What are you Writing now?

Mondo Bungle · 09-20-2017, 08:08 PM

super short satirical horror selection

Cat Tail

Spoiler for prepare for the cliches:

Oriphiel · 09-20-2017, 08:12 PM

Yo Mondo, come meet this guy: http://www.musicbanter.com/song-writ...ml#post1875650

Mondo Bungle · 09-20-2017, 08:17 PM

ooh wow fancy talk

Trollheart · 10-20-2017, 09:04 PM

In case anyone is interested, here's the latest on what I've been writing.

CHAPTER VIII
DRAG ME TO HELL

I: The crooked pathway (i) First faltering steps

Lady Wetherwood scanned the letter twice more, her eyes moving rapidly down the paper, her hand trembling slightly, though she tried to stop the shaking. She wanted to be sure that she was in fact reading what she thought she was. Sighing, she crumpled the paper up in her fist without looking at it further and consigned it to the wastepaper basket. There was no time to devote to her own personal problems now; her friend needed her, and she was due at an assignation which she must keep. Standing up, she approached the full-length mirror and regarded her reflection. Anyone seeing her for the first time, dressed so, might, she allowed herself the tiniest smile of self-satisfaction and pride at the thought, believe her to be perhaps in her early forties, when in fact ten years and more needed to be added to that number to attain her correct age. Her hair hung loose and low, tied with a soft pink ribbon at the back, and the red hat that perched atop her head was tilted at just the right angle that polite society believed was appropriate for a woman of her years.

Her face was made-up, though not not overly so: some kohl to bring out the attributes of one of her best features, her smoky grey eyes, and the barest touch of lipstick on lips that were yet full and ripe and, she liked to think, in the proper circumstances and when she wished them to be, inviting. The slightest dusting of rouge on her cheeks completed the ensemble. She had considered using mascara, but that was for younger women, and the one thing she did not want to be seen as was an older woman trying to look younger. If people took her for younger, that was one thing. That was perception. But actively trying to deny her years, well that was just deception, and could be a dangerous game to play.

And the game she was about to play was dangerous indeed, but she must engage in it if she were to save her friend.

Her breasts, she was pleased to note, still jutted proudly, pushing against the pale pink fabric of the dress she wore. She knew women younger than her whose tits had already begun to sag, but she was lucky in that regard, and she knew men still eyed her bust hungrily as it bounced along in front of her as she walked. She had been blessed with a generous decolletage, not freakishly huge or impossible to buy a bra for, but certainly very, ah, prominent. Smoothing her hands down over her hips she turned away from the mirror, admiring the way the pink dress clung to her behind: not tight enough to make her look sluttish, but certainly enough to draw admiring glances as she passed.

The dress itself she was very proud of. Tight enough to attract attention, and centre that attention where she wished it to, it yet stopped demurely about halfway down her calf, allowing a tantalising glimpse of legs yet smooth and firm, encased in sheer black silk, but again not giving the wrong impression. She had others she could have worn if she wanted to make that sort of impact, but she was very clear in her mind about the image she wished to present, and this dress suited those intentions perfectly. The shiny black high heeled shoes that rested on her feet pinched a little, as she tended not to wear this sort of shoe very often, but they did help to push her bottom out and make her totter ever so slightly, an irresistible sight to most men, she knew full well.

Picking up her long white gloves from the dresser she drew them on slowly, stretching them until they covered most of her forearm, and then, taking her bag and hanging it lightly from her shoulder, she left the room.

It was a swelteringly hot day, and the way the fabric of her dress clung to her as she walked to the carriage, and the eyes of the men who tried to pretend they weren’t watching, pleased her, but there was more than her own sexual affirmation to think of today. The sun was high in the sky and inside the carriage was uncomfortably hot. She could feel sweat rolling down from her underarms and sliding down her legs, and squirmed slightly. She had chosen an open carriage, as to have been sealed up inside one with a roof would have felt, she expected, like climbing into an oven, and whatever annoying stains the sweat was making on her dress now, it would have been completely soaked in a very unladylike manner had she gone for the latter option.

She sat back, alone in the carriage, and thought over how she would approach this encounter. She was under no illusions that the man she now went to meet was anyone to be trifled with. Even away from his native country, Pent Zamakis was a dangerous man with a reputation for treating those who wasted his time less than kindly. She hoped that he would not consider this meeting to be such a waste of his time; she felt sure he would not, once she outlined what she had to say. But she must be careful, she knew: too much information, and there would be no bargain, as Zamakis could act on his own without needing her. Too little, and he would likely conclude she was indeed wasting his valuable and precious time, and while Pent Zamakis was known to be (at least outwardly, and in public) a gentleman, and one who would not hurt a lady, there were those in his employ who would be only too willing, indeed eager to perform such a service for their master. Women, she knew, were not held in the same high esteem in Zamakis’s country as they were, generally, here, and to have managed to have secured a meeting with him, being a woman as she was, had taken all her guile, and several important contacts.

She felt a little uncomfortable in the dress. Of late, she had taken to the current fashion of wearing pants, but she knew that the man she went now to meet had rather archaic views on how women should dress, and should she turn up in anything other than what he and his kind would consider respectable, she would likely not even be allowed into his presence. So she suffered the snug-fitting dress, but wished she had the choice. The sounds of the busy streets outside faded away as she ran over in her mind all she intended to say, how she would approach the meeting, and - possibly of more importance - what she must be careful not to say. She realised that the best move would have been to have sent some man in her place, to speak for her, but there were no men she trusted enough to share the details of her meeting with, nor indeed, any women really. In order to obtain an audience with the elusive Mister Zamakis, she had had to be quite vague on crucial points, in some cases telling outright lies. But she didn’t care: the important thing was that she got to meet this man, face to face, and put her plan into motion.

She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that it came as a shock when the carriage stopped and the driver, seeing no sign of her exiting the vehicle, called down “We’ve arrived, Your Ladyship. Do you require some assistance?”

As if waking from a dream, she shook herself and blinked, her heart fluttering slightly as she realised the time was now upon her. All those months of planning, cajoling, promising, calling in of favours, all had led to this moment, at this place. She must succeed, otherwise she was lost. And if she were lost …

“No thank you,” she snapped, “I am perfectly capable of getting down by myself.” She realised that she had spoken a little more stiffly than she had intended, but then, carriage drivers were well used to being treated as inferior by the gentry, and the man would think nothing of it. Still, she had come to her position through marriage, not by birth, and had never been comfortable being seen as anyone’s better, so she ameliorated her tone and handed the driver more than the trip cost, smiling that he should retain the surplus, which in turn put a smile on his face, and caused him to tip the brim of his hat.

“Very kind of ye, Your Ladyship,” he beamed. “Would you like me to fetch someone to escort you -” But she was already moving towards the door of the hotel outside which the carriage had stopped, so he shrugged and flicked the horses, and the carriage rumbled off down the road. Lady Wetherwood stood looking up at the sign over the hotel entrance for a moment, then calmly and resolutely walked up to the doors. Seeing a lady of obvious quality approach, the doorman bowed and opened the door for her.

Inside, she quickly scanned the lobby, but it was not difficult to locate the man she had come to see. In fact, it would have been hard to have missed him, or at least, the three burly giants who stood over him like massive oaks sheltering a shrub. She walked forward, not quickly but not slowly, purpose in her gait and no fear in her heart. The giants were attracting many an awestruck stare from those who filtered into, out of and through the hotel’s lobby, but the massive curved swords that hung at their sides kept anyone from getting too close, and many an interested gaze was suddenly turned away as a thunderous frown was directed their way.

The Batlord · 10-20-2017, 09:07 PM

Putting us into chapter 8 is kind of odd to drop on a mother****er. I've done some ****ty beta reading in my day so I guess if you want to send me something I'm cool but chapter 8 is just odd.

Trollheart · 10-20-2017, 09:20 PM

The man who sat on the couch, and over whom the titans stood, was, like them, black. But not just black. They were dark-skinned, certainly, and nobody could have denied they were black, but compared to their protectee, they were a kind of light brown. He was darker than the darkest ebony wood she had ever seen; so black, in fact, that were he to hide in a darkened room he would be completely invisible. Well, that is, if he closed his eyes and his mouth. The latter bore teeth so startlingly, brilliantly white that Lady Wetherwood fancied they must have been polished to a high shine, and wondered briefly, if this were the case, how he kept them so. When he smiled - which was not often - his teeth looked as if they could light up the darkest space. She also noted in passing that some of them seemed to have been filed down to points, which did nothing to detract from the feeling of unease you got when this man smiled upon you. He seemed the sort of man who would smile at things others would shudder at, be repulsed by.

But however white his teeth were, his eyes were whiter still, and initially she had taken them to be without pupil, but as she drew closer to him she realised that it was just very small and contracted - whether that was its normal state or not she could not tell - but it still gave his eyes an unsettling look of being nothing more than white strips of flesh cut into his face. Those eyes, she felt, could penetrate the soul and see into one’s thoughts. Perhaps this was one of the characteristics which made him such a feared man.

The three giants completely dwarfed him, but it was obvious who was in charge here, and as she came closer they turned scowling gazes upon her as one, their fierce, thick eyebrows knotting together and their eyes blazing disdain, contempt and warning. She stopped for a moment, but the smaller man barked an order in a language she did not understand, and they moved back - reluctantly it seemed - allowing her to approach the object of her rendezvous.

“Pent Zamakis, I presume?” She executed a perfect facsimile of a greeting she knew to be appropriate in his native country, which consisted basically of bowing stiffly from the waist, her eyes downcast, raising her hands, palm upwards, to demonstrate she carried no weapon.

“Girl Wetherwood,” he responded, the strain in his voice at having to actually converse with a woman evident. His expression was blank, emotionless, almost bored. “You may rise.” She did so, remarking archly

“It’s Lady actually. Lady Wetherwood.”

He smiled. She did not like it. “Of course, of course,” he grinned. “My apologies, Lady Wetherwood." There was heavy sarcasm in his pronunciation of the title. "I am afraid we have no such titles in my country, you see.” He seemed to bite down on every word, as if, again, the very act of lowering himself to converse with a female was a cause of great distress to him. It was, to her, as if he gazed upon some fantastic new beast he had never … no, that was not right. It was more as if he saw a beast he was very familiar with, but was forced, despite himself, to engage with it in a manner totally alien to him. She knew why this was so, and while she had use of the man, and would use him for her ends, she had no regard for him, and she intended to make that as plain as possible, without actually insulting him.

“I believe you have High Lords, Barons Supreme, Archdukes…?”

For a moment - a moment only - his face changed to a mask of pure fury, then it underwent several other transformations, essentially going through phases of emotion - she saw confusion, anger, disbelief, amusement and disgust - till finally settling, with some difficulty it seemed, back into its neutral aspect. He smiled, or tried to. The effect was not pleasant. She did however have to silently respect how quickly he regained his composure. At one point, he had looked like he might strike her, or order his guards to. Now, he was relaxed again, composed, if only on the outside, for she knew that inside he seethed with the rage he dared not show here.

“Ah. Yes. Of course.” She knew the root of his anger; he was positively fuming at her knowledge of his country. She! A mere woman! But he gave no outward sign and only went on to say “What I meant was, we have no such titles for women.”

“Of course.” She tried to keep the contempt she felt out of her voice. The last thing that would help her now would be - although she would have loved to have engaged in it - an argument on the rights of women where he came from. So she swallowed her pride, remembered her mission, and went on. “But in my country, we do tend to observe the social niceties. So, if you prefer you can call me Lady Wetherwood, or, if that is too much of a mouthful, Lady Beatrice will suffice as well.”

For a moment his eyes blazed with the same rage as had his bodyguards, but then he smiled and masked his fury. “Lady Beatrice, then, it shall be,” he decided. She nodded graciously. She took the time then to take note of how phenomenally small he was. She had never met a dwarf, but she fancied they could not be as short as he. He barely came up to her knee. Yet, as she well knew, size was not everything, and what he lacked in stature his huge dark guards more than compensated for. She wondered fleetingly if he were a dwarf - though she had never heard tell of any black ones - but decided it would be very impolite to ask. “I am a most busy man,” he went on, waving a hand negligently as if to indicate that she had only secured his time through his grace, and she had better not waste it. “I am still not clear on how you were aware I was in your country, yet the intelligence you bring - if genuine - could make perhaps forgive such impertinence.”

“Oh believe me, Mastra,” she said, using the formal term of address, and again causing the slightest flash of anger in his eyes, his lips twisting in the barest snarl, “I have done my research. Mastra Pent Zamakis, owner of Borderland Wood, one the the three largest logging concerns in Nabicon, heir to the fortune of his father, Trell, who passed away - rather suddenly - ten years ago.” She noted again the red fury in his eyes at the unremarked-upon but pointed reference to his father’s death, and continued. “The first - and so far, only - Nabiconian firm to expand their interests outside of that country, and swiftly growing to be the biggest landowner in Calathena, with footholds in Verthrant and Pichala which are far from negligible. Listed as one of the richest men in the world, and certainly the richest in Nabicon.”

Zamakis exchanged a look with his guards, and turned a withering glance upon the woman. “Were we in my country,” he told her darkly, “you would be severely punished for such an outrage.”

She returned the look cooly. “Well then,” she observed, “it’s fortunate indeed that we are in my country, is it not? At any event, my research did not end there. I believe you are currently the prime suspect in the - rather brutal - murder of the head of your biggest rival, Overcon Industries.”

His look of contempt and hatred could not be mistaken, nor even hidden this time, as he glared at her with the full force of those white eyes. She spoke before he could.

“Oh, I’m quite sure they have the wrong man,” she assured him with a laugh, “and that they will realise this very quickly. After all, Mastra Zamakis,” she told him, her eyes locking with his, “you are a respectable businessman, are you not? I’m quite sure you are not in the habit of literally killing the competition, hmm?” She smirked, and knew that he wanted nothing more badly at that moment than to smash her in the face, but he was not in Calathena now, and he had to restrain himself. Rich and powerful though he was, the authorities here would not stand for an unprovoked attack on a member of the upper classes. So, though he had to grind his teeth to do so, he smiled tightly back at her.

“There can be no doubt it is so,” he agreed. But she realised he was sweating. “Dasha!” he snapped, with fury in his voice, misdirected as it was. “Abarahha! Simpa!” One of the giants hurried off, and wordlessly returned with a tall glass of sparkling water on a tray, which Zamakis snatched rudely from him and, upending it, tipped the entire contents down his throat in one gulp. As he belched loudly - completely failing to excuse himself - Lady Beatrice remarked

“They don’t say much, do they? Your men I mean? Some vow of silence, code of honour?” she hazarded. He smiled a wolfish smile.

“I believe it is most difficult, Girl - ah, Lady Beatrice, for one to speak when one’s tongue has been removed.”

She gasped. “How awful!” He leaned a little closer. She could smell his musk. She did not like it.

“I prize loyalty above all other things, Lady Beatrice,” he told her. “But men are fickle, and coin talks louder than any Mastra. However, the man who cannot talk, cannot betray my secrets, or myself. This is how I prefer it. So all my guards have their tongues removed before entering my service.”

Beatrice glanced at the fierce brutes, for the first time with sympathy and pity. Zamakis’s reputation for casual cruelty was not exaggerated, it seemed. He saw how she looked at him, frowned (more, she thought, at the idea that a mere woman might criticise him than anything else) and added “It is performed with their permission, of course, Lady Beatrice. I am not,” he smiled that awful smile, “a monster, after all. I do however,” and he rubbed his fingers together in a gesture understood on any continent, “pay very handsomely.” He leaned forward suddenly, grabbing her arm. “I would pay much, Lady Beatrice, to entice you to my bed. I would pay,” his eyes grew very large and very white, almost as if to swallow her whole, “any price you would care to name.”

Trollheart · 10-20-2017, 09:22 PM

Quote:

Originally Posted by The Batlord

Putting us into chapter 8 is kind of odd to drop on a mother****er. I've done some ****ty beta reading in my day so I guess if you want to send me something I'm cool but chapter 8 is just odd.

Well a lot of my stuff is still subject to change, and this more or less kind of begins a whole scenario without too much reference to anything that has gone before, so I feel it's ok to share it with you. My writing goes through so much editing and rewrites it's hard to find something that I can say is finished to the point where I'm pretty much satisfied with it, but this one is coming along nicely.

Trollheart · 10-20-2017, 09:34 PM

She considered drawing back, slapping him for his impertinence, but she wasn’t altogether sure his mute giant guards might not take that as a sign of an attack upon their master, and then, well, she could be in real trouble! It would be some moments before any Blues could arrive here, and even then, she felt none of the locals would be a match for one of these brutes, never mind three. By then, her head would most likely have been sundered from her body, which really did not fit in with her carefully-laid plans. Instead, she gently but quite firmly removed his hand, and then, attempting to steer the conversation into calmer waters, remarked “You seem to have quite a thirst, Mastra. But then,” she allowed, “it is uncommonly hot today.”

He barked a sharp laugh in which there was no mirth, just contempt and disdain. “Hot?” he repeated. “Hot? You call this hot? Why, on a day like this, back home people would shiver and draw close to their fires, and wonder when summer was due. I assure you, Lady Beatrice, if you but once experienced a summer - even a spring! - in Tal Ranathat, my home city, you would never call such weather as today hot. Hah!” He shook his head, as if at the stupidity of a child. “Hot!” he repeated, then, looking at the guards, rolled off a stream of unintelligible syllables in his native tongue, to which the men responded by grinning. They probably would have laughed, but it’s hard to do that without a tongue. Whether they found what Zamakis had told them (presumably he was relating how the stupid bitch thought it was hot today) funny or not, they doubtless followed that old maxim: if the boss thinks it’s funny, it’s funny. No doubt, had he expressed sadness or anger, they would have been mirrors of his emotions; whatever was required. Men like these had little need of independent thinking.

Or tongues, she thought acidly.

But her attempt to change the subject had served its purpose in diverting Pent Zamakis from his amorous attentions towards her, and now she declared, in a clipped, businesslike tone (if nothing else, to dissuade him from further advances) “Well now, Mastra Zamakis. You have travelled far and given of your valuable time to me, so shall we discuss our arrangement?”

And so they did.

On the way back to her home she questioned everything. Was she doing the right thing? Could she trust the man? Would this work? She had a thousand doubts, but could really see no other way out of her predicament. She did not like it, but it was a necessary evil, and if she must make this pact then so be it, as long as it achieved the desired effect. Other thoughts came to her mind too, particularly related to the letter she had been reading before departing that morning, but she shoved them to one side, as she had then. There was no time for personal issues at the moment. Such things could be dealt with later. Right now she must concentrate on her plan, and hope that it worked.

She felt a little isolated, a little lonely without anyone to share her plot with, but nobody else must know. For this to work, only she must be privy to the details. Zamakis was not a stupid man - he was cruel, arrogant, dismissive, almost certainly a murderer - but not stupid. He had not survived as long in the logging game as he had without understanding the nature of business transactions, and this was just that. He wanted something, she had it, and he would in return give her something she wanted, that he did not have, but could deliver into her hands.

Was she being a fool? she asked herself, not for the first time. Why was she going to all this trouble, taking all these risks? What did it benefit her, in the long run? But deep in her heart she knew the answer, and it was simple and plain as the sunrise. And it was enough for her. If her plans fell apart, and what she hoped for did not come to pass, then she would face that failure when it happened, and not anticipate it. Optimism was the only course she could follow now; perhaps blind optimism, but she had laid her plans carefully enough that she believed there was a very good chance of all working out. There was also, of course, a chance that everything could come unstuck, all come crashing down about her ears, but that was a risk she was willing to take.

She would risk anything, for her.

The horses pulling the carriage cantered through the huge iron gates that formed the boundary of the grounds of her home, and clopped their way up along the wide, winding pathway that led up to the door of the mansion. All around her the scent of honeysuckle, jasmine and red roses perfumed the air, and bird sang in the trees which lined the avenue, the faint plop of fish moving in the small lake just barely audible in the distance. As the carriage drew up outside the door she noticed with sinking heart there was one there already, and knew what to expect. She recognised the emblem engraved on the side, and even if she had not, the words Galt and Simpson, Attorneys-at-Law, made plain the purpose of its passenger’s visit. She sighed, and passing coins to the driver of her carriage dismounted and swept in the door.

She had the poor timing to encounter, as she entered, the tall, spare frame of Saul Galt, senior Partner at the law firm of Galt and Simpson, who bade her a curt “Good afternoon, Your Ladyship” as he stalked by. Had Lady Beatrice been unaware of Saul Galt’s profession, she might have taken him for an undertaker. He was very tall and thin, almost to the point of seeming emaciation, with a narrow head which sported a narrow, curved nose which always put her in mind of a bird of prey; dark, unblinking eyes, hard as flint, and a thin, almost lipless mouth that she had never, in their twenty years’ association with the firm, through good times and bad, witnessed turn up in a smile. Galt wore a tall hat which if anything only reinforced the misidentification of him as a man who made his living burying the dead - Saul Galt and his partner were more in the habit of burying the living, under piles of paperwork and legal jargon, and many a man and woman had died under such a burden - and his long, dark coat flapped as he hurried from the house, like dark wings, again giving him the aspect of some bird of prey. A vulture, she had long decided, suited him best.

Passing into the hall, she was greeted, with much more sincere regard, by her maidservant, who took her cloak and hat and withdrew, giving way to another who appeared, almost as if on command, with a tray on which rested a tall tumbler of liquid. She sighed, indicating down the long dark hallway.

“The library, please, Susan,” she said, not looking up, and beginning to walk in that direction so rapidly that the servant had to move herself, to ensure she did not accidentally walk into her. “I have much research yet to do today.”

Privately, Susan thought to herself that it was very warm indeed today, and it would suit Her Ladyship far better to be out in the garden, that whatever books she required could easily be brought out to her there, but traditionally servants are supposed to only speak when spoken to, and as there had been no room in Her Ladyship’s order for ambiguity or question, Susan kept her thoughts and her opinions to herself and scurried to do as she was bid.

Beatrice had only managed to make her way through two pages of A Cry For Help: An Indictment of the State of Women’s Rights in Nabicon before the library door crashed open and a figure stepped through, a figure she knew all too well, though she might wish she did not.

“Where the hell have you been, woman?” snapped the newcomer, a man, standing with his hands on his hips in an attitude that demanded attention, and more, response. She did not look up from her book; in fact, as she spoke she carefully wrote something down on a pad beside her, before turning the page.

“I went out to see a friend,” she lied. “Is there a problem, Nathan?”

“ A friend!” The sneer this Nathan greeted her answer with spoke volumes. “You don’t have any friends, Beatrice. Not any more. All your friends have abandoned you.”

“Have they?” She affected a bored, unconcerned attitude, though she knew her husband was correct. And despite her attempts not to show it, fuck it, it hurt! But she would be damned if she would let Nathan see that. She looked up at him now, and smiled. “I suppose they were never really my friends after all then, were they?” she asked rhetorically. “If they could forswear me over such a small thing.”

“A small thing?” Her husband’s fury could perhaps have been likened to that of Pent Zamakis, but whereas the latter had held, due to convention and necessity, his peace, Lord Wetherwood was not similarly constrained. She was in his house now, and a man was master of his own household. He could do whatever the hell he liked. Within the law, of course. He reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her in the act of turning the page, wrenching it so forcefully that the paper tore. She frowned. Unlike when the Calathenean had performed a similar invasion of her privacy earlier, she felt no compunction in snatching her arm free, adding a glare at him for good measure. “You call what you did a small thing? You - you …” Words seemed to fail Lord Wetherwood, and he drew his hand back, fire in his eyes.

Trollheart · 10-20-2017, 09:47 PM

She endeavoured to keep her voice from shaking, and holding his gaze firmly whispered “Careful, my love (it was clear the epithet was dripping with sarcasm) - it’s still illegal for a man to hit his wife, you know, even a lord like yourself. I wouldn’t,” she went on, grinning as she watched his hesitation turn to frustration, the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, “want to have to call faithful Sir Saul back, to witness an assault and instigate proceedings against his own client!”

Checked by her threat, which he knew her not only capable of carrying out, but willing to do so, and knowing Saul Galt seldom turned down a case by which he could turn a profit, Lord Nathan Wetherwood let his hand fall, and contented himself with a derisive snort. “If you were a man I would …” he began, but she countered with

“If you were a man, I never would have had to.”

This almost caused him to raise his hand again, but he disguised the action by suddenly developing an interest in his graying hair, and smoothed it down. The anger seemed to leave him as suddenly as it had come, and he looked older than his sixty years. Grasping the back of her chair, he said in a quieter and more controlled voice “Why, Beatrice? Why did you do it? Was it something I did?”

She stared at him, her eyes hard. “I think we both know it was more someone you did, Nathan!” she snapped. He let go of the back of the chair, began pacing around the room, his hands behind his back.

“Oh, Beatty!” he wailed. “She meant nothing to me, you know that.”

She turned in her chair to regard him with pitiless eyes. “Which one, Nate? Remind me, would you? Was it Sarah? Or Megan? Or - no, it couldn’t have been Jane. Maybe Rose? Stella? Surely not Barbara! Now you told me you really liked her! How could she have not meant anything to you?”

Her words cut through him, the more because he knew he had no defence against them. For the who-knew-how-many time he cursed ever having got married. A man is supposed to enjoy himself, spread himself around, partake of the good things in life. Society understands and accepts that, and no lord or earl or baron who ever looked outside of his marriage for, ah, companionship, would be taken to task for it. How could the pot accuse the kettle, after all? These things were part and parcel of being highborn, of being of noble birth. He, and his like, were different to other people, better than them. And so the laws that governed a marriage of common folk did not necessarily always apply to that of a man of breeding. It was understood.

But what she had done! No, no: nobody could understand that, and nobody would forgive it. And this remembrance (if he needed reminding) gave him his weapon, and he used it with all the relish and force he would had it been a full-sized battleaxe.

“At least I slept with the opposite sex!” he sneered.

In response, her voice was quiet. “You would rather I had slept with men?” She didn’t really expect an answer to the question, but he gave one anyway.

“I would have found it easier to forgive,” he admitted. Her temper snapped; she exploded.

“Easier to forgive?” she screamed, not caring who could hear outside the heavily-panelled walls of the library. Everyone knew anyway; you couldn’t keep this kind of thing secret, not in high society, where your every move was scrutinised by those just waiting for you to slip, eager to take you down. “You think I want or need your fucking forgiveness?”

She may not have cared about decorum - that ship, for her, had long sailed, but as a member of the upper class, he still had an image to worry about, and he looked furtively around as she railed at him, as if expecting to see, gathered just outside the room, the entire staff. “Darling!” he held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Please! The servants …” She cut him off with a harsh laugh.

“Oh, the servants!” she mimicked. “You think they don’t know what’s going on? Do you? You think anyone in this cloying, suffocating, soul-draining mausoleum is unaware, both of your and my improprieties? You’ve surely marked how they look at you, as they look at me: they know, Nathan. Oh be sure, they know.” She stopped suddenly, all the fight leaking out of her at once. She hung her head. In a much quieter voice she asked him “Why, Nathan? Why did you do it? Was I not enough for you?”

He looked embarrassed, though whether that was because he had hurt her, or was more on account of fear that someone might come in or hear, she could not say. “These … these things,” he began in a more faltering voice than he would have liked. He coughed, started again, this time trying to force more authority and bravado into his voice than he felt. “These things are allowed. Expected even, from such as ourselves.”

“Allowed. Expected.” She rolled the two words around on her tongue, a bitter taste. “What about what we expected when we spoke our wedding vows, Nathan? What about till death do us part? What about forsaking all others?”

“Words,” he muttered. “Just words.” He looked up at her suddenly. “You surely didn’t expect -”

“I expected that I would not be humiliated by the man I loved!” The rage poured back into her, as if someone had refilled her. He responded in kind, his eyes flashing, pointing at her.

“Humiliated!” he repeated. “Aye, indeed! And you made sure I came off the worst in that bargain, didn’t you, Beatty?”

It was her turn to be ashamed. “It wasn’t planned,” she assured him. “I had never had any need of anyone but you before. But when I learned of - of - “

“My discretions,” he helped her out. Her eyes flashed again.

“Oh yes!” she snarled. “Your indiscretions. Indeed. A different … indiscretion … every week, yes? Well, when I learned what you had been doing, yes, of course I wanted to hurt you. Who would not?”

He nodded. “I might - I would have understood if you had gone with a man - damn it, a hundred men! I would have - I did - deserve it. But, Beatrice! A woman!” His face was ashen, the blood leeched right out of it as he recalled her response to his philandering.

“It wasn’t planned,” she repeated, though the shame she had felt when she had first said that, a moment or two ago, was gone now. Why should she be ashamed? He had cheated with women, and so had she. What difference did it make? Except of course that it did, for this was a male-dominated society, and the law, the weight of opinion and the sympathy would always be on the side of the man. “I met her the night I first found out. I had no intentions of … well, it just happened.”

“But that was not the only time,” he challenged her, almost intimating that had it been, he might have been able to forgive and forget. But it had been far from the only time, and they both knew it.

“Once I had been with … with her,” Beatrice sighed - she had never revealed the name of her mystery lover, nor would she ever. Nathan had powerful friends, and they would find her. For a moment the fleeting thought: Maybe she’s better where she is. Safe. But then she shook her head. Nobody deserved to live like that. Anyway, Nathan did not know her name, nor would he ever. “Once I had been with her,” she continued, “I realised I had been lying to myself all my life. Men cannot give me what I want. You cannot give me what I want.” She looked at him. “Even after all you’ve done, Nathan, all you’ve put me through, I find I am sorry for hurting you in what must seem so cruel a manner. But I repeat, and I hope you believe me when I say, I did not mean to cause you such pain.”

He growled. This was going nowhere, and they both knew it. “Well,” said he, in a businesslike tone, “you did, whether you meant to or not. But you will no longer. I assume you read the letter I left in your room?”

She nodded. “I noted, too, the presence of Sir Saul, departing as I was arriving. Though you are old college friends, I am not so naive as to think he was paying you a social call.”

“No indeed,” said Lord Wetherwood, turning his back on her. “Wheels have been set in motion, Beatrice, as they say in the legal profession. Once everything is finalised, I will require you to vacate Clandon Hall. It should not be long now.”

She opened her mouth, as if to say something, then thought better of it, and simply said in a quiet voice “As you wish, Nathan.” She heard his footsteps retreat, stop, as if perhaps he either expected her to say something more, or it could have been that he was considering speaking, then the tread resumed and the dull echo of her husband’s footsteps faded slowly away as he walked out of the library.

Trollheart · 10-20-2017, 09:50 PM

His visit had shaken her more than she wished to admit, but her meeting with Pent Zamakis had had more of an effect on her. As she drew writing papers and pencil towards her, she reflected on what he had asked - told, demanded - that she do. She had not expected to have had to re-enter the lion’s den; well, yes she had, but on that occasion she thought she would have with her a lion of her own (well, some beast anyway) who, while he might not actually protect her, would at least be able to draw the fangs of the other, rendering it impotent and unable to harm her. Now she learned that she must brave the dangerous place once again, alone, and literally blood the beast in its very lair if she wanted to be successful. A shiver ran down her spine as she thought of what she must do, but she knew there was no alternative.

Taking a pad from the drawer of the bureau, she smiled faintly at the legend it bore at its head, in beautifully scripted characters of gold and silver: From the Pen of Lord and Lady Wetherwood of Clandon Hall. How long more would she be able to use such stationery? She wished she had her own personal paper, but Nathan would not allow it; after her own “indiscretions”, he had had her supply removed and disposed of, so that now, if she wished to write to a paramour, the name of her husband would always be there on the top of the paper, metaphorically glaring down at whatever she wrote.

But to Hell with him, she thought: this had to be official. She couldn’t write a legal document on plain paper, so Zamakis would just have to do with this. She thought for a moment of scratching out Lord Wetherwood’s name, but realised that not only was this a childish thing to contemplate, it would send the wrong signals. The Calathenian businessman was, to her knowledge, unaware of her marital difficulties, and she had no wish to apprise him of them. She could have spilled ink over the masthead, but that would look careless and unprofessional, and Pent Zamakis might indeed read something into that which she did not want him to consider. So she contented herself with frowning at the words and began to write.

When she finished, she took one of the house’s envelopes, sealed it up, wrote his address on the back and rang the bell. The servant who entered was charged to take the letter and place it with the day’s outgoing post. She would have preferred to have had it sent separately, but she knew Nathan had his spies all over the house, and such an action would be sure to raise suspicions in her husband. However she wrote many letters, and so one more, to an anonymous person in a hotel of whose existence Nathan was unaware should not set off any alarms. Lord Wetherwood might well wonder who the addressee was, but he would probably conclude that she was setting her own legal affairs in order, which in a way was exactly what she was doing. The letter should go unremarked, as it was crucial that it did. She knew Nathan still fancied himself a gentleman, and would not stoop so low as to have her post opened. At least, she hoped so.

There was nothing left to do then but contemplate her return to that awful place, so she rang the bell again and requested a bath be run for her. After associating with Pent Zamakis and his mute guardian giants, she felt the need to be as clean as it was possible to be.

09-20-2017, 08:12 PM	#312 (permalink)
Oriphiel Ask me how! Join Date: Oct 2014 Location: The States Posts: 5,354	Yo Mondo, come meet this guy: http://www.musicbanter.com/song-writ...ml#post1875650 __________________ ---------------------- \|---Mic's Albums---\| ---------------------- ----------------------------- \|---Deafbox Industries---\| -----------------------------

10-20-2017, 09:04 PM	#314 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,994	In case anyone is interested, here's the latest on what I've been writing. CHAPTER VIII DRAG ME TO HELL I: The crooked pathway (i) First faltering steps Lady Wetherwood scanned the letter twice more, her eyes moving rapidly down the paper, her hand trembling slightly, though she tried to stop the shaking. She wanted to be sure that she was in fact reading what she thought she was. Sighing, she crumpled the paper up in her fist without looking at it further and consigned it to the wastepaper basket. There was no time to devote to her own personal problems now; her friend needed her, and she was due at an assignation which she must keep. Standing up, she approached the full-length mirror and regarded her reflection. Anyone seeing her for the first time, dressed so, might, she allowed herself the tiniest smile of self-satisfaction and pride at the thought, believe her to be perhaps in her early forties, when in fact ten years and more needed to be added to that number to attain her correct age. Her hair hung loose and low, tied with a soft pink ribbon at the back, and the red hat that perched atop her head was tilted at just the right angle that polite society believed was appropriate for a woman of her years. Her face was made-up, though not not overly so: some kohl to bring out the attributes of one of her best features, her smoky grey eyes, and the barest touch of lipstick on lips that were yet full and ripe and, she liked to think, in the proper circumstances and when she wished them to be, inviting. The slightest dusting of rouge on her cheeks completed the ensemble. She had considered using mascara, but that was for younger women, and the one thing she did not want to be seen as was an older woman trying to look younger. If people took her for younger, that was one thing. That was perception. But actively trying to deny her years, well that was just deception, and could be a dangerous game to play. And the game she was about to play was dangerous indeed, but she must engage in it if she were to save her friend. Her breasts, she was pleased to note, still jutted proudly, pushing against the pale pink fabric of the dress she wore. She knew women younger than her whose tits had already begun to sag, but she was lucky in that regard, and she knew men still eyed her bust hungrily as it bounced along in front of her as she walked. She had been blessed with a generous decolletage, not freakishly huge or impossible to buy a bra for, but certainly very, ah, prominent. Smoothing her hands down over her hips she turned away from the mirror, admiring the way the pink dress clung to her behind: not tight enough to make her look sluttish, but certainly enough to draw admiring glances as she passed. The dress itself she was very proud of. Tight enough to attract attention, and centre that attention where she wished it to, it yet stopped demurely about halfway down her calf, allowing a tantalising glimpse of legs yet smooth and firm, encased in sheer black silk, but again not giving the wrong impression. She had others she could have worn if she wanted to make that sort of impact, but she was very clear in her mind about the image she wished to present, and this dress suited those intentions perfectly. The shiny black high heeled shoes that rested on her feet pinched a little, as she tended not to wear this sort of shoe very often, but they did help to push her bottom out and make her totter ever so slightly, an irresistible sight to most men, she knew full well. Picking up her long white gloves from the dresser she drew them on slowly, stretching them until they covered most of her forearm, and then, taking her bag and hanging it lightly from her shoulder, she left the room. It was a swelteringly hot day, and the way the fabric of her dress clung to her as she walked to the carriage, and the eyes of the men who tried to pretend they weren’t watching, pleased her, but there was more than her own sexual affirmation to think of today. The sun was high in the sky and inside the carriage was uncomfortably hot. She could feel sweat rolling down from her underarms and sliding down her legs, and squirmed slightly. She had chosen an open carriage, as to have been sealed up inside one with a roof would have felt, she expected, like climbing into an oven, and whatever annoying stains the sweat was making on her dress now, it would have been completely soaked in a very unladylike manner had she gone for the latter option. She sat back, alone in the carriage, and thought over how she would approach this encounter. She was under no illusions that the man she now went to meet was anyone to be trifled with. Even away from his native country, Pent Zamakis was a dangerous man with a reputation for treating those who wasted his time less than kindly. She hoped that he would not consider this meeting to be such a waste of his time; she felt sure he would not, once she outlined what she had to say. But she must be careful, she knew: too much information, and there would be no bargain, as Zamakis could act on his own without needing her. Too little, and he would likely conclude she was indeed wasting his valuable and precious time, and while Pent Zamakis was known to be (at least outwardly, and in public) a gentleman, and one who would not hurt a lady, there were those in his employ who would be only too willing, indeed eager to perform such a service for their master. Women, she knew, were not held in the same high esteem in Zamakis’s country as they were, generally, here, and to have managed to have secured a meeting with him, being a woman as she was, had taken all her guile, and several important contacts. She felt a little uncomfortable in the dress. Of late, she had taken to the current fashion of wearing pants, but she knew that the man she went now to meet had rather archaic views on how women should dress, and should she turn up in anything other than what he and his kind would consider respectable, she would likely not even be allowed into his presence. So she suffered the snug-fitting dress, but wished she had the choice. The sounds of the busy streets outside faded away as she ran over in her mind all she intended to say, how she would approach the meeting, and - possibly of more importance - what she must be careful not to say. She realised that the best move would have been to have sent some man in her place, to speak for her, but there were no men she trusted enough to share the details of her meeting with, nor indeed, any women really. In order to obtain an audience with the elusive Mister Zamakis, she had had to be quite vague on crucial points, in some cases telling outright lies. But she didn’t care: the important thing was that she got to meet this man, face to face, and put her plan into motion. She was so wrapped up in her own thoughts that it came as a shock when the carriage stopped and the driver, seeing no sign of her exiting the vehicle, called down “We’ve arrived, Your Ladyship. Do you require some assistance?” As if waking from a dream, she shook herself and blinked, her heart fluttering slightly as she realised the time was now upon her. All those months of planning, cajoling, promising, calling in of favours, all had led to this moment, at this place. She must succeed, otherwise she was lost. And if she were lost … “No thank you,” she snapped, “I am perfectly capable of getting down by myself.” She realised that she had spoken a little more stiffly than she had intended, but then, carriage drivers were well used to being treated as inferior by the gentry, and the man would think nothing of it. Still, she had come to her position through marriage, not by birth, and had never been comfortable being seen as anyone’s better, so she ameliorated her tone and handed the driver more than the trip cost, smiling that he should retain the surplus, which in turn put a smile on his face, and caused him to tip the brim of his hat. “Very kind of ye, Your Ladyship,” he beamed. “Would you like me to fetch someone to escort you -” But she was already moving towards the door of the hotel outside which the carriage had stopped, so he shrugged and flicked the horses, and the carriage rumbled off down the road. Lady Wetherwood stood looking up at the sign over the hotel entrance for a moment, then calmly and resolutely walked up to the doors. Seeing a lady of obvious quality approach, the doorman bowed and opened the door for her. Inside, she quickly scanned the lobby, but it was not difficult to locate the man she had come to see. In fact, it would have been hard to have missed him, or at least, the three burly giants who stood over him like massive oaks sheltering a shrub. She walked forward, not quickly but not slowly, purpose in her gait and no fear in her heart. The giants were attracting many an awestruck stare from those who filtered into, out of and through the hotel’s lobby, but the massive curved swords that hung at their sides kept anyone from getting too close, and many an interested gaze was suddenly turned away as a thunderous frown was directed their way. __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

10-20-2017, 09:20 PM	#316 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,994	The man who sat on the couch, and over whom the titans stood, was, like them, black. But not just black. They were dark-skinned, certainly, and nobody could have denied they were black, but compared to their protectee, they were a kind of light brown. He was darker than the darkest ebony wood she had ever seen; so black, in fact, that were he to hide in a darkened room he would be completely invisible. Well, that is, if he closed his eyes and his mouth. The latter bore teeth so startlingly, brilliantly white that Lady Wetherwood fancied they must have been polished to a high shine, and wondered briefly, if this were the case, how he kept them so. When he smiled - which was not often - his teeth looked as if they could light up the darkest space. She also noted in passing that some of them seemed to have been filed down to points, which did nothing to detract from the feeling of unease you got when this man smiled upon you. He seemed the sort of man who would smile at things others would shudder at, be repulsed by. But however white his teeth were, his eyes were whiter still, and initially she had taken them to be without pupil, but as she drew closer to him she realised that it was just very small and contracted - whether that was its normal state or not she could not tell - but it still gave his eyes an unsettling look of being nothing more than white strips of flesh cut into his face. Those eyes, she felt, could penetrate the soul and see into one’s thoughts. Perhaps this was one of the characteristics which made him such a feared man. The three giants completely dwarfed him, but it was obvious who was in charge here, and as she came closer they turned scowling gazes upon her as one, their fierce, thick eyebrows knotting together and their eyes blazing disdain, contempt and warning. She stopped for a moment, but the smaller man barked an order in a language she did not understand, and they moved back - reluctantly it seemed - allowing her to approach the object of her rendezvous. “Pent Zamakis, I presume?” She executed a perfect facsimile of a greeting she knew to be appropriate in his native country, which consisted basically of bowing stiffly from the waist, her eyes downcast, raising her hands, palm upwards, to demonstrate she carried no weapon. “Girl Wetherwood,” he responded, the strain in his voice at having to actually converse with a woman evident. His expression was blank, emotionless, almost bored. “You may rise.” She did so, remarking archly “It’s Lady actually. Lady Wetherwood.” He smiled. She did not like it. “Of course, of course,” he grinned. “My apologies, Lady Wetherwood." There was heavy sarcasm in his pronunciation of the title. "I am afraid we have no such titles in my country, you see.” He seemed to bite down on every word, as if, again, the very act of lowering himself to converse with a female was a cause of great distress to him. It was, to her, as if he gazed upon some fantastic new beast he had never … no, that was not right. It was more as if he saw a beast he was very familiar with, but was forced, despite himself, to engage with it in a manner totally alien to him. She knew why this was so, and while she had use of the man, and would use him for her ends, she had no regard for him, and she intended to make that as plain as possible, without actually insulting him. “I believe you have High Lords, Barons Supreme, Archdukes…?” For a moment - a moment only - his face changed to a mask of pure fury, then it underwent several other transformations, essentially going through phases of emotion - she saw confusion, anger, disbelief, amusement and disgust - till finally settling, with some difficulty it seemed, back into its neutral aspect. He smiled, or tried to. The effect was not pleasant. She did however have to silently respect how quickly he regained his composure. At one point, he had looked like he might strike her, or order his guards to. Now, he was relaxed again, composed, if only on the outside, for she knew that inside he seethed with the rage he dared not show here. “Ah. Yes. Of course.” She knew the root of his anger; he was positively fuming at her knowledge of his country. She! A mere woman! But he gave no outward sign and only went on to say “What I meant was, we have no such titles for women.” “Of course.” She tried to keep the contempt she felt out of her voice. The last thing that would help her now would be - although she would have loved to have engaged in it - an argument on the rights of women where he came from. So she swallowed her pride, remembered her mission, and went on. “But in my country, we do tend to observe the social niceties. So, if you prefer you can call me Lady Wetherwood, or, if that is too much of a mouthful, Lady Beatrice will suffice as well.” For a moment his eyes blazed with the same rage as had his bodyguards, but then he smiled and masked his fury. “Lady Beatrice, then, it shall be,” he decided. She nodded graciously. She took the time then to take note of how phenomenally small he was. She had never met a dwarf, but she fancied they could not be as short as he. He barely came up to her knee. Yet, as she well knew, size was not everything, and what he lacked in stature his huge dark guards more than compensated for. She wondered fleetingly if he were a dwarf - though she had never heard tell of any black ones - but decided it would be very impolite to ask. “I am a most busy man,” he went on, waving a hand negligently as if to indicate that she had only secured his time through his grace, and she had better not waste it. “I am still not clear on how you were aware I was in your country, yet the intelligence you bring - if genuine - could make perhaps forgive such impertinence.” “Oh believe me, Mastra,” she said, using the formal term of address, and again causing the slightest flash of anger in his eyes, his lips twisting in the barest snarl, “I have done my research. Mastra Pent Zamakis, owner of Borderland Wood, one the the three largest logging concerns in Nabicon, heir to the fortune of his father, Trell, who passed away - rather suddenly - ten years ago.” She noted again the red fury in his eyes at the unremarked-upon but pointed reference to his father’s death, and continued. “The first - and so far, only - Nabiconian firm to expand their interests outside of that country, and swiftly growing to be the biggest landowner in Calathena, with footholds in Verthrant and Pichala which are far from negligible. Listed as one of the richest men in the world, and certainly the richest in Nabicon.” Zamakis exchanged a look with his guards, and turned a withering glance upon the woman. “Were we in my country,” he told her darkly, “you would be severely punished for such an outrage.” She returned the look cooly. “Well then,” she observed, “it’s fortunate indeed that we are in my country, is it not? At any event, my research did not end there. I believe you are currently the prime suspect in the - rather brutal - murder of the head of your biggest rival, Overcon Industries.” His look of contempt and hatred could not be mistaken, nor even hidden this time, as he glared at her with the full force of those white eyes. She spoke before he could. “Oh, I’m quite sure they have the wrong man,” she assured him with a laugh, “and that they will realise this very quickly. After all, Mastra Zamakis,” she told him, her eyes locking with his, “you are a respectable businessman, are you not? I’m quite sure you are not in the habit of literally killing the competition, hmm?” She smirked, and knew that he wanted nothing more badly at that moment than to smash her in the face, but he was not in Calathena now, and he had to restrain himself. Rich and powerful though he was, the authorities here would not stand for an unprovoked attack on a member of the upper classes. So, though he had to grind his teeth to do so, he smiled tightly back at her. “There can be no doubt it is so,” he agreed. But she realised he was sweating. “Dasha!” he snapped, with fury in his voice, misdirected as it was. “Abarahha! Simpa!” One of the giants hurried off, and wordlessly returned with a tall glass of sparkling water on a tray, which Zamakis snatched rudely from him and, upending it, tipped the entire contents down his throat in one gulp. As he belched loudly - completely failing to excuse himself - Lady Beatrice remarked “They don’t say much, do they? Your men I mean? Some vow of silence, code of honour?” she hazarded. He smiled a wolfish smile. “I believe it is most difficult, Girl - ah, Lady Beatrice, for one to speak when one’s tongue has been removed.” She gasped. “How awful!” He leaned a little closer. She could smell his musk. She did not like it. “I prize loyalty above all other things, Lady Beatrice,” he told her. “But men are fickle, and coin talks louder than any Mastra. However, the man who cannot talk, cannot betray my secrets, or myself. This is how I prefer it. So all my guards have their tongues removed before entering my service.” Beatrice glanced at the fierce brutes, for the first time with sympathy and pity. Zamakis’s reputation for casual cruelty was not exaggerated, it seemed. He saw how she looked at him, frowned (more, she thought, at the idea that a mere woman might criticise him than anything else) and added “It is performed with their permission, of course, Lady Beatrice. I am not,” he smiled that awful smile, “a monster, after all. I do however,” and he rubbed his fingers together in a gesture understood on any continent, “pay very handsomely.” He leaned forward suddenly, grabbing her arm. “I would pay much, Lady Beatrice, to entice you to my bed. I would pay,” his eyes grew very large and very white, almost as if to swallow her whole, “any price you would care to name.” __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

10-20-2017, 09:34 PM	#318 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,994	She considered drawing back, slapping him for his impertinence, but she wasn’t altogether sure his mute giant guards might not take that as a sign of an attack upon their master, and then, well, she could be in real trouble! It would be some moments before any Blues could arrive here, and even then, she felt none of the locals would be a match for one of these brutes, never mind three. By then, her head would most likely have been sundered from her body, which really did not fit in with her carefully-laid plans. Instead, she gently but quite firmly removed his hand, and then, attempting to steer the conversation into calmer waters, remarked “You seem to have quite a thirst, Mastra. But then,” she allowed, “it is uncommonly hot today.” He barked a sharp laugh in which there was no mirth, just contempt and disdain. “Hot?” he repeated. “Hot? You call this hot? Why, on a day like this, back home people would shiver and draw close to their fires, and wonder when summer was due. I assure you, Lady Beatrice, if you but once experienced a summer - even a spring! - in Tal Ranathat, my home city, you would never call such weather as today hot. Hah!” He shook his head, as if at the stupidity of a child. “Hot!” he repeated, then, looking at the guards, rolled off a stream of unintelligible syllables in his native tongue, to which the men responded by grinning. They probably would have laughed, but it’s hard to do that without a tongue. Whether they found what Zamakis had told them (presumably he was relating how the stupid bitch thought it was hot today) funny or not, they doubtless followed that old maxim: if the boss thinks it’s funny, it’s funny. No doubt, had he expressed sadness or anger, they would have been mirrors of his emotions; whatever was required. Men like these had little need of independent thinking. Or tongues, she thought acidly. But her attempt to change the subject had served its purpose in diverting Pent Zamakis from his amorous attentions towards her, and now she declared, in a clipped, businesslike tone (if nothing else, to dissuade him from further advances) “Well now, Mastra Zamakis. You have travelled far and given of your valuable time to me, so shall we discuss our arrangement?” And so they did. On the way back to her home she questioned everything. Was she doing the right thing? Could she trust the man? Would this work? She had a thousand doubts, but could really see no other way out of her predicament. She did not like it, but it was a necessary evil, and if she must make this pact then so be it, as long as it achieved the desired effect. Other thoughts came to her mind too, particularly related to the letter she had been reading before departing that morning, but she shoved them to one side, as she had then. There was no time for personal issues at the moment. Such things could be dealt with later. Right now she must concentrate on her plan, and hope that it worked. She felt a little isolated, a little lonely without anyone to share her plot with, but nobody else must know. For this to work, only she must be privy to the details. Zamakis was not a stupid man - he was cruel, arrogant, dismissive, almost certainly a murderer - but not stupid. He had not survived as long in the logging game as he had without understanding the nature of business transactions, and this was just that. He wanted something, she had it, and he would in return give her something she wanted, that he did not have, but could deliver into her hands. Was she being a fool? she asked herself, not for the first time. Why was she going to all this trouble, taking all these risks? What did it benefit her, in the long run? But deep in her heart she knew the answer, and it was simple and plain as the sunrise. And it was enough for her. If her plans fell apart, and what she hoped for did not come to pass, then she would face that failure when it happened, and not anticipate it. Optimism was the only course she could follow now; perhaps blind optimism, but she had laid her plans carefully enough that she believed there was a very good chance of all working out. There was also, of course, a chance that everything could come unstuck, all come crashing down about her ears, but that was a risk she was willing to take. She would risk anything, for her. The horses pulling the carriage cantered through the huge iron gates that formed the boundary of the grounds of her home, and clopped their way up along the wide, winding pathway that led up to the door of the mansion. All around her the scent of honeysuckle, jasmine and red roses perfumed the air, and bird sang in the trees which lined the avenue, the faint plop of fish moving in the small lake just barely audible in the distance. As the carriage drew up outside the door she noticed with sinking heart there was one there already, and knew what to expect. She recognised the emblem engraved on the side, and even if she had not, the words Galt and Simpson, Attorneys-at-Law, made plain the purpose of its passenger’s visit. She sighed, and passing coins to the driver of her carriage dismounted and swept in the door. She had the poor timing to encounter, as she entered, the tall, spare frame of Saul Galt, senior Partner at the law firm of Galt and Simpson, who bade her a curt “Good afternoon, Your Ladyship” as he stalked by. Had Lady Beatrice been unaware of Saul Galt’s profession, she might have taken him for an undertaker. He was very tall and thin, almost to the point of seeming emaciation, with a narrow head which sported a narrow, curved nose which always put her in mind of a bird of prey; dark, unblinking eyes, hard as flint, and a thin, almost lipless mouth that she had never, in their twenty years’ association with the firm, through good times and bad, witnessed turn up in a smile. Galt wore a tall hat which if anything only reinforced the misidentification of him as a man who made his living burying the dead - Saul Galt and his partner were more in the habit of burying the living, under piles of paperwork and legal jargon, and many a man and woman had died under such a burden - and his long, dark coat flapped as he hurried from the house, like dark wings, again giving him the aspect of some bird of prey. A vulture, she had long decided, suited him best. Passing into the hall, she was greeted, with much more sincere regard, by her maidservant, who took her cloak and hat and withdrew, giving way to another who appeared, almost as if on command, with a tray on which rested a tall tumbler of liquid. She sighed, indicating down the long dark hallway. “The library, please, Susan,” she said, not looking up, and beginning to walk in that direction so rapidly that the servant had to move herself, to ensure she did not accidentally walk into her. “I have much research yet to do today.” Privately, Susan thought to herself that it was very warm indeed today, and it would suit Her Ladyship far better to be out in the garden, that whatever books she required could easily be brought out to her there, but traditionally servants are supposed to only speak when spoken to, and as there had been no room in Her Ladyship’s order for ambiguity or question, Susan kept her thoughts and her opinions to herself and scurried to do as she was bid. Beatrice had only managed to make her way through two pages of A Cry For Help: An Indictment of the State of Women’s Rights in Nabicon before the library door crashed open and a figure stepped through, a figure she knew all too well, though she might wish she did not. “Where the hell have you been, woman?” snapped the newcomer, a man, standing with his hands on his hips in an attitude that demanded attention, and more, response. She did not look up from her book; in fact, as she spoke she carefully wrote something down on a pad beside her, before turning the page. “I went out to see a friend,” she lied. “Is there a problem, Nathan?” “ A friend!” The sneer this Nathan greeted her answer with spoke volumes. “You don’t have any friends, Beatrice. Not any more. All your friends have abandoned you.” “Have they?” She affected a bored, unconcerned attitude, though she knew her husband was correct. And despite her attempts not to show it, fuck it, it hurt! But she would be damned if she would let Nathan see that. She looked up at him now, and smiled. “I suppose they were never really my friends after all then, were they?” she asked rhetorically. “If they could forswear me over such a small thing.” “A small thing?” Her husband’s fury could perhaps have been likened to that of Pent Zamakis, but whereas the latter had held, due to convention and necessity, his peace, Lord Wetherwood was not similarly constrained. She was in his house now, and a man was master of his own household. He could do whatever the hell he liked. Within the law, of course. He reached out and grabbed her arm, stopping her in the act of turning the page, wrenching it so forcefully that the paper tore. She frowned. Unlike when the Calathenean had performed a similar invasion of her privacy earlier, she felt no compunction in snatching her arm free, adding a glare at him for good measure. “You call what you did a small thing? You - you …” Words seemed to fail Lord Wetherwood, and he drew his hand back, fire in his eyes. __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018 Last edited by Trollheart; 10-25-2017 at 03:55 PM.

10-20-2017, 09:47 PM	#319 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,994	She endeavoured to keep her voice from shaking, and holding his gaze firmly whispered “Careful, my love (it was clear the epithet was dripping with sarcasm) - it’s still illegal for a man to hit his wife, you know, even a lord like yourself. I wouldn’t,” she went on, grinning as she watched his hesitation turn to frustration, the beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, “want to have to call faithful Sir Saul back, to witness an assault and instigate proceedings against his own client!” Checked by her threat, which he knew her not only capable of carrying out, but willing to do so, and knowing Saul Galt seldom turned down a case by which he could turn a profit, Lord Nathan Wetherwood let his hand fall, and contented himself with a derisive snort. “If you were a man I would …” he began, but she countered with “If you were a man, I never would have had to.” This almost caused him to raise his hand again, but he disguised the action by suddenly developing an interest in his graying hair, and smoothed it down. The anger seemed to leave him as suddenly as it had come, and he looked older than his sixty years. Grasping the back of her chair, he said in a quieter and more controlled voice “Why, Beatrice? Why did you do it? Was it something I did?” She stared at him, her eyes hard. “I think we both know it was more someone you did, Nathan!” she snapped. He let go of the back of the chair, began pacing around the room, his hands behind his back. “Oh, Beatty!” he wailed. “She meant nothing to me, you know that.” She turned in her chair to regard him with pitiless eyes. “Which one, Nate? Remind me, would you? Was it Sarah? Or Megan? Or - no, it couldn’t have been Jane. Maybe Rose? Stella? Surely not Barbara! Now you told me you really liked her! How could she have not meant anything to you?” Her words cut through him, the more because he knew he had no defence against them. For the who-knew-how-many time he cursed ever having got married. A man is supposed to enjoy himself, spread himself around, partake of the good things in life. Society understands and accepts that, and no lord or earl or baron who ever looked outside of his marriage for, ah, companionship, would be taken to task for it. How could the pot accuse the kettle, after all? These things were part and parcel of being highborn, of being of noble birth. He, and his like, were different to other people, better than them. And so the laws that governed a marriage of common folk did not necessarily always apply to that of a man of breeding. It was understood. But what she had done! No, no: nobody could understand that, and nobody would forgive it. And this remembrance (if he needed reminding) gave him his weapon, and he used it with all the relish and force he would had it been a full-sized battleaxe. “At least I slept with the opposite sex!” he sneered. In response, her voice was quiet. “You would rather I had slept with men?” She didn’t really expect an answer to the question, but he gave one anyway. “I would have found it easier to forgive,” he admitted. Her temper snapped; she exploded. “Easier to forgive?” she screamed, not caring who could hear outside the heavily-panelled walls of the library. Everyone knew anyway; you couldn’t keep this kind of thing secret, not in high society, where your every move was scrutinised by those just waiting for you to slip, eager to take you down. “You think I want or need your fucking forgiveness?” She may not have cared about decorum - that ship, for her, had long sailed, but as a member of the upper class, he still had an image to worry about, and he looked furtively around as she railed at him, as if expecting to see, gathered just outside the room, the entire staff. “Darling!” he held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Please! The servants …” She cut him off with a harsh laugh. “Oh, the servants!” she mimicked. “You think they don’t know what’s going on? Do you? You think anyone in this cloying, suffocating, soul-draining mausoleum is unaware, both of your and my improprieties? You’ve surely marked how they look at you, as they look at me: they know, Nathan. Oh be sure, they know.” She stopped suddenly, all the fight leaking out of her at once. She hung her head. In a much quieter voice she asked him “Why, Nathan? Why did you do it? Was I not enough for you?” He looked embarrassed, though whether that was because he had hurt her, or was more on account of fear that someone might come in or hear, she could not say. “These … these things,” he began in a more faltering voice than he would have liked. He coughed, started again, this time trying to force more authority and bravado into his voice than he felt. “These things are allowed. Expected even, from such as ourselves.” “Allowed. Expected.” She rolled the two words around on her tongue, a bitter taste. “What about what we expected when we spoke our wedding vows, Nathan? What about till death do us part? What about forsaking all others?” “Words,” he muttered. “Just words.” He looked up at her suddenly. “You surely didn’t expect -” “I expected that I would not be humiliated by the man I loved!” The rage poured back into her, as if someone had refilled her. He responded in kind, his eyes flashing, pointing at her. “Humiliated!” he repeated. “Aye, indeed! And you made sure I came off the worst in that bargain, didn’t you, Beatty?” It was her turn to be ashamed. “It wasn’t planned,” she assured him. “I had never had any need of anyone but you before. But when I learned of - of - “ “My discretions,” he helped her out. Her eyes flashed again. “Oh yes!” she snarled. “Your indiscretions. Indeed. A different … indiscretion … every week, yes? Well, when I learned what you had been doing, yes, of course I wanted to hurt you. Who would not?” He nodded. “I might - I would have understood if you had gone with a man - damn it, a hundred men! I would have - I did - deserve it. But, Beatrice! A woman!” His face was ashen, the blood leeched right out of it as he recalled her response to his philandering. “It wasn’t planned,” she repeated, though the shame she had felt when she had first said that, a moment or two ago, was gone now. Why should she be ashamed? He had cheated with women, and so had she. What difference did it make? Except of course that it did, for this was a male-dominated society, and the law, the weight of opinion and the sympathy would always be on the side of the man. “I met her the night I first found out. I had no intentions of … well, it just happened.” “But that was not the only time,” he challenged her, almost intimating that had it been, he might have been able to forgive and forget. But it had been far from the only time, and they both knew it. “Once I had been with … with her,” Beatrice sighed - she had never revealed the name of her mystery lover, nor would she ever. Nathan had powerful friends, and they would find her. For a moment the fleeting thought: Maybe she’s better where she is. Safe. But then she shook her head. Nobody deserved to live like that. Anyway, Nathan did not know her name, nor would he ever. “Once I had been with her,” she continued, “I realised I had been lying to myself all my life. Men cannot give me what I want. You cannot give me what I want.” She looked at him. “Even after all you’ve done, Nathan, all you’ve put me through, I find I am sorry for hurting you in what must seem so cruel a manner. But I repeat, and I hope you believe me when I say, I did not mean to cause you such pain.” He growled. This was going nowhere, and they both knew it. “Well,” said he, in a businesslike tone, “you did, whether you meant to or not. But you will no longer. I assume you read the letter I left in your room?” She nodded. “I noted, too, the presence of Sir Saul, departing as I was arriving. Though you are old college friends, I am not so naive as to think he was paying you a social call.” “No indeed,” said Lord Wetherwood, turning his back on her. “Wheels have been set in motion, Beatrice, as they say in the legal profession. Once everything is finalised, I will require you to vacate Clandon Hall. It should not be long now.” She opened her mouth, as if to say something, then thought better of it, and simply said in a quiet voice “As you wish, Nathan.” She heard his footsteps retreat, stop, as if perhaps he either expected her to say something more, or it could have been that he was considering speaking, then the tread resumed and the dull echo of her husband’s footsteps faded slowly away as he walked out of the library. __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018

10-20-2017, 09:50 PM	#320 (permalink)
Trollheart Born to be mild Join Date: Oct 2008 Location: 404 Not Found Posts: 26,994	His visit had shaken her more than she wished to admit, but her meeting with Pent Zamakis had had more of an effect on her. As she drew writing papers and pencil towards her, she reflected on what he had asked - told, demanded - that she do. She had not expected to have had to re-enter the lion’s den; well, yes she had, but on that occasion she thought she would have with her a lion of her own (well, some beast anyway) who, while he might not actually protect her, would at least be able to draw the fangs of the other, rendering it impotent and unable to harm her. Now she learned that she must brave the dangerous place once again, alone, and literally blood the beast in its very lair if she wanted to be successful. A shiver ran down her spine as she thought of what she must do, but she knew there was no alternative. Taking a pad from the drawer of the bureau, she smiled faintly at the legend it bore at its head, in beautifully scripted characters of gold and silver: From the Pen of Lord and Lady Wetherwood of Clandon Hall. How long more would she be able to use such stationery? She wished she had her own personal paper, but Nathan would not allow it; after her own “indiscretions”, he had had her supply removed and disposed of, so that now, if she wished to write to a paramour, the name of her husband would always be there on the top of the paper, metaphorically glaring down at whatever she wrote. But to Hell with him, she thought: this had to be official. She couldn’t write a legal document on plain paper, so Zamakis would just have to do with this. She thought for a moment of scratching out Lord Wetherwood’s name, but realised that not only was this a childish thing to contemplate, it would send the wrong signals. The Calathenian businessman was, to her knowledge, unaware of her marital difficulties, and she had no wish to apprise him of them. She could have spilled ink over the masthead, but that would look careless and unprofessional, and Pent Zamakis might indeed read something into that which she did not want him to consider. So she contented herself with frowning at the words and began to write. When she finished, she took one of the house’s envelopes, sealed it up, wrote his address on the back and rang the bell. The servant who entered was charged to take the letter and place it with the day’s outgoing post. She would have preferred to have had it sent separately, but she knew Nathan had his spies all over the house, and such an action would be sure to raise suspicions in her husband. However she wrote many letters, and so one more, to an anonymous person in a hotel of whose existence Nathan was unaware should not set off any alarms. Lord Wetherwood might well wonder who the addressee was, but he would probably conclude that she was setting her own legal affairs in order, which in a way was exactly what she was doing. The letter should go unremarked, as it was crucial that it did. She knew Nathan still fancied himself a gentleman, and would not stoop so low as to have her post opened. At least, she hoped so. There was nothing left to do then but contemplate her return to that awful place, so she rang the bell again and requested a bath be run for her. After associating with Pent Zamakis and his mute guardian giants, she felt the need to be as clean as it was possible to be. __________________ Trollheart: Signature-free since April 2018