308,745,531 2011
30,874,553.10 2012
27,787,097.79 2035
33,344,517.35 2050
40,013,420.82 2060
48,016,104.98 2070
57,619,325.98 2080
69,143,191.17 2090
82,971,829.41 2100
91,269,012.35 2110
100,395,913.58 2120
110,435,504.94 2130
121,479,055.44 2140
133,626,960.98 2150
…probably not with actual fractions of a person.
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Drausus the warlord lived in an impenetrable fort on the top of an unclimbable cliff and ruled over his territory with an iron fist and a stone heart. Or, at least, he had.
Drausus commanded the farmers to grow enough for themselves and then enough for him, and those that did not, he put to work in the mines, pulling out steel and gold. Or, at least, he had.
He took his pick of the finest of the young people to warm his bed and keep him company and if they were lucky, when he was done with them he’d arrange a marriage with a member of his personal army. Or, at least, he had.
The woman, the hero, had climbed the unclimbable cliff, bypassed the well-bribed army, penetrated the impenetrable fort, and beaten the unbeatable warlord. She had done the first with tools he had never seen, the second with stealth he hadn’t thought of, the third with a little bit of both – and the fourth, Drausus had to believe was witchcraft and dishonesty and nothing more. She couldn’t have been that good at everything.
She couldn’t be that good at everything. Because if she was, Drausus was never going to escape.
“The rules are simple.” The hero-woman-thing was pacing in front of him. It turned out, Drausus had quickly learned, that the abandoned old fort on the other hillside was neither abandoned nor that old. “You will do as I say, in the manner of our people. When you do not, you will be punished. When you do, you will be rewarded.”
Drausus snarled. “And then what?”
“And then?” She pulled up a chair and smiled at him. “There is no ‘and then.’ I don’t imagine you’ll suddenly become a nice guy, or a good warlord. But I imagine, with a lot of practice, and possibly a few shocks to the system now and then, you could become an obedient one.”
This may be fae apoc.
If you’d like to see more of this story, there is definitely more to be written! Just drop a tip in the the tip handcuffs:
We are as of this posting, $17 from three more prompters getting an extra 500-word story, and $35 from a rug for my cave!
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Previous: The Rescue? Continues?
First: A Rescue, of Sorts.
“Was it really that obvious?” Daxton let the mercenary woman half-guide and half-help him into the hunting cabin. He couldn’t have run away if he’d wanted to and, concerned as she was with the ransom, she’d probably catch him. “I mean, that I’m not interested in…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the sentence the way she had, interested in rutting. “Um. Bedroom games? I thought I hid it pretty well.”
She opened the door with her foot. “You flirted with married women, grandmothers, great-great-grandmothers, and the occasional woman devoted to the gods. In other words, you were immensely friendly with anyone who would never take you up on it.”
“…You really noticed that?”
“I was looking.”
“I never noticed you.“
“Well, you’re not supposed to, are you? I mean, you’re the Duke’s son and I’m a mercenary. But I had reason, too.” She helped Daxton to a chair – a surprisingly sturdy one, that looked big enough to hold a bear comfortably. “I’m going to see to the horses. I’ll be just a moment.”
“But what was your reason?” He found himself calling after her back.
“We’ll get to that. Horses first.”
Daxton took the moment to look around the cabin. His first thought had been hunting cabin, the sort of place that nobility took to when they wanted to go deep into the woods. But this place was, while every bit as sturdily built as his father’s cabins, small, hardly bigger than the dungeon room Daxton had spent the last three seasons in.
It was a study in contrasts – tiny, but sturdy, everything made of humble materials and dull, faded dyes, but everything made with care and very very well. It was more comfortable, he supposed, than a dungeon, although every bit as much of a trap. But he had no chain here, and he didn’t know what she expected of him.
Bath she’d said, and he could see the big hook where a kettle might heat up over the fireplace. He couldn’t walk very well, but it was only a few steps to the hearth, and the wood was stacked – dry, split, cured wood – within arm’s reach of that hearth.
By the time the mercenary came back, Daxton had gotten a nice little fire going. It might be the end of summer, but that did not mean the nights wouldn’t be cold.
“Good idea.” She latched the door – it had a sturdy hasp, he noted, and a bar as well – and began shedding her leather armor. “You asked why I was looking. I thought you’d figured it out already.”
Daxton shook his head. “My brothers are more handsome and before me in succession.”
“Yeah. So a woman looking to marry or bed power or looks, they’ll go after your brothers. I’m not looking to bed anyone – and in a merc company, that stands out. I bet it stands out in a Duke’s son, too, if you don’t learn to hide it.”
It finally sank in, what she’d been trying to tell him. You’re not the only one who’d rather do anything else than rut.
“I thought…” He found he was staring at her as she stripped down to her underclothes, and found that he could still not look away. “I was born early, my father always said it stunted me. I thought it stunted, you know…”
“I’ve found a few others. Not many. A farmer, an armorer, another merc – and you.” The mercenary shrugged. “I figured, when your father raised the reward to your hand in marriage, that it would kill so many birds with one stone, if only I could manage to make the throw.”
Something about the way she said it made Daxton take a second look at her face. “Those people the Red Queen said had come for me -”
“Yeah.” She sank to the floor, her knees within touching distance. “I don’t know how many she told you about, or what she said, but we lost some really good fighters.”
Daxton swallowed. “Dead?”
“Some of them. I mean – we know about some. And there was nobody else in the dungeons, so if they were captured, they weren’t kept there.” She shook her head. “They were such better fighters than me, but I knew I had to try.”
“I was – “
“You were in danger, I know. And now – well, now we get to see what your father will do.”
That was a good question. “My father keeps his word.”
“But did he really expect a common mercenary to succeed? And does he really plan to give me your hand in marriage? To let us rule the little rocky earldom by the border?” She shook her head, this time more fiercely. “If he holds true on the marriage, that will be enough.”
Daxton blinked and blinked again. “You… you want to marry me?“
“That is what I’ve been trying to get across, yeah.”
“You want to…” Daxton coughed over a sudden lump in his throat. “You don’t know me yet.”
“Of course not. Neither would any noble or rich woman your father sold you to. Neither would the Red Queen. Neither would any other merc or knight or soldier or their sister or cousin or partner who found you. But what I know is that I can marry you and give us both a little respite, and that seems like a good thing all around.”
Respite. Daxton had feared marriage – and the likely-inevitable angry dissolution of such marriage – more than he had feared the Red Queen. But this had to be a trap. “You’d get an Earldom out of it, too,” he pointed out.
“We would. And I never claimed not to be a mercenary.”
“That… that is true. But you really want to, want to marry me? Me?”
“You are the one I rescued, aren’t you?” She poked his knee gently. “You’re not a spectre or a doppelganger, are you?”
“No, no, I’m me. Daxton.” He looked up at her, an unfamiliar smile touching his lips. “That was who you were sent to find, right? Daxton?”
“The one and only. Son of Duke Tebrin and the Lady Prediwan, right?”
“That’s me.” He suppressed a chuckle. “You should know them, if you want to be their kin-by-marriage… oh, dust.” His good mood soured as quickly as it had come. “What about babies?”
“Well, there’s always gritting our teeth and bearing the necessity, which I’m told works for most people. But,” and she had not stopped smiling, although the expression now was a bit more grim, “the war with the Red Queen has left a lot of orphans, many of whom are at least ethnically similar to your family line. If we time it right, nobody will ask unfortunate questions.”
Daxton found his jaw dropping. “You really have thought of everything.”
“I told you.” She bowed, as deep and as courtly as one could manage from a sitting position. “I do my prep work.”
If you want more of this story – and there is still more just dying to be written – drop a tip in, ah, the tip handcuffs:
This story written as ![[personal profile]](http://s.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
technoshaman‘s commissioned continuation
Next: A Rescue in Hand
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“Anything else, Mistress?” The slave, tall and dressed very handsomely, bowed to Lady Lillian.
“That will be all, thank you, Brandon.” She dismissed him with a flap of her hand, negligent and casual.
“As you wish, Mistress.” He bowed again and retreated to the cushion in the corner of the solarium.
Lady Lillian turned back to her guest, an older Baroness from the next Barony over. “Isn’t he a dear?”
“He seems awfully – placid, I suppose, for an American.” Lady Rose pursed her lips. “Is he wearing a shock collar?”
“Nothing like that, no, of course not.” Lady Lillian giggled. “No, he’s a volunteer.”
“A… what? I didn’t think we had those.”
“Oh, yes. Morganna’s been working with a few underground organizations. Gay people, transgender, submissive… they can’t be who they are, in America.”
“So they submit to our collar? Tch. Are you sure he’s a lamb, dear? The way he looks, that’s more like a lion than a ‘submissive.'”
“Oh, you know how Americans are. Even their submissives have trouble giving up control. But he’s a nice boy. Speaking of nice boys, wasn’t Cody ap Gwydion visiting you last week…” Lady Lillian changed the subject deftly, and just as tidily kept her guest talking and giggling for hours.
When she had finally seen the Baroness Rose to the door, Lillian flopped on the settee. She was staring at the window, but her eyes barely tracked. Brandon picked up around her, then knelt at her feet, exactly as she had trained him to do.
“Does it ever tire you out? Pretending to be vapid and blank?” The question, unlike the kneeling, was contrary to every bit of training he had received.
Lady Lillian turned to look at him. Something like a smile crossed her lips.
“No more, I suppose, than it tires you out, pretending to be the perfect servant. And it keeps the peace.”
If he had been kneeling peacefully before, Brandon was frozen now, even his breath seeming to stop. When he found his voice, it was a croak. “How long have you known?”
“Since I found you ‘tidying’ my office. But I’d almost doubted it, until I saw you that afternoon in the garden.”
“And…” He coughed into his shoulder and tried again. “And you said nothing? Mistress?”
“And I said nothing.” She caught his chin in her hand, a gesture she’d done time after time. Neither of them missed that it was different this time. “And I will continue to say nothing, and so will you.”
If you want more – and oh, could I go on and on with these two! – drop a tip in the tip… handcuffs 😉
This is in my Tír na Cali setting, but with new characters.
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The Night Witch was, everyone knew, evil and dark and murderous and, above all, perhaps, terrifying. She ate people alive, it was said; she had paved the walk to her lair with the bones of her victims, many ground into powder over the years – decades – she had resided there. She held the entire small nation in terror, and worked great evil from her mountainside abode. The trees were twisted, it was said, for miles in every direction.
Up that mountainside, now, Candor was being dragged, past the trees, twisted and stunted and very very creepy, past the caves where the monsters were said to live, down the path of bone, which was, indeed, white and in some places powdered. They had him chained hand and foot, tricep and thigh, until he was more of a ball of chain than a Hero. They had him on a sled, dragging him up the bone path, past the black trees with their blood-red leaves. And they were taking him as a prisoner to the Night Witch.
And Candor was smiling.
Nobody could see it, of course. He was gagged – nobody would take one of his kind prisoner without a gag – and his face was pressed against his knees. The smile was more of a figure of speech than a physical expression, but Candor had stopped struggling some miles back, feigning tiredness but really just not wanting to risk breaking free too soon. He’d felt a chain wiggle, the last time he gave it a good shake. And his people were known for being strong. They should have used better chains.
The path crunched under the sled, and, though he could see very little, he could see the tibia of some woodland creature. She ate her prey alive, but that was no human bone. The minions dragging him were panting. The hill up to the Night Witch’s cave was very steep.
Candor waited. They were almost there, and, when he was brought to the Night Witch, he knew, even bound like this, his plan would work.
The sled stopped. He could see nothing but the path, but he heard a door open. He heard the murmur of proud-minion-explanation. He heard the measured footsteps that had to be the Night Witch, and he saw the white leather toes of her boots.
Candor waited. The feet paused. Candor knew the moment she realized what she was seeing, the moment she recognized the tattoos and scars on his back.
“You?!” It was a gasp, from the Witch who was unshakable.
Candor smiled. Hello, darling.
Written to ![[personal profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
inventrix‘s prompt.
This may be fae apoc.
If you’d like to see more of this story, there is definitely more to be written! Just drop a tip in the the tip handcuffs:
We are as of this posting, $17 from three more prompters getting an extra 500-word story, and $35 from a rug for my cave!
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Dungeon Call Notes
October Theme Chosen
Serials
Edally Academy Chapter Thirteen
Jumping Rings: A Story of the Circled Plain Chapter Eight: Valran
Other People
K Orion Fray’s prompt call
Clare_Dragonfly’s Patreon
In My Life
Adventures in Cooking: pancetta, porchetta
♪♪ These are a few of my favorite things…♫ ♫
Scrum
Tuesday Morning
Wednesday Morning
Giraffe Stories
Natural Prey Eamon and Addergoole
The Rescue? Continues? after A Rescue, of Sorts
Other Duties as Needed
Putting Down the Burden
Bring to the Table
Ladies’ Bingo Story
Evening in the Sunset, a story of Stranded World
Genderfunky Stories
Planet Rules
The Hazards of Magic (Aunt Family)
Clockwork Apoc Test Ficlet
Deep Deep Down in Kitty Town (for More, Please)
A Proof, of Sorts for ThimbleFul Thursday
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They had a yard.
Summer had grown up with a yard, of course, the rolling acres of the RoundTree estate, and Melinda had grown up in the ‘burbs – but Bishop had spent his whole life in apartments and high-rises.
Now, with the giant house they were renting (they’d gotten lucky, but, as Melinda pointed out, they usually got lucky when they really needed to. Summer was their good luck charm, and she was totally fine with that), they had space, they had a kitchen, and they had a back yard.
“You’re sure the landlord’s okay with a fire pit?” Bishop moved the cement pavers around one more time. “Right here look good to you?”
“I think it ought to all be one inch to the left,” Melinda teased. “Bishie, it’s fine.”
“It’s more than fine. It’s beautiful.” Summer grabbed one side of the metal pit while Melinda grabbed the other. “Just like you, Bishie.”
“I’m not entirely certain I approve of that nickname.”
“Too bad.” Melinda’s smile was the sort of brilliant warmth that always distracted Summer; whilst carrying a large metal bucket, however, was not the time to be distracted. She focused on the firepit. “And Mrs. Scrooge said it was fine. Pretty much, anything that doesn’t hurt the property is fine – including thought-out improvements – as long as our rent arrives on the first of every month before noon.”
“That specific?” Bishop belatedly hurried over, only to realize that there really wasn’t an easy way for three people to carry a round object. “Are you – do you-”
“We’re not delicate flowers, Bish.” The lilies in Melinda’s hair didn’t so much belie her assertion as highlight it. “Just spot us so we get this centered in your lovely stone circle?”
Summer could no more help the grin growing on her face than she could help the rainfall or the sun shining – less, since she knew charms for both of those. There was something about Melinda, something – fiery. “I love you.”
Sometimes, she still felt a moment of panic when she said things like that. You weren’t supposed to love the girl. You weren’t supposed to say it. She’d gotten burned before.
But Mellie just grinned back. “I know.” She made kissy faces across the firepit. “Let’s put this thing down so I can remind you exactly how much.”
“Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” It was an easy carry – it was an empty large metal bucket, it wasn’t all that heavy – and a slightly more complicated getting-it-centered dance, Bishop trying to steer and mostly failing.
And then they had all wiped their hands on their jeans – or each other’s jeans or the grass, or all three – Summer found herself being grabbed into a kiss.
She drew a luck charm in the air behind Mellie’s back, just a little boost, not that they needed it, and gave in to the kiss, a long thing, with tongue and just the right amount of nose-rubbing. Mellie had a bubble butt, as fun to squeeze as it was to watch from behind.
Bishop draped an arm around each of their shoulders, and Summer opened her eyes, realizing only then that she’d closed them. “We have a yard.” The sun was setting red and fiery behind her lovers, and they had a yard. “All is right with the world.”
This fills the “Evening” square on my ![[community profile]](http://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
ladiesbingo card and was prompted by eseme. It is set in Stranded World setting, and Bishop, Mellie, and Summer have been featured in several stories already.
556 words by http://www.wordcounter.net/
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Shonie came over for game night, the same way she always did. She brought the same things the guys did – dice, books, a habit of complaining about the rules – and the same things the other girls in the group did – which included some snacks, some bottled water, and a bribe for May, Dave Carter’s girlfriend and co-renter of the apartment in which they were gaming.
She brought something nobody else did, too – of course, in a group like this, everybody had a specialization. Shorter-Dave brought a habit of playing explosive rogues and a way of smoothing over conflicts. Jenn With All the N’s brought the half-elf girls, always the half-elf girls, and an ability to find any loophole, anywhere, everywhere. SeKDillimn brought the snake – and other things, but usually the snake. And Shonie brought Handling Dave Carter.
They were taking bets already, SekDillimn and Jenn-n-n-n and Shorter-Dave, Red and The Gangrel and Cass and the rest, about how long this one would last. It had been a month, and May was already beginning to show the edges of wear. She accepted the bribes, of course – she liked chocolate, she really, really, liked Imagine Dragons and Neil Gaiman and PS4 games – but she shifted her weight to one foot when Shonie got there, and moved closer to Dave-Carter the minute that the hug began.
It was a long hug. Shonie’s hugs were always long, longer with Dave-Carter than with, say, SekDillimn or Cass, but she ended her hug with Dave with a light punch in the arm – either not noticing or not caring that it make May flinch – and a list of demands. “Did you remember to do your homework?”
“I’m not in classes.”
“Doesn’t matter. Did you do the cat litter?”
“May did it.”
“Wrong answer.” They’d lived together for a couple years, and it seemed like Shonie forgot, sometimes, that she lived across the city now, that Dave-Carter lived with May. “Come on, did you at least remember to eat a vegetable this week?”
“Ketchup is a vegetable?”
“Dork.” Shonie flopped into her seat and May was suddenly cuddling Dave-Carter very aggressively. The group passed bets via text and pretended nobody could see them – and everyone ignored the fact that Dave’s shoulders had relaxed when Shonie hit him and he was, the way he always was when she bullied him, smiling.
May probably wouldn’t last that long. But Shonie was a constant.
Okay, first, names: That’s a combination of a friend’s childhood group (everyone is firstnamelastname) and my own gaming group from a few years back (Jen vs. Jenn-n-n-n, Other Dave and Other Jeremy, key-mash screenames and things from gaming & the SCA. We had first Bob the Gangrel & then Mark the Gangrel, so. Gangrel it is.)
This is written to whuffle‘s prompt and is not in any current setting.
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What if Aunt Family is in the same world as Fairy Town?
What if it’s in the same world as Cracks?
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