Current
When you're trying to convince yourself that you're sober, but it's taken you ten minutes to remember how to spell sober.
6
likes
7 yrs ago
Anybody waiting for replies off me, my kids are off sick so the weekend began early! Normal service will resume Monday! Thanks for your patience!
7 yrs ago
As far as four word horror stories go, I think "we're out of milk" takes the prize. No tea for Flick :-(
4
likes
7 yrs ago
Or conversely that moment when you get a reply that's so on point that you have to just kiss goodbye to your life for days at a time. đł
1
like
7 yrs ago
When you're 90% through a reply, you've got your flow going on, and then your computer decides to restart for NO REASON WHATSOEVER! OMG đĄ
10
likes
Bio
I'm a comic book nerd come literature enthusiast. I love breathing life into my childhood heroes. I also enjoy writing. I type a lot. I talk a lot. You've been warned. Since I'm fairly new, I figure I'd throw up some writing samples so you can see whether or not I'm your cup of tea. Also, if any of the random blurbs catch your attention and/or interest, well so much the better.
A Sideways Spiral
Prologue As she paced along the floor her heels clicked irritatingly against the hard stone thus betraying her location without him even having to open his eyes, he counted in his head. So far he was up to three hundred and the higher he got so the more erratic and quickened her steps became. Circling him, constantly, pen scratching against the clipboard in a way that made him want to tear the thing from her hands and lodge it into her skull. Click, click, scratch. Flexing his hands against the restraints that held him fastened to the reclined chair he tried to bite back the annoyance burning inside him, he noticed too late that she had stopped moving. Crap, all that time trying to unnerve her with stillness wasted, oh well, he had been getting bored anyway.
Letting his eyes open leisurely it took him a moment to focus fully on the hazy scene, the light above him was unnaturally bright; everything else was dark in contrast, looming shadows above him and beyond further into the room which he couldnât make out. His hands were cold and damp and the sterile smell invaded his nostrils potently as it had since he had first been dragged here seventeen days ago. The florescent light above served to hinder his perception of anything further outside of the designated examination area; basically everything was in shadow except him. It also made him squint painfully because the damned thing was shining right into his eyes. They had set him up like an attraction in a zoo. The hefty straps over his legs made it impossible for him to shift position, yet another irritant as he was starting to get pins and needles in the tops of his legs. Naturally he wouldnât let them have the satisfaction of knowing he was uncomfortable.
âYouâre awakeâ she asked dubiously then paused. There was silence for a moment as he caught sight of a high heel and a long, stocking covered leg which ran up to a white lab coat. She stepped back beyond his peripheral vision and he rolled his eyes as best he could in the circumstances. There was silence in the room for another few minutes and he relished in it, wondering if it was making her uneasy that he still hadnât spoken. Then the clicking resumed again as she once more began circling him. It was amusing really, she was circling him like a predator, demonstrating some sort of power that they both knew she would not possess were he not strapped down.
Did she think she was any more inclined to break him than the other three had been? He chuckled throatily and he heard her inhale sharply which just served to engorge his mirth.
âQuestion eighty threeâ she reeled off shortly followed by the scratch, scratch of the pen against the paper. He growled and scrunched his eyes closed again as if it might shut out that sound. When he got free whoever the girl in the darkness was would pay; and picturing all the ways he might destroy her was the only thing that preserved his sanity for the remainder of the ordeal.
âThere are certain things that are expected of women of our craft, certain preconceptions that pinpoint us as different, tokens that set people at ease. Things are expected of you Charlotte. You are a witch.â
The young blonde picked her way through the bracken as she always did, there were several paths leading from the small isolated cottage in the woods, well-trodden, one of them was even somewhat cobbled for a way. It was that one that led into the village, a lesser one led left to the river next to the cottage, another led into the thick woods at the back where the firewood was cut, kept and collected. Today Lottie ignored them all, choosing instead to pick her way through the trees, they were bare, it was after all not long until the winter solstice. Or Christmas as everybody else called it. They got feasts, presents, decorations, carols â Charlotte got extra chores and double the amount of firewood chopping because the old woman insisted her bones ached if the fire was not large enough to be in danger of consuming the house. Sometimes it felt more like she was a slave than an apprentice. A sigh escaped her red lips, blue eyes scanning the surroundings with a twinkle. She knew these woods better than anybody; once upon a time she had harboured fears that she might get lost in them, now she could find her way home in the blackest of nights.
It was comforting sure enough, but it was also testament to the fact that nothing ever changed around here. She was trapped by her skills to a life of potion mixing, tea leaf reading and the occasional emergency callout. It was all well and good, but ever so occasionally she would look across the trees to the distant mountains and wonder; what if there was more?
Hopping over a long-fallen tree whilst still a trifle distracted, something snagged her dress and she cursed, but only quickly because then she bit her lip and poked a long, slim finger through the newest hole in her already tattered dress. She had other dresses, but this was her favourite, the hole didnât go through her underskirt though and so was mostly invisible. Dirty cream against greying white. A smirk crossed her lips for a moment, Lucky Lottie, it was her nickname. A rather cruel one because Charlotte was possibly the most clumsy, ham-fisted girl in existence. Always had been, Granny had once likened the probability of her mastering grace to that of a pig learning to fly. If there was a pot to be broken, or a hole to fall in somehow the blonde would manage it effortlessly. The harsh irony was however lost on the blonde and she snatched up one of the rarer ingredients off her list triumphantly, drakes rot, before stuffing it into the wife pocket in the apron tied around her waist. What a stroke of luck that sheâd paused in just the right place.
It had been a very long time since sheâd needed to read the list, most times she knew what Granny wanted before the old woman even voiced it.
Her fingers brushed against the material also in the pocket and she rolled her eyes at the voice once more chiding in her head.
âThings are expected.â
The pointed black had donned her wild curls for the briefest of moments from when she left the door, to when she was out of sight of the small cottage and then it came off. Appearance or not, it was hot and felt much heavier than it should on her head. She knew the basis behind it; witches were a very specific kind of creature and needed very specific habits. After all, if one didnât know you were a witch, how could one give you the proper berth needed to ensure you didnât have every villager banging on your door complaining about every ache and drought? Granny (who wasnât, in actual fact her Granny, or any blood relation to her whatsoever) had spent a lifetime ensuring that the people garnered respect for her, everybody feared the old woman, even if they werenât quite sure why. That didnât stop them sending for her left right and centre though, witches were a hot commodity. Births, deaths, illnesses, locust; all apparently adequate reasons to bombard themselves upon her time. The trick to witchcraft was to do as little as possible, and make the people think youâd done even less. It was an art, apparently, but alas Charlotte was of a polar opposite nature to her cynical and aging mistress. The blonde brandished her unwavering optimism and goodwill on both sleeves for all to see.
It was partly the reason Granny insisted she wore the hat.
Witches couldnât seem to be eager to help; it would do horrible things to their professional reputation the world over. It would create expectations, which would lead to all sorts of people wanting things. It was enough to make an old woman shiver. The blonde certainly didnât act like a witch, the bright beaming smile, the dimples in her cheeks, the twinkle in her bright blue eyes, even the unbreakable notion that everything would come right in the end. But Granny was too old to beat the nature out of the girl now like she had so many before her, time would do it, time always did. Luckily the young witch showed enough natural talent that her cause wasnât entirely lost, just young and ill-dispositioned to the craft.
For the time being Granny would settle for the silly girl wearing shoes.
Accompanying the sound of the steady crunch of dry leaves beneath her bare feet, was the gentle lilt of Lottieâs voice. She wasnât a particularly talented singer but what she lacked in scales she made up for in confidence. It certainly made the forest seem less gloomy during the winter months to sing whilst she was harvesting. There was also the fact that she was keeping a steady eye on the sky too, keeping track of the time, they were exceptionally busy this time of year what with all the runny noses and coughs going around, and it seemed like an age since she had last done anything but work.
But this was it, her last chore before an afternoon off. A whole afternoon to herself. Yes okay, before that time came she still had to find blue mushrooms which were one of the hardest things to find at this time of year thanks to the thick covering of leaves on the ground, but she knew sheâd find them, she always did. And if fate was feeling really kind to her today, she might just cinch it in time to nab a slice of Jamesâ mumâs infamous berry pie.
The Albian King is a meek, feeble excuse for a man. He speaks little and hides behind men who dwarf him in both stature and grace. His layers of clothes, I believe are a weak attempt to hide the frailty of his body. He spends most of his time observing the court silently but always seems somewhat removed from it, interacts with few beyond his favourites. It is my genuine concern that he is more unwell than anybody will speak of. The court however is a joyous, wealthy place. And the princesses are a pleasure to behold, the oldest being Elizabeth. A wise and forward thinking man may see her the obvious choice for matrimony, but there are many a scandal and rumour surrounding her, not to mention that the people have no love for her. I have heard whispers that the King himself wishes to send her away, and though she is second in line for the throne, I could not recommend her. Catherine however is both charming, pleasant on the eye and very much in the Kingâs favour. I believe he would do anything to make her happy. I would stake my very reputation on her being the favourable choice for Your Royal Highness. I would also presume that whoever was to marry Catherine, would not be waiting very long for the Albian throne to open uncontested in the near future. Yours Faithfully Marlus
âWe intercepted this from our good friend The Ambassadorâ a voice snarled over the shoulder of his King. Georgeâs green eyes were still reading the words, ignoring the comments of his friend,
âSo Catherine is to have a proposalâ came the soft, lilting voice of the King of Albia. âFinally. I was beginning to wonder how much more wealth I had to bestow on her in order to make her attractive.â
âShe...â there was a pause as the man behind George straightened up and chose his words carefully, âis certainly overlooked in comparison to Your Highnessâ other sisters.â
âI know, I know, sheâs like a fattened pig before harvest. But once sheâs married off I only have to worry about Elizabeth. Charlotte and Mildred will be no trouble once they're of an age, I've had requests for their hands already.â
âBut Your Majesty, I fear youâve missed the insults within the letter. Theâ he glanced around and lowered his voice âtreason. The mere suggestion-â
âThe point damages my ego, but nothing more. And itâs nothing that my own councillors do not fret about behind my back. Itâs why theyâre still desperately squabbling over Elizabethâs hand and have been since I was a boy. If I had everybody who foretold my death executed, then I would have no Kingdom. Catherine will be married, finally. That is a victory in itself. Make sure the letter doesnât appear tampered with.â
âYou want us to send it?â
âOf course. I didnât spend thousands of pounds and throw away three titles just to have the ambassador return home without condoning the marriage.â
âI donât like it.â
âJamesâ The King softened his voice and stood up, he barely came up to the shoulder of James who was over six foot tall. âPlease donât take it to heart, this is the best outcome. And lets be honest here, we both know I am not an exceptionally virile specimen of a man.â
âYouâll get there. Youâre still young yet.â
âThat may well be, but for now, let it lie. Iâd like some time to rest, could you see that the letter is delivered properly and push back my afternoon appointments by an hour or so? Also tell the kitchen servants Iâll have lunch in my rooms.â
âYes, sire.â The hesitation was obvious but James wasnât going to ignore a direct order from his King, he may be his Uncle, and he may have been his regent for a few years, but he wasnât so blinded by affection that he would go against express commands. With a nod, eyes full of disapproval, he left the Kingâs offices and disappeared into the castle.
When he left, George sighed heavily and wandered over to the mirror. At nineteen years old The King knew he would not blossom into a man, his voice would not break and deepen, his height would not suddenly shoot up. Unlike the rest of the world however, he understood why. Gritting his teeth and shrugging off his thick cloak, he moved from the office into his own private living chambers, there was already a fire burning strongly to keep out the October chill. His long, slender fingers moved over the ties of his cotton shirt and pulled it off, dropping it to the floor. Beneath that he wore another shirt, this one of stiff boned leather. Unfastening that at the back, where it had been pulled tight, he dropped that to the floor too. There was a grimace as he fingered the red welts left on his hips by the unyielding corset. Beneath that again, wrapped as tightly as he could bear, was multiple feet of stiff cotton. Slowly he unravelled them from his chest, it was only when they fell to the floor that he could breathe, move, relax.
George rolled his neck and rubbed his shoulders tenderly, hands moving down to his now bare chest where he kneaded the bruised and sore flesh of full, finally free breasts. Catching sight of himself in the glass of the window he shared a wry smile with himself. Soft shoulder-length red hair, high cheekbones, sparkling green eyes, soft rounded jaw and a pixie nose looked much better on a figure with pert, supple breasts.
What would her life be like if her father hadnât announced that he had a son instead of the daughter he actually had? Would she be more desirable than her sisters? Would she be married? Off being ruled by a husband somewhere. Having children?
Well, she certainly wouldnât be running the country, and the mind boggled as to what it would be like under her sisterâs rule. This here was the best kept secret in the entire land, she was the best kept secret.
Dropping down onto the chair in front of the fire, she crossed her legs beneath her, pulling her sword and belt off and dropping them next to the chair. The warmth from the flames felt amazing on her bare skin. Finally, she could have a moment to herself, let her thoughts wander to where they wanted to be, on the man she hadnât dared see all day. The most important person in the Kingdom and she was running scared of a elevated, low-born brawler. She mustnât let things go further, one kiss, one stupid kiss. Her first moment of unbridled stupidity, and there it had to stop. No matter that she hadnât thought of anything but him for a year. No matter that every part of her longed for him. Ached. She was a King to him. And must remain so. They were lucky they hadnât been caught. An effeminate King was bad enough, perceived homosexuality was enough to lose her the throne entirely.
Her mind replayed the kiss over and over, the desperate rush, the confusion, the disgust in his eyes when he'd pulled away. She'd run then, before he could speak, through the castle and to the safety of guards where he could not confront her. Or tell her it was a mistake. She traced her fingers along her lips gently, as if the ghost of the memory might still be there.
Her life for the health of her Kingdom.
It wasnât much of a sacrifice if she said it like that.
She would be remembered throughout history, immortal, sheâd brought the Kingdom to a new age of riches and strength, they were no longer a laughing stock to the world but a power in their own right. What decent monarch would put their own happiness, relief, feelings before that? She had to sustain it. She had to remain King George, uncontested, undoubted.
A tentative knock from the door brought her out of her thoughts, she tensed immediately, everybody knew to not walk in on the King without an express invitation. It was one of the first things she had hammered home within her court, still, she got nervous every time somebody knocked. All it would take was one time, one mistake, one accident and everything would fall apart.
âYour Majesty?â Came another soft voice and she relaxed,
âCome in Celiaâ she spoke gently, from the servantâs doors crept in one of her best friends. She wasnât a servant by any means, in fact she was the daughter of one of the oldest families in the Kingdom and widely rumoured to be the Kingâs mistress. But it didnât do any good to lend credence to the rumours and so she often used the servantâs entrances into the Kingâs rooms to avoid shaming her own name. Yet another person sucked into the lie. Celia had attended George since they were children and had been only one of two girls raised within the then-Princeâs household.
âYou must be freezingâ she tutted, âcome on, letâs get you dressed. Iâve heard that Grisham is on the warpath and looking for you to go over the accounts.â
âGrisham, bastard doesnât give me a spare minute.â
âGeorgieâ she hissed, âyou might have free reign to swear like a man, but not in front of me.â
âCome at me with those bandages and Iâll be swearing at you.â
âOh. I could just leave if you like?â She indicated to the door, âI hear lots of Kings parade around with their titties out.â Celia bit back, George raised an eyebrow archly before rolling her eyes and grinning broadly.
âSwearing like a man my arse, I learnt it all from you.â And King George stood up, sacrificing her comfort once more, and allowed her best friend in the whole world to strap her into her outfit of state. She could take the discomfort, she could take the loneliness, she could survive it all, as long as she avoided him.
Hello, I'm pretty new here and I was wondering how people have decided which level they should write at? I see a lot of IC's specifying certain levels, but I've no idea how to level myself. I've read a couple of the blurbs but I'm still quite clueless. Is it based on a word-count? Knowing the difference between a superlative and a comparative? How often you can post? How many players are required? (Though I see people looking for different level 1x1 as well and I'm always unsure whether I'm the right fit). Changing forums is more complicated than I expected it would be. I didn't expect to feel like such a noob again *hangs head in shame*.
Hello, I'm new to this site but certainly not to role-playing. I have a somewhat 'out there' request for a game. Originally I was going to write it as a story, but I think it would be much for fun as a role play! If anybody is interested that is. So I shall begin with the premise, and then go from there. Please be aware that I'm more than willing to change and alter many, many aspects of the story. After all I'm looking for a role-playing game and would like my partner to be as involved and interested as I am. It's a partnership after all!
Premise Once, long ago (in either an as of yet unspecified point in time, or a fantasy universe) there lived a King. He had many daughters but no son, in a moment of madness at the birth of his youngest daughter he proclaimed to the nation that he had had a son. Assuming that he would eventually have a son and that the small lie would stop the vultures picking him off and stealing his throne in the interim. Unfortunately he never had a son. And his daughter was raised as a prince. She was bathed and dressed alone by a few close confidants and raised outwardly as a boy. She knows the truth, a few of her closest ladies in waiting know the truth, but nobody else does. Especially not her family.
The story takes place a few years into her reign as King, and though she's often described as effeminate and a 'lesser' King, nobody suspects she's not what she seems. Her councillors have began the search into finding her a Queen and she's desperately stalling unsure of how far her secret can go. If it's found out the entire Kingdom will fall to ruin.
Now for the flesh of the story, I'd like it to be a romance. The King and a courtier/councillor who is completely oblivious to the truth and genuinely believes initially that he's falling for a man. I want lots of stolen moments, worry, character development and forbidden romance for the start -- where it goes after that is entirely up for discussion. I am happy to play either role, depending on who my partner would like to play.
Hello, I'm new to this site but certainly not to role-playing. I have a somewhat 'out there' request for a game. Originally I was going to write it as a story, but I think it would be much for fun as a role play! If anybody is interested that is. So I shall begin with the premise, and then go from there. Please be aware that I'm more than willing to change and alter many, many aspects of the story. After all I'm looking for a role-playing game and would like my partner to be as involved and interested as I am. It's a partnership after all!
Premise Once, long ago (in either an as of yet unspecified point in time, or a fantasy universe) there lived a King. He had many daughters but no son, in a moment of madness at the birth of his youngest daughter he proclaimed to the nation that he had had a son. Assuming that he would eventually have a son and that the small lie would stop the vultures picking him off and stealing his throne in the interim. Unfortunately he never had a son. And his daughter was raised as a prince. She was bathed and dressed alone by a few close confidants and raised outwardly as a boy. She knows the truth, a few of her closest ladies in waiting know the truth, but nobody else does. Especially not her family.
The story takes place a few years into her reign as King, and though she's often described as effeminate and a 'lesser' King, nobody suspects she's not what she seems. Her councillors have began the search into finding her a Queen and she's desperately stalling unsure of how far her secret can go. If it's found out the entire Kingdom will fall to ruin.
Now for the flesh of the story, I'd like it to be a romance. The King and a courtier/councillor who is completely oblivious to the truth and genuinely believes initially that he's falling for a man. I want lots of stolen moments, worry, character development and forbidden romance for the start -- where it goes after that is entirely up for discussion. I am happy to play either role, depending on who my partner would like to play.
It's been a good few (four/five) years since I've been on the guild and oh my goodness how things have changed. I even had to create a new login! Goodness. Hello anyways, I am Flick! How are you all on this fine morning.
I have always thought that Felicia and Matt Murdock would make a fantastic couple. Filled with angst and felicious (accidental typo, but upon review I've decided I like it) hot, sweaty tension, not to mention anger, stress and distrust. I'm not sure how a relationship would work between them, but I think the character development in this relationship would be amazing. I'd love to see what kind of shape they were left standing in afterwards. Unfortunately, though I've tried many a time, I've never quite got the RP formula right for this couple. Now I think I've figured out a way to make it flow and am ready to see if there's any brave soul out there who would be interested in running it through with me and seeing how things go?
I'm a comic book nerd come literature enthusiast. I love breathing life into my childhood heroes. I also enjoy writing. I type a lot. I talk a lot. You've been warned. Since I'm fairly new, I figure I'd throw up some writing samples so you can see whether or not I'm your cup of tea. Also, if any of the random blurbs catch your attention and/or interest, well so much the better.
[hider=A Sideways Spiral]
A Sideways Spiral
Prologue
As she paced along the floor her heels clicked irritatingly against the hard stone thus betraying her location without him even having to open his eyes, he counted in his head. So far he was up to three hundred and the higher he got so the more erratic and quickened her steps became. Circling him, constantly, pen scratching against the clipboard in a way that made him want to tear the thing from her hands and lodge it into her skull. Click, click, scratch. Flexing his hands against the restraints that held him fastened to the reclined chair he tried to bite back the annoyance burning inside him, he noticed too late that she had stopped moving. Crap, all that time trying to unnerve her with stillness wasted, oh well, he had been getting bored anyway.
Letting his eyes open leisurely it took him a moment to focus fully on the hazy scene, the light above him was unnaturally bright; everything else was dark in contrast, looming shadows above him and beyond further into the room which he couldnât make out. His hands were cold and damp and the sterile smell invaded his nostrils potently as it had since he had first been dragged here seventeen days ago. The florescent light above served to hinder his perception of anything further outside of the designated examination area; basically everything was in shadow except him. It also made him squint painfully because the damned thing was shining right into his eyes. They had set him up like an attraction in a zoo. The hefty straps over his legs made it impossible for him to shift position, yet another irritant as he was starting to get pins and needles in the tops of his legs. Naturally he wouldnât let them have the satisfaction of knowing he was uncomfortable.
âYouâre awakeâ she asked dubiously then paused. There was silence for a moment as he caught sight of a high heel and a long, stocking covered leg which ran up to a white lab coat. She stepped back beyond his peripheral vision and he rolled his eyes as best he could in the circumstances. There was silence in the room for another few minutes and he relished in it, wondering if it was making her uneasy that he still hadnât spoken. Then the clicking resumed again as she once more began circling him. It was amusing really, she was circling him like a predator, demonstrating some sort of power that they both knew she would not possess were he not strapped down.
Did she think she was any more inclined to break him than the other three had been? He chuckled throatily and he heard her inhale sharply which just served to engorge his mirth.
âQuestion eighty threeâ she reeled off shortly followed by the scratch, scratch of the pen against the paper. He growled and scrunched his eyes closed again as if it might shut out that sound. When he got free whoever the girl in the darkness was would pay; and picturing all the ways he might destroy her was the only thing that preserved his sanity for the remainder of the ordeal.
[/hider]
[hider=Witchery]
[i]âThere are certain things that are expected of women of our craft, certain preconceptions that pinpoint us as different, tokens that set people at ease. Things are expected of you Charlotte. You are a witch.â[/i]
The young blonde picked her way through the bracken as she always did, there were several paths leading from the small isolated cottage in the woods, well-trodden, one of them was even somewhat cobbled for a way. It was that one that led into the village, a lesser one led left to the river next to the cottage, another led into the thick woods at the back where the firewood was cut, kept and collected. Today Lottie ignored them all, choosing instead to pick her way through the trees, they were bare, it was after all not long until the winter solstice. Or Christmas as everybody else called it. They got feasts, presents, decorations, carols â Charlotte got extra chores and double the amount of firewood chopping because the old woman insisted her bones ached if the fire was not large enough to be in danger of consuming the house. Sometimes it felt more like she was a slave than an apprentice. A sigh escaped her red lips, blue eyes scanning the surroundings with a twinkle. She knew these woods better than anybody; once upon a time she had harboured fears that she might get lost in them, now she could find her way home in the blackest of nights.
It was comforting sure enough, but it was also testament to the fact that nothing [i]ever [/i]changed around here. She was trapped by her skills to a life of potion mixing, tea leaf reading and the occasional emergency callout. It was all well and good, but ever so occasionally she would look across the trees to the distant mountains and wonder; what if there was more?
Hopping over a long-fallen tree whilst still a trifle distracted, something snagged her dress and she cursed, but only quickly because then she bit her lip and poked a long, slim finger through the newest hole in her already tattered dress. She had other dresses, but this was her favourite, the hole didnât go through her underskirt though and so was mostly invisible. Dirty cream against greying white. A smirk crossed her lips for a moment, [i]Lucky Lottie[/i], it was her nickname. A rather cruel one because Charlotte was possibly the most clumsy, ham-fisted girl in existence. Always had been, Granny had once likened the probability of her mastering grace to that of a pig learning to fly. If there was a pot to be broken, or a hole to fall in somehow the blonde would manage it effortlessly. The harsh irony was however lost on the blonde and she snatched up one of the rarer ingredients off her list triumphantly, [i]drakes rot[/i], before stuffing it into the wife pocket in the apron tied around her waist. [i]What a stroke of luck that sheâd paused in just the right place.[/i]
It had been a very long time since sheâd needed to read the list, most times she knew what Granny wanted before the old woman even voiced it.
Her fingers brushed against the material also in the pocket and she rolled her eyes at the voice once more chiding in her head.
[i]âThings are expected.â[/i]
The pointed black had donned her wild curls for the briefest of moments from when she left the door, to when she was out of sight of the small cottage and then it came off. Appearance or not, it was hot and felt much heavier than it should on her head. She knew the basis behind it; witches were a very specific kind of creature and needed very specific habits. After all, if one didnât know you were a witch, how could one give you the proper berth needed to ensure you didnât have every villager banging on your door complaining about every ache and drought? Granny [i](who wasnât, in actual fact her Granny, or any blood relation to her whatsoever)[/i] had spent a lifetime ensuring that the people garnered respect for her, everybody feared the old woman, even if they werenât [i]quite[/i] sure why. That didnât stop them sending for her left right and centre though, witches were a hot commodity. Births, deaths, illnesses, locust; all apparently adequate reasons to bombard themselves upon her time. The trick to witchcraft was to do as little as possible, and make the people think youâd done even less. It was an art, [i]apparently[/i], but alas Charlotte was of a polar opposite nature to her cynical and aging mistress. The blonde brandished her unwavering optimism and goodwill on both sleeves for all to see.
It was partly the reason Granny insisted she wore the hat.
Witches couldnât seem to be eager to help; it would do horrible things to their professional reputation the world over. It would create [i]expectations[/i], which would lead to all sorts of people [i]wanting[/i] things. It was enough to make an old woman shiver. The blonde certainly didnât act like a witch, the bright beaming smile, the dimples in her cheeks, the twinkle in her bright blue eyes, even the unbreakable notion that everything would come right in the end. But Granny was too old to beat the nature out of the girl now like she had so many before her, time would do it, time always did. Luckily the young witch showed enough natural talent that her cause wasnât entirely lost, just young and ill-dispositioned to the craft.
For the time being Granny would settle for the silly girl wearing shoes.
Accompanying the sound of the steady crunch of dry leaves beneath her bare feet, was the gentle lilt of Lottieâs voice. She wasnât a particularly talented singer but what she lacked in scales she made up for in confidence. It certainly made the forest seem less gloomy during the winter months to sing whilst she was harvesting. There was also the fact that she was keeping a steady eye on the sky too, keeping track of the time, they were exceptionally busy this time of year what with all the runny noses and coughs going around, and it seemed like an age since she had last done anything but work.
But this was it, her last chore before an afternoon off. [i]A whole afternoon to herself.[/i] Yes okay, before that time came she still had to find blue mushrooms which were one of the hardest things to find at this time of year thanks to the thick covering of leaves on the ground, but she knew sheâd find them, she always did. And if fate was feeling really kind to her today, she might just cinch it in time to nab a slice of Jamesâ mumâs infamous berry pie.
[/hider]
[hider=The Lies Kings Tell]
[quote][i]The Albian King is a meek, feeble excuse for a man. He speaks little and hides behind men who dwarf him in both stature and grace. His layers of clothes, I believe are a weak attempt to hide the frailty of his body. He spends most of his time observing the court silently but always seems somewhat removed from it, interacts with few beyond his favourites. It is my genuine concern that he is more unwell than anybody will speak of. The court however is a joyous, wealthy place. And the princesses are a pleasure to behold, the oldest being Elizabeth. A wise and forward thinking man may see her the obvious choice for matrimony, but there are many a scandal and rumour surrounding her, not to mention that the people have no love for her. I have heard whispers that the King himself wishes to send her away, and though she is second in line for the throne, I could not recommend her. Catherine however is both charming, pleasant on the eye and very much in the Kingâs favour. I believe he would do anything to make her happy. I would stake my very reputation on her being the favourable choice for Your Royal Highness. I would also presume that whoever was to marry Catherine, would not be waiting very long for the Albian throne to open uncontested in the near future.
Yours Faithfully
Marlus[/i][/quote]
âWe intercepted this from our good friend The Ambassadorâ a voice snarled over the shoulder of his King. Georgeâs green eyes were still reading the words, ignoring the comments of his friend,
âSo Catherine is to have a proposalâ came the soft, lilting voice of the King of Albia. â[i]Finally[/i]. I was beginning to wonder how much more wealth I had to bestow on her in order to make her attractive.â
âShe...â there was a pause as the man behind George straightened up and chose his words carefully, âis certainly overlooked in comparison to Your Highnessâ other sisters.â
âI know, I know, sheâs like a fattened pig before harvest. But once sheâs married off I only have to worry about Elizabeth. Charlotte and Mildred will be no trouble once they're of an age, I've had requests for their hands already.â
âBut Your Majesty, I fear youâve missed the insults within the letter. Theâ he glanced around and lowered his voice â[i]treason[/i]. The mere suggestion-â
âThe point damages my ego, but nothing more. And itâs nothing that my own councillors do not fret about behind my back. Itâs why theyâre still desperately squabbling over Elizabethâs hand and have been since I was a boy. If I had everybody who foretold my death executed, then I would have no Kingdom. Catherine will be married, [i]finally[/i]. That is a victory in itself. Make sure the letter doesnât appear tampered with.â
âYou want us to send it?â
âOf course. I didnât spend thousands of pounds and throw away three titles just to have the ambassador return home [i]without [/i]condoning the marriage.â
âI donât like it.â
âJamesâ The King softened his voice and stood up, he barely came up to the shoulder of James who was over six foot tall. âPlease donât take it to heart, this is the best outcome. And lets be honest here, we both know I am not an exceptionally virile specimen of a man.â
âYouâll get there. Youâre still young yet.â
âThat may well be, but for now, let it lie. Iâd like some time to rest, could you see that the letter is delivered properly and push back my afternoon appointments by an hour or so? Also tell the kitchen servants Iâll have lunch in my rooms.â
âYes, sire.â The hesitation was obvious but James wasnât going to ignore a direct order from his King, he may be his Uncle, and he may have been his regent for a few years, but he wasnât so blinded by affection that he would go against express commands. With a nod, eyes full of disapproval, he left the Kingâs offices and disappeared into the castle.
When he left, George sighed heavily and wandered over to the mirror. At nineteen years old The King knew he would not blossom into a man, his voice would not break and deepen, his height would not suddenly shoot up. Unlike the rest of the world however, he understood why. Gritting his teeth and shrugging off his thick cloak, he moved from the office into his own private living chambers, there was already a fire burning strongly to keep out the October chill. His long, slender fingers moved over the ties of his cotton shirt and pulled it off, dropping it to the floor. Beneath that he wore another shirt, this one of stiff boned leather. Unfastening that at the back, where it had been pulled tight, he dropped that to the floor too. There was a grimace as he fingered the red welts left on his hips by the unyielding corset. Beneath that again, wrapped as tightly as he could bear, was multiple feet of stiff cotton. Slowly he unravelled them from his chest, it was only when they fell to the floor that he could breathe, move, [i]relax[/i].
George rolled his neck and rubbed his shoulders tenderly, hands moving down to his now bare chest where he kneaded the bruised and sore flesh of full, finally free breasts. Catching sight of himself in the glass of the window he shared a wry smile with himself. Soft shoulder-length red hair, high cheekbones, sparkling green eyes, soft rounded jaw and a pixie nose looked much better on a figure with pert, supple breasts.
What would her life be like if her father hadnât announced that he had a son instead of the daughter he actually had? Would she be more desirable than her sisters? Would she be married? Off being ruled by a husband somewhere. Having children?
Well, she certainly wouldnât be running the country, and the mind boggled as to what it would be like under her sisterâs rule. This here was the best kept secret in the entire land, she was the best kept secret.
Dropping down onto the chair in front of the fire, she crossed her legs beneath her, pulling her sword and belt off and dropping them next to the chair. The warmth from the flames felt amazing on her bare skin. Finally, she could have a moment to herself, let her thoughts wander to where they wanted to be, on the man she hadnât dared see all day. The most important person in the Kingdom and she was running scared of a elevated, low-born brawler. She mustnât let things go further, one kiss, one stupid kiss. Her first moment of unbridled stupidity, and there it had to stop. No matter that she hadnât thought of anything but him for a year. No matter that every part of her longed for him. Ached. She was a King to him. And must remain so. They were lucky they hadnât been caught. An effeminate King was bad enough, perceived homosexuality was enough to lose her the throne entirely.
Her mind replayed the kiss over and over, the desperate rush, the confusion, the disgust in his eyes when he'd pulled away. She'd run then, before he could speak, through the castle and to the safety of guards where he could not confront her. Or tell her it was a mistake. She traced her fingers along her lips gently, as if the ghost of the memory might still be there.
Her life for the health of her Kingdom.
It wasnât much of a sacrifice if she said it like that.
She would be remembered throughout history, immortal, sheâd brought the Kingdom to a new age of riches and strength, they were no longer a laughing stock to the world but a power in their own right. What decent monarch would put their own happiness, relief, feelings before that? She had to sustain it. She had to remain King George, uncontested, undoubted.
A tentative knock from the door brought her out of her thoughts, she tensed immediately, everybody knew to not walk in on the King without an express invitation. It was one of the first things she had hammered home within her court, still, she got nervous every time somebody knocked. All it would take was one time, one mistake, one accident and everything would fall apart.
âYour Majesty?â Came another soft voice and she relaxed,
âCome in Celiaâ she spoke gently, from the servantâs doors crept in one of her best friends. She wasnât a servant by any means, in fact she was the daughter of one of the oldest families in the Kingdom and widely rumoured to be the Kingâs mistress. But it didnât do any good to lend credence to the rumours and so she often used the servantâs entrances into the Kingâs rooms to avoid shaming her own name. Yet another person sucked into the lie. Celia had attended George since they were children and had been only one of two girls raised within the then-Princeâs household.
âYou must be freezingâ she tutted, âcome on, letâs get you dressed. Iâve heard that Grisham is on the warpath and looking for you to go over the accounts.â
âGrisham, bastard doesnât give me a spare minute.â
âGeorgieâ she hissed, âyou might have free reign to swear like a man, but not in front of me.â
âCome at me with those bandages and Iâll be swearing [i]at[/i] you.â
âOh. I could just leave if you like?â She indicated to the door, âI hear lots of Kings parade around with their titties out.â Celia bit back, George raised an eyebrow archly before rolling her eyes and grinning broadly.
âSwearing like a man my arse, I learnt it all from you.â And King George stood up, sacrificing her comfort once more, and allowed her best friend in the whole world to strap her into her outfit of state. She could take the discomfort, she could take the loneliness, she could survive it all, as long as she avoided him.
[/hider]
<div style="white-space:pre-wrap;">I'm a comic book nerd come literature enthusiast. I love breathing life into my childhood heroes. I also enjoy writing. I type a lot. I talk a lot. You've been warned. Since I'm fairly new, I figure I'd throw up some writing samples so you can see whether or not I'm your cup of tea. Also, if any of the random blurbs catch your attention and/or interest, well so much the better.<br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="A Sideways Spiral">A Sideways Spiral [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none">A Sideways Spiral<br><br>Prologue<br>As she paced along the floor her heels clicked irritatingly against the hard stone thus betraying her location without him even having to open his eyes, he counted in his head. So far he was up to three hundred and the higher he got so the more erratic and quickened her steps became. Circling him, constantly, pen scratching against the clipboard in a way that made him want to tear the thing from her hands and lodge it into her skull. Click, click, scratch. Flexing his hands against the restraints that held him fastened to the reclined chair he tried to bite back the annoyance burning inside him, he noticed too late that she had stopped moving. Crap, all that time trying to unnerve her with stillness wasted, oh well, he had been getting bored anyway.<br><br>Letting his eyes open leisurely it took him a moment to focus fully on the hazy scene, the light above him was unnaturally bright; everything else was dark in contrast, looming shadows above him and beyond further into the room which he couldnât make out. His hands were cold and damp and the sterile smell invaded his nostrils potently as it had since he had first been dragged here seventeen days ago. The florescent light above served to hinder his perception of anything further outside of the designated examination area; basically everything was in shadow except him. It also made him squint painfully because the damned thing was shining right into his eyes. They had set him up like an attraction in a zoo. The hefty straps over his legs made it impossible for him to shift position, yet another irritant as he was starting to get pins and needles in the tops of his legs. Naturally he wouldnât let them have the satisfaction of knowing he was uncomfortable.<br><br>âYouâre awakeâ she asked dubiously then paused. There was silence for a moment as he caught sight of a high heel and a long, stocking covered leg which ran up to a white lab coat. She stepped back beyond his peripheral vision and he rolled his eyes as best he could in the circumstances. There was silence in the room for another few minutes and he relished in it, wondering if it was making her uneasy that he still hadnât spoken. Then the clicking resumed again as she once more began circling him. It was amusing really, she was circling him like a predator, demonstrating some sort of power that they both knew she would not possess were he not strapped down. <br><br>Did she think she was any more inclined to break him than the other three had been? He chuckled throatily and he heard her inhale sharply which just served to engorge his mirth.<br><br>âQuestion eighty threeâ she reeled off shortly followed by the scratch, scratch of the pen against the paper. He growled and scrunched his eyes closed again as if it might shut out that sound. When he got free whoever the girl in the darkness was would pay; and picturing all the ways he might destroy her was the only thing that preserved his sanity for the remainder of the ordeal.</div></div><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="Witchery">Witchery [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><span class="bb-i">âThere are certain things that are expected of women of our craft, certain preconceptions that pinpoint us as different, tokens that set people at ease. Things are expected of you Charlotte. You are a witch.â</span><br><br>The young blonde picked her way through the bracken as she always did, there were several paths leading from the small isolated cottage in the woods, well-trodden, one of them was even somewhat cobbled for a way. It was that one that led into the village, a lesser one led left to the river next to the cottage, another led into the thick woods at the back where the firewood was cut, kept and collected. Today Lottie ignored them all, choosing instead to pick her way through the trees, they were bare, it was after all not long until the winter solstice. Or Christmas as everybody else called it. They got feasts, presents, decorations, carols â Charlotte got extra chores and double the amount of firewood chopping because the old woman insisted her bones ached if the fire was not large enough to be in danger of consuming the house. Sometimes it felt more like she was a slave than an apprentice. A sigh escaped her red lips, blue eyes scanning the surroundings with a twinkle. She knew these woods better than anybody; once upon a time she had harboured fears that she might get lost in them, now she could find her way home in the blackest of nights.<br><br>It was comforting sure enough, but it was also testament to the fact that nothing <span class="bb-i">ever </span>changed around here. She was trapped by her skills to a life of potion mixing, tea leaf reading and the occasional emergency callout. It was all well and good, but ever so occasionally she would look across the trees to the distant mountains and wonder; what if there was more? <br><br>Hopping over a long-fallen tree whilst still a trifle distracted, something snagged her dress and she cursed, but only quickly because then she bit her lip and poked a long, slim finger through the newest hole in her already tattered dress. She had other dresses, but this was her favourite, the hole didnât go through her underskirt though and so was mostly invisible. Dirty cream against greying white. A smirk crossed her lips for a moment, <span class="bb-i">Lucky Lottie</span>, it was her nickname. A rather cruel one because Charlotte was possibly the most clumsy, ham-fisted girl in existence. Always had been, Granny had once likened the probability of her mastering grace to that of a pig learning to fly. If there was a pot to be broken, or a hole to fall in somehow the blonde would manage it effortlessly. The harsh irony was however lost on the blonde and she snatched up one of the rarer ingredients off her list triumphantly, <span class="bb-i">drakes rot</span>, before stuffing it into the wife pocket in the apron tied around her waist. <span class="bb-i">What a stroke of luck that sheâd paused in just the right place.</span> <br><br>It had been a very long time since sheâd needed to read the list, most times she knew what Granny wanted before the old woman even voiced it. <br><br>Her fingers brushed against the material also in the pocket and she rolled her eyes at the voice once more chiding in her head.<br><br><span class="bb-i">âThings are expected.â</span><br><br>The pointed black had donned her wild curls for the briefest of moments from when she left the door, to when she was out of sight of the small cottage and then it came off. Appearance or not, it was hot and felt much heavier than it should on her head. She knew the basis behind it; witches were a very specific kind of creature and needed very specific habits. After all, if one didnât know you were a witch, how could one give you the proper berth needed to ensure you didnât have every villager banging on your door complaining about every ache and drought? Granny <span class="bb-i">(who wasnât, in actual fact her Granny, or any blood relation to her whatsoever)</span> had spent a lifetime ensuring that the people garnered respect for her, everybody feared the old woman, even if they werenât <span class="bb-i">quite</span> sure why. That didnât stop them sending for her left right and centre though, witches were a hot commodity. Births, deaths, illnesses, locust; all apparently adequate reasons to bombard themselves upon her time. The trick to witchcraft was to do as little as possible, and make the people think youâd done even less. It was an art, <span class="bb-i">apparently</span>, but alas Charlotte was of a polar opposite nature to her cynical and aging mistress. The blonde brandished her unwavering optimism and goodwill on both sleeves for all to see.<br><br>It was partly the reason Granny insisted she wore the hat.<br><br>Witches couldnât seem to be eager to help; it would do horrible things to their professional reputation the world over. It would create <span class="bb-i">expectations</span>, which would lead to all sorts of people <span class="bb-i">wanting</span> things. It was enough to make an old woman shiver. The blonde certainly didnât act like a witch, the bright beaming smile, the dimples in her cheeks, the twinkle in her bright blue eyes, even the unbreakable notion that everything would come right in the end. But Granny was too old to beat the nature out of the girl now like she had so many before her, time would do it, time always did. Luckily the young witch showed enough natural talent that her cause wasnât entirely lost, just young and ill-dispositioned to the craft. <br><br>For the time being Granny would settle for the silly girl wearing shoes.<br><br>Accompanying the sound of the steady crunch of dry leaves beneath her bare feet, was the gentle lilt of Lottieâs voice. She wasnât a particularly talented singer but what she lacked in scales she made up for in confidence. It certainly made the forest seem less gloomy during the winter months to sing whilst she was harvesting. There was also the fact that she was keeping a steady eye on the sky too, keeping track of the time, they were exceptionally busy this time of year what with all the runny noses and coughs going around, and it seemed like an age since she had last done anything but work. <br><br>But this was it, her last chore before an afternoon off. <span class="bb-i">A whole afternoon to herself.</span> Yes okay, before that time came she still had to find blue mushrooms which were one of the hardest things to find at this time of year thanks to the thick covering of leaves on the ground, but she knew sheâd find them, she always did. And if fate was feeling really kind to her today, she might just cinch it in time to nab a slice of Jamesâ mumâs infamous berry pie.</div></div><br><br><div class="hider-panel"><div class="hider-heading"><button type="button" class="btn btn-default btn-xs hider-button" data-name="The Lies Kings Tell">The Lies Kings Tell [+]</button></div><div class="hider-body" style="display: none"><blockquote class="bb-quote"><span class="bb-i">The Albian King is a meek, feeble excuse for a man. He speaks little and hides behind men who dwarf him in both stature and grace. His layers of clothes, I believe are a weak attempt to hide the frailty of his body. He spends most of his time observing the court silently but always seems somewhat removed from it, interacts with few beyond his favourites. It is my genuine concern that he is more unwell than anybody will speak of. The court however is a joyous, wealthy place. And the princesses are a pleasure to behold, the oldest being Elizabeth. A wise and forward thinking man may see her the obvious choice for matrimony, but there are many a scandal and rumour surrounding her, not to mention that the people have no love for her. I have heard whispers that the King himself wishes to send her away, and though she is second in line for the throne, I could not recommend her. Catherine however is both charming, pleasant on the eye and very much in the Kingâs favour. I believe he would do anything to make her happy. I would stake my very reputation on her being the favourable choice for Your Royal Highness. I would also presume that whoever was to marry Catherine, would not be waiting very long for the Albian throne to open uncontested in the near future.<br>Yours Faithfully<br>Marlus</span></blockquote><br><br>âWe intercepted this from our good friend The Ambassadorâ a voice snarled over the shoulder of his King. Georgeâs green eyes were still reading the words, ignoring the comments of his friend, <br><br>âSo Catherine is to have a proposalâ came the soft, lilting voice of the King of Albia. â<span class="bb-i">Finally</span>. I was beginning to wonder how much more wealth I had to bestow on her in order to make her attractive.â<br><br>âShe...â there was a pause as the man behind George straightened up and chose his words carefully, âis certainly overlooked in comparison to Your Highnessâ other sisters.â<br><br>âI know, I know, sheâs like a fattened pig before harvest. But once sheâs married off I only have to worry about Elizabeth. Charlotte and Mildred will be no trouble once they're of an age, I've had requests for their hands already.â<br><br>âBut Your Majesty, I fear youâve missed the insults within the letter. Theâ he glanced around and lowered his voice â<span class="bb-i">treason</span>. The mere suggestion-â<br><br>âThe point damages my ego, but nothing more. And itâs nothing that my own councillors do not fret about behind my back. Itâs why theyâre still desperately squabbling over Elizabethâs hand and have been since I was a boy. If I had everybody who foretold my death executed, then I would have no Kingdom. Catherine will be married, <span class="bb-i">finally</span>. That is a victory in itself. Make sure the letter doesnât appear tampered with.â<br><br>âYou want us to send it?â<br><br>âOf course. I didnât spend thousands of pounds and throw away three titles just to have the ambassador return home <span class="bb-i">without </span>condoning the marriage.â<br><br>âI donât like it.â <br><br>âJamesâ The King softened his voice and stood up, he barely came up to the shoulder of James who was over six foot tall. âPlease donât take it to heart, this is the best outcome. And lets be honest here, we both know I am not an exceptionally virile specimen of a man.â <br><br>âYouâll get there. Youâre still young yet.â<br><br>âThat may well be, but for now, let it lie. Iâd like some time to rest, could you see that the letter is delivered properly and push back my afternoon appointments by an hour or so? Also tell the kitchen servants Iâll have lunch in my rooms.â <br><br>âYes, sire.â The hesitation was obvious but James wasnât going to ignore a direct order from his King, he may be his Uncle, and he may have been his regent for a few years, but he wasnât so blinded by affection that he would go against express commands. With a nod, eyes full of disapproval, he left the Kingâs offices and disappeared into the castle. <br><br>When he left, George sighed heavily and wandered over to the mirror. At nineteen years old The King knew he would not blossom into a man, his voice would not break and deepen, his height would not suddenly shoot up. Unlike the rest of the world however, he understood why. Gritting his teeth and shrugging off his thick cloak, he moved from the office into his own private living chambers, there was already a fire burning strongly to keep out the October chill. His long, slender fingers moved over the ties of his cotton shirt and pulled it off, dropping it to the floor. Beneath that he wore another shirt, this one of stiff boned leather. Unfastening that at the back, where it had been pulled tight, he dropped that to the floor too. There was a grimace as he fingered the red welts left on his hips by the unyielding corset. Beneath that again, wrapped as tightly as he could bear, was multiple feet of stiff cotton. Slowly he unravelled them from his chest, it was only when they fell to the floor that he could breathe, move, <span class="bb-i">relax</span>. <br><br>George rolled his neck and rubbed his shoulders tenderly, hands moving down to his now bare chest where he kneaded the bruised and sore flesh of full, finally free breasts. Catching sight of himself in the glass of the window he shared a wry smile with himself. Soft shoulder-length red hair, high cheekbones, sparkling green eyes, soft rounded jaw and a pixie nose looked much better on a figure with pert, supple breasts. <br><br>What would her life be like if her father hadnât announced that he had a son instead of the daughter he actually had? Would she be more desirable than her sisters? Would she be married? Off being ruled by a husband somewhere. Having children? <br><br>Well, she certainly wouldnât be running the country, and the mind boggled as to what it would be like under her sisterâs rule. This here was the best kept secret in the entire land, she was the best kept secret. <br><br>Dropping down onto the chair in front of the fire, she crossed her legs beneath her, pulling her sword and belt off and dropping them next to the chair. The warmth from the flames felt amazing on her bare skin. Finally, she could have a moment to herself, let her thoughts wander to where they wanted to be, on the man she hadnât dared see all day. The most important person in the Kingdom and she was running scared of a elevated, low-born brawler. She mustnât let things go further, one kiss, one stupid kiss. Her first moment of unbridled stupidity, and there it had to stop. No matter that she hadnât thought of anything but him for a year. No matter that every part of her longed for him. Ached. She was a King to him. And must remain so. They were lucky they hadnât been caught. An effeminate King was bad enough, perceived homosexuality was enough to lose her the throne entirely. <br><br>Her mind replayed the kiss over and over, the desperate rush, the confusion, the disgust in his eyes when he'd pulled away. She'd run then, before he could speak, through the castle and to the safety of guards where he could not confront her. Or tell her it was a mistake. She traced her fingers along her lips gently, as if the ghost of the memory might still be there.<br><br>Her life for the health of her Kingdom.<br><br>It wasnât much of a sacrifice if she said it like that.<br><br>She would be remembered throughout history, immortal, sheâd brought the Kingdom to a new age of riches and strength, they were no longer a laughing stock to the world but a power in their own right. What decent monarch would put their own happiness, relief, feelings before that? She had to sustain it. She had to remain King George, uncontested, undoubted.<br><br>A tentative knock from the door brought her out of her thoughts, she tensed immediately, everybody knew to not walk in on the King without an express invitation. It was one of the first things she had hammered home within her court, still, she got nervous every time somebody knocked. All it would take was one time, one mistake, one accident and everything would fall apart.<br><br>âYour Majesty?â Came another soft voice and she relaxed, <br><br>âCome in Celiaâ she spoke gently, from the servantâs doors crept in one of her best friends. She wasnât a servant by any means, in fact she was the daughter of one of the oldest families in the Kingdom and widely rumoured to be the Kingâs mistress. But it didnât do any good to lend credence to the rumours and so she often used the servantâs entrances into the Kingâs rooms to avoid shaming her own name. Yet another person sucked into the lie. Celia had attended George since they were children and had been only one of two girls raised within the then-Princeâs household. <br><br>âYou must be freezingâ she tutted, âcome on, letâs get you dressed. Iâve heard that Grisham is on the warpath and looking for you to go over the accounts.â<br><br>âGrisham, bastard doesnât give me a spare minute.â<br><br>âGeorgieâ she hissed, âyou might have free reign to swear like a man, but not in front of me.â<br><br>âCome at me with those bandages and Iâll be swearing <span class="bb-i">at</span> you.â<br><br>âOh. I could just leave if you like?â She indicated to the door, âI hear lots of Kings parade around with their titties out.â Celia bit back, George raised an eyebrow archly before rolling her eyes and grinning broadly.<br><br>âSwearing like a man my arse, I learnt it all from you.â And King George stood up, sacrificing her comfort once more, and allowed her best friend in the whole world to strap her into her outfit of state. She could take the discomfort, she could take the loneliness, she could survive it all, as long as she avoided him.</div></div><br><br></div>
Member
