Soot had never come face to face with the Sultana. She assumed ‘I must have to prove myself before I'm good enough to paint her Grace’. Standing here now, she had to admit, the monarch wasn’t exactly what Soot expected. When she had been awarded the position, she had looked forward to staring down the ruler who (as far as she knew) was the villain responsible for sicking the fire wheels onto the town. Those Rabid dogs who hungrily patrol the streets, desperate to take any coin, drink, or maiden they can get within arms reach.

But Soot didn’t exactly see a villain resting on the couch in front of her; this girl was too scared to even lift her head to a lowly painter,

Suddenly she remembered she was working, and under Ruz’s steely gaze. She straightened her back and shook her head, restoring her usual professional demeanour. She started to pace back and forth, circling the Sultan low and carefully, taking in every angle. Akin to a predator, examining their next meal to find the perfect light in which to strike.

Soot stands distracted at a particular angle, staring at the disparaged Sultan in the evening light set against the grand window’s of the hall. Her expression softens. It was a sad air, the supposed monarch unable to lift her head in the presence of a peasant worker. ‘Your Grace..’ Soot offered cautiously ‘Perchance, could you look up? For a moment.. N-new angles.’ Chuckling awkwardly as Grace-of-Heaven stared into their lap. Soot continued to pace.

“Their form is fertile ground…” Soot finally replied out loud, still staring at Grace-of-heaven “More galleries than have been built in Sjakal could be filled with her depictions and I believe no two canvases would convey the same message..” Soot spoke plainly, sounding like a scholar stating a simple fact. “Of course, any specific message could be coaxed out, by your request, Madam Vizier” Soot said, bowing slightly to Ruz.

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"Ah, Lady Ruz, how kind of you to grace us with your presence this evening!"
Nahla bowed her head before the Vizier, finding faux hospitality to be the best tool within her toolshed for tonight. If they were to pull this off, they needed the Vizier in a place of comfort in order to more likely buy their trick.

"I do not see your charming daughter, is Lady Rosethal preoccupied for the evening?" Her veil served as a saving grace, hiding the faint hints of a sneer of contempt for the aforementioned girl. And this new girl, whoever she was, she seemed somewhat troublesome to read. She looked at Grace-of-Heaven with an awe, and approached with an unexpected awkwardness. If her language was anything to go off of, perhaps she was an art curator? The gaze aimed at the sultan was an observational one that admired her beauty. This combined with Ruz' dirty tricks before made Nahla worry that this guest may have been invited to this private dinner to do some humiliating or unsavory thing- yet, her gaze was not lustful as Nahla would expect if that were the case. If Ruz had brought her here, then kissing up to the vizier also meant kissing up to her, and if she was studying Grace-of-Heaven not with a lustful eye, then-

"Entire galleries, you say? That's quite the claim you make. Do you think yourself the artist with the proficiency to do such? Of course, if your artistry has satisfied Lady Ruz, I would be delighted to see what 'messages' you may gleam from my Sultan. Ah, but where are my manners! I am Nahla, lady-in-waiting to the sultan, and for tonight, I shall be your entertainment."

Nahla bowed to the painter, a practiced motion that she had gone through so often throughout her life that it had become second nature. Beneath her veil, her cheeks shifted upwards as she gave the artist an unseen (but hopefully not unfelt) radiant smile.
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Silsila! Birsi!

“What do you think, Big Girl?”

Mele Vo gestures expressively at the palace guard, who is presently mid-makeover. Emissa Vo has the blonde’s chin in a vicegrip as she gets some expensive palatial lipstick on her lips. Those lips won’t even be visible once she’s dressed properly! It’s just a waste of lipstick, a way to show off, and an excuse to manhandle her.

Mele Vo absolutely is not thrilled that the Khan’s Host walked in on this humiliation session for the poor guard, because she’s a wild card. Silsila has the authority to pull rank with a couple of low punks like the Vo siblings (and Ders La, who’s too drunk to function right now). The Host could join in, order the guard released, or even take the guard for herself, and Mele doesn’t have the brains to figure out which one Silsila’s leaning towards. So she’s going for shameless pandering, hoping it will endear her to the Host.

Birsi, meanwhile, is ungagged but still cuffed, and she’s only been ungagged for the lipstick and so that much worse things than a glove can be packed in her mouth. This is her chance, possibly— but her only hope for a savior is the imposing, muscled, dangerous Host.

Now, if she wasn’t currently cuffed, Birsi could relax in the knowledge that she’s been trained in anti-Host combat styles. A battle between the two of them would be surprisingly fair, as she’s a member of the elite House Guard. But helpless like this, how could she possibly use that to her advantage?

Unless she were to challenge Silsila Om…?




Soot! Nahla!

Ruz’s lips thin. Her Soot definitely has said something wrong, or gone the wrong direction. Not enough to chastise her yet, but just enough that it’s impossible for the artist not to pick up on it, as carefully attuned to her Patron as she is. Soot has likely opened herself to criticism after dinner, unless she can recover.

But, hooray, a distraction! Grace-of-Heaven claps her hands and lifts her face, grinning for the first time since she entered the room. “Oh, yes! Your gift to me,” by which she means Nahla, purchased by the Vizier, “is so talented, ma’am! I could watch her for hours, and I insisted that she should entertain tonight for us. She has a new dance that she’s dedicated to your diligent service!” Ruz raises an eyebrow, but the flattery is sweet and the implication that Nahla is acting as an appropriate distraction for the Sultan (who should be thinking about girls and pleasure and not about authority or rebellion) has put her at ease.

Nahla, Grace-of-Heaven is using her String to encourage you to show off a very special dance. The trick is to not be so good that Ruz intercedes on your behalf, but not so bad that you lose her attention. Afterwards, you will have to be quite silly-headed and “accidentally” provoke Grace-of-Heaven into a childish tantrum— and that, too, is part of the performance.

Soot, Ruz gestures for you to show off your skill. One of her personal slaves hands you your sketchbook and charcoal, but she does not specify a subject. Who is worth sketching while exotic Nahla performs?
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Birsi

Cheeks flushed red, lips painted a deep jade green, and her hair ruffled out of position due to the brief and very one sided scuffle she was just a part of, Birsi did not look like she was going to actually handle these three Fire Wheels in a manner she could condone… But just as she was considering fouler tactics to uphold the peace and order within this holy place, a chance to change her fate appeared. Someone she knew, recognized, and had handled on a few occasions… As well as ‘been handled’ in turn by.

“Silsila Om.” The Guardswoman said with only a hint of disdain, despite her current predicament making her look absolutely ridiculous in appearance. After all, she was being held up by her belt and had only one glove on, the other no doubt in another Fire Wheel’s hand, dripping with her own spittle. “I believe these are your ‘Subordinantes’ for the time being?” She queried, no doubt earning an accidental/offhanded spank that made her seize for a second before resuming her speech. “I would like for you to make them cease their current actions, prepare themselves for transport down to the Slaving Quarters, and release me from this current predicament. However.” She took a deep breath, then focused her gaze into a glare of authority, of Challenge. “I, Royal Guard Birsi, challenge you to a duel for these actions to be done.” Hopefully Silsila accepted, as currently it wasn’t even like Birsi herself was much of a threat. After all, her sword was taken, her hands were cuffed, and clearly one of these other barbarians had smothered her face, judging by the hue of it. Would Silsila Om accept this odd challenge?





Silisila Om

Om let her arms rest behind her head, her eyes flickering from Mele Vo to Emissa Vo to Birsi, back to Mele, then back to Birsi in a double-take, drinking in her appearance. "Wow, you two really did a number on Birse, didn't you?" Her arms wrapped around the duo, pulling them in snug on either side of her, and then she squeezed, forcing both bad girls to squeak from the force of those muscular arms around them, crushed tight to her body, lifted up off their feet! "I know we like to mess with her, but she is still Royal Guard. You two sure you can actually get away with this?"

Then those long ears of hers caught wind of Birsi's challenge, her golden eyes darting her way once again. "What, the Vo's? My subordinates?" She said, sounding amused--even as her fingers closed around the two gal's unprotected derriere's, making them squeak and squirm into Om's body, faces both mashed into the Host's underarms. "Well, I'd like to think so, but they really aren't." She's grinning widely, though. "I suppose I could carry them over to Slaving Quarters for you, though."

Om opens her arms and drops them both to the ground, cracking her neck. "...If you beat me, that is. Like I'm going to let my fellow Fire Wheels get dragged off and enslaved just like that." A hand ruffles Mele's head, firm but affectionate, and enough to get a girl feeling all sorts of conflicted, tingly feelings. Silsila takes the time to undo Birsi's bindings, before stepping in front of her. "If I win, you have to give Mele, Emissa, and Ders a kiss apology for whatever it was you did to 'em, and you're coming out with us tonight as our plus 1. We're gonna make sure everybody gets to see how the Fire Wheels party with the Royal guard."

The Host's hands reach up to her own vest, gripping the fabric firmly. Without apparent effort, she shreds her own top, letting her arms slide down to her side, barbarically exposed. Her fingers brush against her sword. "Otherwise, I tie you back up and let these three finish their makeover session. How's that sound, Bratty Birsi?"


Hidden 2 yrs ago Post by Larsene108
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“Oh, were it not for Grace-of-Heaven’s encouragement and guidance, my dance tonight would be nowhere near how far it has progressed. My performance is dedicated to you, as trained by our lovely sultan!”

If Ruz’s expression were anything, she needed to increase the association between her performance and the simple joys between herself and the sultan than any wisdom or ambition within the girl. A few lingering glances back to Grace-of-Heaven, looking at her with an expression she had seen modeled all too often by Taima, and the gifted girl was certain she was playing the role Ruz expected of her. After drinks had been poured and dinner had been served (after all, if their trick were to play out, it seemed unreasonable that the princes would spend the entire night punishing her concubine on an empty stomach and not once call for food), Nahla made her way to the front of the room, before each of the three who had come to dinner, as well as the slaves flitting in and out of the room to take plates, pour more drinks, and so on.

Nahla took a deep breath before closing her eyes. Her thumb pops the guard of her blade just barely out of the scabbard, displaying a small gleam of the blade within. With a sudden twirl, the metal shing of her blade sliding out echoes through the room, her hand lashing out and holding onto the sword as the flat reflects the lights and colors of the room, the setting sun over the gardens. A sword from the Northern kingdoms that has seen nearly no use, wielded by a concubine in Sjakal garments. As Nahla dances, the hilt rests against the crook of her neck, the solid, sharp metal twirling with her, the handle rolling over the back of her neck for her to grasp on the opposite side. The entire performance is a spectacle, of a blade to represent the rigid harshness of the northern lands, that no matter how hardened they may be, the flow of the coastal waters shall never fall to them. Fluid movements, intermittently switching direction and intensity much like the tide that pulls in and pushes out onto the sands, her sword flashing glimpses of the world around them like a weaponized mirror.

Eventually, she had gotten enough spectacle out of the blade, twirling once to the right and ending the spin with holstering the weapon. Then, as though the halt was merely the pause of an object unspinning one way just to build enough force to spin the other, a flourish to the left as the scabbard was removed from her person, raised high into the air, and gently slid to the floor behind her. In all her theatrics with such a blade, there was nary a cut on the girl, nor on the floor around her. The threat was contained, concealed, and retreated within this tale within her interpretive dance, and as the wind billows over the ocean to the lands of Sjakal, so too did Nahla swirl towards the Sultan of those lands. Her footwork was impressive, near immaculate with each rotation. If this had ended as it should, she would leap into the air, seemingly striking downward with her entire body to land on her elbows and knees before the Sultan’s feet, a sign that all of Sjakal and all of the elements that should aid them in pushing back against their enemies would bend bow to the mandate of heaven.

Instead, she tripped. All by plan, once her feet had kicked off the ground mid-spin, her ankles had hit each other, throwing her off her concentration. With an unfortunate slam, Nahla reaches out and grips fabric to play into instinctively steadying her fall, the sound of both party’s discomfort in the sudden impact interlaced with the ripping of thread. The sudden downward motion had also incidentally lead to an unintended consequence- as she landed on the sultan, her veil had fluttered upwards, and in that brief moment, she had realized her lips were placed firmly against Grace-of-Heaven’s. Pulling away, a bit red in the face, laying on the couch in the sultan’s lap, and with her bare form now left exposed for Soot and Ruz to see from the hips upward, Nahla stuck to the plan and awkwardly stumbled out,

“Well, if the artist is to capture your essence, it’s best that she behold your best assets.”
Hidden 2 yrs ago 2 yrs ago Post by TectonicRobot
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Birsi

As the barbarians were scooped up and squeezed, it was highly unlikely that they didn’t loosen their grip on Birsi’s belt, causing her to drop to the ground with a restrained grunt. The guardswoman would shift and squirm to get into a sitting position, then take a moment longer to get into a standing position, just in time to get confirmation that Silsila would be accepting her challenge and get her wrist bindings off. “Thank you…”

Then came her demands, which she was more than allowed to make. After all, Birsi was the one who challenged her to the duel, so by law and tradition the brute’s conditions were acceptable. Of course, such demands would be entirely more than humiliating for her should she lose this bout, but she had to at least try to fight. This was for the Honor of the Palace, the Holiness of the room they invaded, and her own Devotion to keeping the peace through Holy Law.

“Very well. Your demands shall be fulfilled should you win. Now, brace yourself.” The Royal Guard would retrieve the sword the drunken Fire Wheels had taken, brandishing the straight blade with an appropriate duelist’s stance. “En Guarde!” There it was. That weird phrase she learned from a foreigner when she was but a child. The phrase that stuck with her all this way to be the one thing she says before a conflict… But as per the rules of the duel, the Challenged gets to go first, so all Birsi did was assume a proper, defensive stance.





Silsila Om

Silsila drew her sword--Ill-Omened Star, ebon black metal with gold edged. "Let's see how refined your technique is, then. Will it last more than a sword stroke against my Crashing Mountain style~?"

Swing! Chop! Slash! Cut!

Surprisingly… yes. Yes, it did.

Om planted her foot and swung ber blade, flat-side forward, only for it to be ducked yet again. She wasn't slow--so how did Birsi keep dodging her? One solid blow to her blade should have blown it clear out of Birsi's hand, but the woman kept dancing around Om's strikes, leaving her sword clashing and clattering into the stone.

Om slowed down, chest heaving, little rivulets of sweat running down her form. Birsi had never held her off like this–their hallway affairs had usually been quick and dirty. And here Silsila was sweating!

"What is with today and not winning easily?" Om complains, directed as an aside to the Vo siblings. "I thought you were ornamental, Birsi, but I guess you're good for more than just your smoking hot body." The Host rests her blade on her shoulder for a moment.

…her eyes keep flicking down to Birsi's body. Stupid! SHE should be the one drawing looks and forcing distractions, not this prim guard. Her strikes become slower and gentler, the incredible strength behind them softening just a little bit--was Silsila going easy on her…?
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