Last Friday I met my first animal hoarder. It was fun, I was verbally abused, illegally filmed and photographed and conspiracy theories were wrought. Unfortunately, the crazy lady hid about 22 of her 47 dogs because someone warned her, so that sucks, kinda.
I also made new friends, fellow abusees you could say, and I'll probably have to deal with a frivolous lawsuit, because that's what you get when you stand around sheepishly and try not to get in anyone's way, but just slightly inside the line of sight. I really feel for the policemen, though. Those poor bastards took the brunt of old-lady-rage.
At this moment, I feel slightly disaffected and dizzy, so I'm going to take a nap and hug my dog. My one dog, because that's normal. Okay, even two dogs would be manageable, given I have so much space, but everything above that would be too much for me. I'm still trying to imagine living with 40 dogs, but I can't. I'm sorry, I can't.
Fun times! :D
Dienstag, 30. August 2016
Freitag, 26. August 2016
Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 10
Find the entire story here!
The world was numb and strangely colorless. Niro didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten there, and he had no inkling of an idea why he was still alive. Maybe he wasn’t? Maybe this was death, the vale of souls, a slightly cold, humid, dark place that smelled of burnt out torches, herbs and blood. The bloody shirt was gone and he was lying on his stomach, his hands having been tied to the bed posts over his head. The need to fight, the need to resist was gone, replaced by a disconnected high and the inability to move. Not that he wanted to move, that was. The strange, bitter taste on his lips gave him enough of a clue to know he had been drugged by someone who knew their trade. There was a nutty note in the bitterness, distinctive for the resin of a tree that ate anything warm-blooded by ensnaring its victims with poisonous, thorned tentacles.
An ounce of that resin was worth more than a guard made in a year. Luckily, a good healer only needed a few grains of it to make everything better for a dying man. Niro qualified for that.
Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift through the folds of weightless intoxication. It was a reassuring thing to know he wouldn’t spend his last moments knowing only pain, and as long as those pesky guards let him lie there in peace—
“You shouldn’t be awake,” a voice said, followed by the clack of a closing door, and footsteps closing in on him.
So much for peace and quiet.
“Which either means you are almost resistant to opiates, or I used the wrong dosage. That didn’t happen to me in the last 350 years, so I’m guessing you like to frequent the dragon baths?”
It was a pleasant voice, one that sounded like an old, wizened woman wearing her white hair proudly and comforting her grandchildren with soft, wrinkled hands. It had a sharp edge to it, almost a hissing, but it was very mild. Niro carefully opened one of his eyes to look at the owner of the voice. She was not old, at least she didn’t look like it. There were crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes, and her cheeks looked a little bit saggy, but had she been human and not Lamia, she would have been in her forties, fifties at the most.
“Who are you?” he whispered through numb lips, dragging out the words like a drunkard. Secretly, he didn’t care who she was. The numbing resin had taken all of his worries and fears away, but it didn’t kill the mild curiosity he felt for that exotic woman.
The Lamia didn’t answer his question at first, and for a little while he thought that maybe he hadn’t spoken at all, only thought about it. She walked closer, carrying an earthen bowl with her, and sat down on a small stool next to the hard bed he was lying on.
Finally she spoke, once again surprising him with her aged voice. “I am Gusmerja, your healer,” she explained patiently, setting the bowl on the small table next to his head. It contained a few strings of thick, black thread, wicked looking, hook-like needles, a few rolls of bandages and a handful of small clay pots. Gusmerja picked up one of the clay pots, opened it and sniffed the contents.
“I am not allowed to talk to you, youngling, and I do not care for the sounds of your pain. I will give you more of the wiggleroot to send you back to sleep,” she then explained, pulled out a spoon from underneath the bandages, and filled it with a viscous, brownish liquid from the pot.
Not allowed to talk to me? Niro wondered idly. Who would give such a strange order concerning someone who was dying? On the other hand, why would anyone send him a healer who obviously planned to stitch him up again? His drugged mind grappled with the clues like a drunk with a door grip, and when he finally opened his mouth to speak, Gusmerja shoved the spoonful of sticky goo into his gullet before he could ask anything.
It tasted horrible, burning all the way down his throat and in his stomach, and the tingling sensation followed soon after. He tried to form the next question, but his lips only twitched and no sound came out. Then the world blacked out once more.
Gusmerja sighed, put the spoon away, and poked her finger against Niro’s closed eyelids to make sure he was out. “You younglings and your games, I will never understand,” she huffed at the shadow creeping in the doorway and shaking her head. “At least tell me this isn’t your work.” She pointed at the ghastly wounds criss-crossing all of the human’s back.
Rhysling leaned against the wooden door frame and shook his head, smiling. “No, Nan, but you should know that. This is a brute’s work on a fine peace of art, and I can only hope you’ll be able to work your magic and keep the damage minimal.”
“So you can mark him yourself?” Her wise eyes glittered knowingly.
Rhys smiled like a boy caught with one hand in the cookie jar, then pulled a satchel from his belt and threw it carefully at the lower end of the small bed with the unconscious man on it. A soft, metallic sound came from the contents as it landed. “Maybe,” he purred, and turned away. There was no-one more capable than his old nanny, and nobody else he would have trusted with the care of his newest charge. By tomorrow, most of the damage would be taken care of, and he would finally be able to meet the boy he had bet on. He could only hope he had been right about him.
The world was numb and strangely colorless. Niro didn’t know where he was or how he had gotten there, and he had no inkling of an idea why he was still alive. Maybe he wasn’t? Maybe this was death, the vale of souls, a slightly cold, humid, dark place that smelled of burnt out torches, herbs and blood. The bloody shirt was gone and he was lying on his stomach, his hands having been tied to the bed posts over his head. The need to fight, the need to resist was gone, replaced by a disconnected high and the inability to move. Not that he wanted to move, that was. The strange, bitter taste on his lips gave him enough of a clue to know he had been drugged by someone who knew their trade. There was a nutty note in the bitterness, distinctive for the resin of a tree that ate anything warm-blooded by ensnaring its victims with poisonous, thorned tentacles.
An ounce of that resin was worth more than a guard made in a year. Luckily, a good healer only needed a few grains of it to make everything better for a dying man. Niro qualified for that.
Closing his eyes, he let his mind drift through the folds of weightless intoxication. It was a reassuring thing to know he wouldn’t spend his last moments knowing only pain, and as long as those pesky guards let him lie there in peace—
“You shouldn’t be awake,” a voice said, followed by the clack of a closing door, and footsteps closing in on him.
So much for peace and quiet.
“Which either means you are almost resistant to opiates, or I used the wrong dosage. That didn’t happen to me in the last 350 years, so I’m guessing you like to frequent the dragon baths?”
It was a pleasant voice, one that sounded like an old, wizened woman wearing her white hair proudly and comforting her grandchildren with soft, wrinkled hands. It had a sharp edge to it, almost a hissing, but it was very mild. Niro carefully opened one of his eyes to look at the owner of the voice. She was not old, at least she didn’t look like it. There were crow’s feet in the corners of her eyes, and her cheeks looked a little bit saggy, but had she been human and not Lamia, she would have been in her forties, fifties at the most.
“Who are you?” he whispered through numb lips, dragging out the words like a drunkard. Secretly, he didn’t care who she was. The numbing resin had taken all of his worries and fears away, but it didn’t kill the mild curiosity he felt for that exotic woman.
The Lamia didn’t answer his question at first, and for a little while he thought that maybe he hadn’t spoken at all, only thought about it. She walked closer, carrying an earthen bowl with her, and sat down on a small stool next to the hard bed he was lying on.
Finally she spoke, once again surprising him with her aged voice. “I am Gusmerja, your healer,” she explained patiently, setting the bowl on the small table next to his head. It contained a few strings of thick, black thread, wicked looking, hook-like needles, a few rolls of bandages and a handful of small clay pots. Gusmerja picked up one of the clay pots, opened it and sniffed the contents.
“I am not allowed to talk to you, youngling, and I do not care for the sounds of your pain. I will give you more of the wiggleroot to send you back to sleep,” she then explained, pulled out a spoon from underneath the bandages, and filled it with a viscous, brownish liquid from the pot.
Not allowed to talk to me? Niro wondered idly. Who would give such a strange order concerning someone who was dying? On the other hand, why would anyone send him a healer who obviously planned to stitch him up again? His drugged mind grappled with the clues like a drunk with a door grip, and when he finally opened his mouth to speak, Gusmerja shoved the spoonful of sticky goo into his gullet before he could ask anything.
It tasted horrible, burning all the way down his throat and in his stomach, and the tingling sensation followed soon after. He tried to form the next question, but his lips only twitched and no sound came out. Then the world blacked out once more.
Gusmerja sighed, put the spoon away, and poked her finger against Niro’s closed eyelids to make sure he was out. “You younglings and your games, I will never understand,” she huffed at the shadow creeping in the doorway and shaking her head. “At least tell me this isn’t your work.” She pointed at the ghastly wounds criss-crossing all of the human’s back.
Rhysling leaned against the wooden door frame and shook his head, smiling. “No, Nan, but you should know that. This is a brute’s work on a fine peace of art, and I can only hope you’ll be able to work your magic and keep the damage minimal.”
“So you can mark him yourself?” Her wise eyes glittered knowingly.
Rhys smiled like a boy caught with one hand in the cookie jar, then pulled a satchel from his belt and threw it carefully at the lower end of the small bed with the unconscious man on it. A soft, metallic sound came from the contents as it landed. “Maybe,” he purred, and turned away. There was no-one more capable than his old nanny, and nobody else he would have trusted with the care of his newest charge. By tomorrow, most of the damage would be taken care of, and he would finally be able to meet the boy he had bet on. He could only hope he had been right about him.
Dienstag, 23. August 2016
Hannah goes animal rights activist!
I just had a fun phone call with the coordinator of the animal welfare NGO I'm volunteering with - looks like I'll be part of a raid against an animal hoarder this friday. Whew! I've watched dozens of clips on youtube, but I never thought I'd take part in such a thing.
But here I am, giddy with anticipation and dreading it at the same time. It won't be as bad as you might imagine, but probably bad enough with more than 60 dogs who never had any real human contact.
The raid will take place on Friday, but I'm already thinking about what I might have to bring and prepare-- leashes, my collection of muzzles, blankets (because panicked dogs pee a lot), water bottles, a bowl, a pot of dog treats and some sausage, because nothing says "I love you" like cubes of ham :D
And I might end up with another foster dog. Happy times.
But here I am, giddy with anticipation and dreading it at the same time. It won't be as bad as you might imagine, but probably bad enough with more than 60 dogs who never had any real human contact.
The raid will take place on Friday, but I'm already thinking about what I might have to bring and prepare-- leashes, my collection of muzzles, blankets (because panicked dogs pee a lot), water bottles, a bowl, a pot of dog treats and some sausage, because nothing says "I love you" like cubes of ham :D
And I might end up with another foster dog. Happy times.
Sonntag, 21. August 2016
A sudden poll appears!
Hello dearies!
Some of you might know that I am the author behind "Shapeshifter", a story on Literotica and Gay Authors that started me on writing romance and erotica back in the day. I've finished that story a few days ago (yeah baby!), but since that fateful night, I've been haunted by so many story ideas that my (Ever-)notebook has been constantly gaining weight like an old lady-bodybuilder.
I'm absolutely planning on writing each and every one of them, but I need your help! On the right beneath my Google+ badge you'll find a (poorly formatted, thanks blogspot) poll with a range of choices, and I'd like you to choose what you'd like to read next.
My Friday Fade-Out will still run for a few weeks, probably until the end of year, but I like to be prepared!
If you'd like to go a bit further with the whole "ending my free-range-existence", you're welcome to leave additional suggestions as to what I should write in your chosen category in the ways of a comment to this blog entry!
Some of you might know that I am the author behind "Shapeshifter", a story on Literotica and Gay Authors that started me on writing romance and erotica back in the day. I've finished that story a few days ago (yeah baby!), but since that fateful night, I've been haunted by so many story ideas that my (Ever-)notebook has been constantly gaining weight like an old lady-bodybuilder.
I'm absolutely planning on writing each and every one of them, but I need your help! On the right beneath my Google+ badge you'll find a (poorly formatted, thanks blogspot) poll with a range of choices, and I'd like you to choose what you'd like to read next.
My Friday Fade-Out will still run for a few weeks, probably until the end of year, but I like to be prepared!
If you'd like to go a bit further with the whole "ending my free-range-existence", you're welcome to leave additional suggestions as to what I should write in your chosen category in the ways of a comment to this blog entry!
Freitag, 19. August 2016
Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 9
Find the entire story here!
Earl Firun Wilmoor of Tetharion was nervously fumbling with a small canape, trying to make a pleasant smile stick to his tense face. He was used to guests of Ailill nobility, but not to those as high up the social ladder as lady Ilydra Gladfall of Yahir, Duchess of Yahir, home land to every Ailill ever spawned. As member of House Malach, the ‘witching well’ of Ailill society, only the duke of House Ardis and the Prince of House Errea trumped her influence and power, but still… Here she lounged, completely at ease with the company of two lowly members of House Nancarrow’s nobility as it seemed, and obviously enjoying herself.
Maybe it wasn’t so much his company the high lady relished so much. The man at her side, although only a count in the ranks of Nancarrow, had been seen at her side for years; rumor had it he even came and went to her estate as he pleased. Ailill nobles didn’t see the use of a marriage just for love, and premarital sex wasn’t shunned. The only reasons to marry were securing one’s own legacy, pregnancy or political connections, and none of those seemed to sway Count Greyfell and Duchess Gladfall at this point of time.
“So, what did you think of the public punishment you saw today?” the earl asked, trying to make light of a heavy conversation topic. Talking to women of high status had always been a bit of a problem for him, seeing as how most of the topics he usually preferred were taboo in polite conversation.
The duchess smiled tightly, and he instantly knew that he had chosen the wrong topic. The count, a young looking, ashen-skinned man with an aura Firun could only describe as ‘creepily lewd’, seemed to like his choice, though.
“I must admit, as much as I enjoy a well done public punishment, I’m a bit bemused as to how that human could have survived so long. For all intents and purposes, he was useless to you, required constant beating to keep a minimum level of order, and went so far as to laugh at the whipping meant for his execution,” the count observed, filling the room with his satiny, dark voice.
The earl shuddered slightly, trying to ban a vision of the count naked next to the duchess from his touch-depraved brain. With a voice like that, how might his groans sound, what would he whisper with that sultry sing-song of his in the middle of pleasure?
“Ah, well, you see,” he rambled, blinking through the lusty haze his own thoughts had awoken, “it’s a shame to lose him at all, to be honest. His talents with weapons are amazing, his senses sharper than those of some of my Ailill guard, and sometimes I dare believe he might be immortal, taking into consideration all the things he survives on a near-daily basis. But…” he sighed, looking at the small slices of raw fish and pink roe decorating his cracker, and shrugged.
“But?” the duchess pressed politely, raising one eyebrow in question.
“But I think he broke at some point during training, and now there is nothing I could do to him that would still impress or frighten him. He is fearless, stubborn and suicidally mad,” he finished his sentence with a note of regret in his voice, and finally ate the small dish.
This time it was the black-haired count who raised an eyebrow. “I mean no disrespect, good earl, but the only thing broken on him that I could see today was his body. I honestly thought the reason you let him be whipped like this was because he wouldn’t give in to your will.”
A few pieces of roe nearly ended up in the earl’s lungs as he tried to breathe in, swallow and protest at the same time. He coughed a bit, then waved the servant patting his back away with an impatient gesture and stared at the impertinent man.
“Good sir, I assure you that he has been trained by the best of my guard, to our noble House’s highest standards, and with the best intentions. He is not too strong, he is broken, and nobody could fix him. Believe me, I didn’t want to accept that for a long time, but no matter whom I invited to have a look at him, none of them could break him of his defiant, self-destructive ways!”
The count didn’t look too impressed. “I could do it in a hundred days,” he said dryly, almost condescending.
The duchess giggled at that, and quickly hid her lips behind her silver goblet.
The earl looked from the count to the duchess, trying to decide if he was being made fun of, set up, or still a part of this conversation at all. Only the presence of the fine lady made him keep his temper in check, but he couldn’t let those words sit on his pride without rising to the occasion.
“Could you, now? And next you’ll tell me you can walk on water without the aid of magic, right?” he grunted, laughing at his own words. The count didn’t flinch though; he just swung his glass a bit, breathing in the nuances of the ruby red wine, and never took his eyes of the earl’s face.
“You seem to want to be rid of him anyway, so why don’t you try my word? Your nephew informed me that he will be dead in the morning, if nobody tends to his wounds, so you wouldn’t lose anything.” Taking a sip of the expensive wine, the count even smiled. “We could make a bet out of it.”
This might be interesting, the earl thought to himself. That young brat of a noble looked very self-assured, but Wilmoor had spent the last fifteen years worrying about his human pet, to no avail. If he played his cards right, he would not only get rid of his irritating slave without having to live with the humiliation of having been beaten by that mortal cur, but he might even gain a bit of public standing with House Malach. After all, the witnesses to any and all bets would have to speak the final judgment at the end of the bet, and having the Duchess of Yahir around for a month might do wonders for his reputation.
“A bet, you say? How would you assess the results on the human? After all, in all the years he has been with me, there were more than enough phases in which he acted like he was supposed to, but only out of sheer circumstance. He would have to be tested by something that would require total obedience,” the earl mused, picking up another canape.
The count swirled his wine again, staring bemusedly at the blood red ripples on its surface. “That, I have to admit, is a hard thing to verify,” he replied thoughtfully, then hummed and looked up. “How about the Day of Remembrance? Would it be enough of a demonstration if he took on the soul of an ancestor for the ceremony?”
A sudden blush crept over the face of the earl. The Day of Remembrance was the one day of the year where the Houses called their most honored ancestors back from the afterlife to walk amongst them. It was an honor to serve as a vessel for their souls, but it was also a most frightening experience to lose control over one’s own body like that. The earl knew instantly that Niro would never agree to such a thing. It was perfect.
“Those are high stakes, my friend. What would you ask for if you win?” he asked, already smiling gleefully.
The count licked his lips. “If I win, I want to keep the human as my own to do with as I please.”
“And if you lose, count?” the earl went on, frowning by now. What would a count want with a defiant slave?
“If I lose, I will give you what you want the most,” the count replied smoothly, smiling. “Your Nephew as your new chief of staff.”
The earl pondered this. He had actually tried to persuade Tyell to come work for him for quite some time, but the stubborn boy had denied him outright, saying that his oath to the count was solid and would be canceled by the noble, and only him. With this bet, he would lose nothing, and win everything, be it peace of mind or a new, very capable officer.
“I agree to your bet, count,” he said, and stood up to offer his hand.
The count also got up, put his wine glass on the table and grasped his hand in symbolic unity. “Under the eyes of the Lord and the Lady, and with the Duchess Gladfall of Yahir to witness this act, I seal this bet,” he said, invoking every power possible. Although the earl had been gleefully happy with the idea moments ago, he suddenly felt caught.
What in all worlds had he just agreed to?
Earl Firun Wilmoor of Tetharion was nervously fumbling with a small canape, trying to make a pleasant smile stick to his tense face. He was used to guests of Ailill nobility, but not to those as high up the social ladder as lady Ilydra Gladfall of Yahir, Duchess of Yahir, home land to every Ailill ever spawned. As member of House Malach, the ‘witching well’ of Ailill society, only the duke of House Ardis and the Prince of House Errea trumped her influence and power, but still… Here she lounged, completely at ease with the company of two lowly members of House Nancarrow’s nobility as it seemed, and obviously enjoying herself.
Maybe it wasn’t so much his company the high lady relished so much. The man at her side, although only a count in the ranks of Nancarrow, had been seen at her side for years; rumor had it he even came and went to her estate as he pleased. Ailill nobles didn’t see the use of a marriage just for love, and premarital sex wasn’t shunned. The only reasons to marry were securing one’s own legacy, pregnancy or political connections, and none of those seemed to sway Count Greyfell and Duchess Gladfall at this point of time.
“So, what did you think of the public punishment you saw today?” the earl asked, trying to make light of a heavy conversation topic. Talking to women of high status had always been a bit of a problem for him, seeing as how most of the topics he usually preferred were taboo in polite conversation.
The duchess smiled tightly, and he instantly knew that he had chosen the wrong topic. The count, a young looking, ashen-skinned man with an aura Firun could only describe as ‘creepily lewd’, seemed to like his choice, though.
“I must admit, as much as I enjoy a well done public punishment, I’m a bit bemused as to how that human could have survived so long. For all intents and purposes, he was useless to you, required constant beating to keep a minimum level of order, and went so far as to laugh at the whipping meant for his execution,” the count observed, filling the room with his satiny, dark voice.
The earl shuddered slightly, trying to ban a vision of the count naked next to the duchess from his touch-depraved brain. With a voice like that, how might his groans sound, what would he whisper with that sultry sing-song of his in the middle of pleasure?
“Ah, well, you see,” he rambled, blinking through the lusty haze his own thoughts had awoken, “it’s a shame to lose him at all, to be honest. His talents with weapons are amazing, his senses sharper than those of some of my Ailill guard, and sometimes I dare believe he might be immortal, taking into consideration all the things he survives on a near-daily basis. But…” he sighed, looking at the small slices of raw fish and pink roe decorating his cracker, and shrugged.
“But?” the duchess pressed politely, raising one eyebrow in question.
“But I think he broke at some point during training, and now there is nothing I could do to him that would still impress or frighten him. He is fearless, stubborn and suicidally mad,” he finished his sentence with a note of regret in his voice, and finally ate the small dish.
This time it was the black-haired count who raised an eyebrow. “I mean no disrespect, good earl, but the only thing broken on him that I could see today was his body. I honestly thought the reason you let him be whipped like this was because he wouldn’t give in to your will.”
A few pieces of roe nearly ended up in the earl’s lungs as he tried to breathe in, swallow and protest at the same time. He coughed a bit, then waved the servant patting his back away with an impatient gesture and stared at the impertinent man.
“Good sir, I assure you that he has been trained by the best of my guard, to our noble House’s highest standards, and with the best intentions. He is not too strong, he is broken, and nobody could fix him. Believe me, I didn’t want to accept that for a long time, but no matter whom I invited to have a look at him, none of them could break him of his defiant, self-destructive ways!”
The count didn’t look too impressed. “I could do it in a hundred days,” he said dryly, almost condescending.
The duchess giggled at that, and quickly hid her lips behind her silver goblet.
The earl looked from the count to the duchess, trying to decide if he was being made fun of, set up, or still a part of this conversation at all. Only the presence of the fine lady made him keep his temper in check, but he couldn’t let those words sit on his pride without rising to the occasion.
“Could you, now? And next you’ll tell me you can walk on water without the aid of magic, right?” he grunted, laughing at his own words. The count didn’t flinch though; he just swung his glass a bit, breathing in the nuances of the ruby red wine, and never took his eyes of the earl’s face.
“You seem to want to be rid of him anyway, so why don’t you try my word? Your nephew informed me that he will be dead in the morning, if nobody tends to his wounds, so you wouldn’t lose anything.” Taking a sip of the expensive wine, the count even smiled. “We could make a bet out of it.”
This might be interesting, the earl thought to himself. That young brat of a noble looked very self-assured, but Wilmoor had spent the last fifteen years worrying about his human pet, to no avail. If he played his cards right, he would not only get rid of his irritating slave without having to live with the humiliation of having been beaten by that mortal cur, but he might even gain a bit of public standing with House Malach. After all, the witnesses to any and all bets would have to speak the final judgment at the end of the bet, and having the Duchess of Yahir around for a month might do wonders for his reputation.
“A bet, you say? How would you assess the results on the human? After all, in all the years he has been with me, there were more than enough phases in which he acted like he was supposed to, but only out of sheer circumstance. He would have to be tested by something that would require total obedience,” the earl mused, picking up another canape.
The count swirled his wine again, staring bemusedly at the blood red ripples on its surface. “That, I have to admit, is a hard thing to verify,” he replied thoughtfully, then hummed and looked up. “How about the Day of Remembrance? Would it be enough of a demonstration if he took on the soul of an ancestor for the ceremony?”
A sudden blush crept over the face of the earl. The Day of Remembrance was the one day of the year where the Houses called their most honored ancestors back from the afterlife to walk amongst them. It was an honor to serve as a vessel for their souls, but it was also a most frightening experience to lose control over one’s own body like that. The earl knew instantly that Niro would never agree to such a thing. It was perfect.
“Those are high stakes, my friend. What would you ask for if you win?” he asked, already smiling gleefully.
The count licked his lips. “If I win, I want to keep the human as my own to do with as I please.”
“And if you lose, count?” the earl went on, frowning by now. What would a count want with a defiant slave?
“If I lose, I will give you what you want the most,” the count replied smoothly, smiling. “Your Nephew as your new chief of staff.”
The earl pondered this. He had actually tried to persuade Tyell to come work for him for quite some time, but the stubborn boy had denied him outright, saying that his oath to the count was solid and would be canceled by the noble, and only him. With this bet, he would lose nothing, and win everything, be it peace of mind or a new, very capable officer.
“I agree to your bet, count,” he said, and stood up to offer his hand.
The count also got up, put his wine glass on the table and grasped his hand in symbolic unity. “Under the eyes of the Lord and the Lady, and with the Duchess Gladfall of Yahir to witness this act, I seal this bet,” he said, invoking every power possible. Although the earl had been gleefully happy with the idea moments ago, he suddenly felt caught.
What in all worlds had he just agreed to?
Donnerstag, 18. August 2016
Meanwhile, at the zoo...
Fun fact: Austria has the world's oldest zoo. Schönbrunn has been around about as long as people realized that nature isn't all about "wow, that thing is just there", and whereas other old zoos stuck to their traditional, antiquated ways, Schönbrunn modernized and did everything it could to secure its place as a top institution for species preservation.
Our pandas are world famous! Schönbrunn is one of the few zoos not only equipped but more than able to help those rare bears procreate on such a regular basis, we actually ship most of the offspring back to China to restock their population and genepool with healthy new bears.
And right now, cuteness ensues at the Panda enclosure, because TWINS, people!
Here's a close-up of the surprise double-whammy:
D'aaaaw!
Our pandas are world famous! Schönbrunn is one of the few zoos not only equipped but more than able to help those rare bears procreate on such a regular basis, we actually ship most of the offspring back to China to restock their population and genepool with healthy new bears.
And right now, cuteness ensues at the Panda enclosure, because TWINS, people!
Here's a close-up of the surprise double-whammy:
D'aaaaw!
Dienstag, 16. August 2016
Hannah's Real-Life: Studying
Although most of my stories play in either fictional universes or the U.S. of A., I'm from Europe and have never been to the Americas (except for Costa Rica, but never mind that). In these days, it almost doesn't matter where a person is from, we are all interconnected and global and able to exchange information in a matter of glimpses from one end of the world to the other; I sometimes catch myself suppressing this fact and then being surprised that people don't know how things work in my part of the world.
To remedy this, here's a small piece about studying in Austria (and Germany for that matter, it's rather similar).
There are three types of institutions a person can go to after highschool, which is called either "Oberstufe des Gymnasiums", meaning something like senior classes of secondary school, or senior classes in HAK, HTL, and other abbreviations that ultimately stand for specialized secondary schools (HAK is business/economy oriented, HTL is technology oriented):
A university is a publicly funded institution with EU-wide recognized degrees and certificates, whereas a college is a privately funded institution with sometimes rather dubious degrees and certificates, that sometimes are recognized in the U.S., but nowhere else.
Hence, most people go to university or an FH, because honestly, certificate! Also, both of those types of institution are more or less for free. It's true that there are costs at some point, but those are aimed at what we lovingly call "bemoostes Haupt", or "mossy heads", people who spend their whole life doing nothing but being a student.
But back to universities!
The most poignant difference to the U.S. is its structure in general. Universities consist of a multitude of buildings and branches that are scattered all over a city, a little like this:
Each of those buildings represents a main branch of studies and unifies another dozen or so of institutes that are - again - scattered over the city like confetti on your birthday party. When I studied biology, I sometimes had to take the cable cars and subway trains two or three times a day to get from one lecture to the next and spent most of my time in public transport, reading and working through my notes.
There's also no boarding for students. Hah, well, there is, actually, but it looks a little like this:
Nope, no walking out of your room and into the lecture hall for us! Everyone has to organize their own living situations, which often means renting an apartment and sharing it with someone, buying your own tickets for the subway and cable car and cooking your own meals. That whole "free education" stint actually costs a ton of money, because you still have to pay rent, buy food, pay taxes and get your own books and hardware, and although there are special concessions for students, studying still adds up to a hefty monthly sum. Students here are required to act like adults, at least in some aspects.
Which brings me to lecture plans, because holy hell, that's some crazy stuff.
Nobody. Tells. You. What. You. Need.
I am not kidding. You register for your major and get some kind of table with modules on it, very basic stuff. So-and-so-many ECTS (study points) to finish module this-and-that, that's all. Or not, because now you have to work through a database of each and every lecture, seminar, field trip, tutorial, laboratory course and whatever else might be needed for any and every field of study offered at one city, all of them sorted by index numbers and rather nebulous specifications as to what module might be influenced by taking it.
An example:
Those letters and numbers down there are Modules from eight different specializations a biology bachelor student can choose. This lecture is one of up to thirteen different lectures per each and every specialization, and most of them aren't recurring, so even older students aren't always able to help. In some semesters, there aren't enough lectures or courses to fill the required ECTS amount a student needs to keep his education free of charge, so planning my lectures and courses sometimes felt like choosing battle tactics to me.
Nobody monitors your success or how much you study but yourself and your parents. There are no notices and no report cards if you don't actively pursue getting one (for special concessions, for example), and nobody nags you to take exams or work harder. All of it rests on a student's shoulders and if he doesn't apply himself, well. At some point he'll have to pay a semester entrance fee, and at some later point - especially if a student repeatedly fails an exam - he'll be expelled, but that's it.
I failed at biology, partly because I underestimated the amount of work I'd have to put in just maintaining my education, but partly because I'm just not that into science. I found this out in my third year, failed an exam three times and decided to let it be.
Not studying, though. I'll be taking my entrance exam for a lectureship major at the end of August and start this madness over!
This time, I'll keep you up to date and entertain you with tales of European education, because why not? You already know how America works. Time for new insights!
Love,
Hannah
To remedy this, here's a small piece about studying in Austria (and Germany for that matter, it's rather similar).
There are three types of institutions a person can go to after highschool, which is called either "Oberstufe des Gymnasiums", meaning something like senior classes of secondary school, or senior classes in HAK, HTL, and other abbreviations that ultimately stand for specialized secondary schools (HAK is business/economy oriented, HTL is technology oriented):
- University,
- College,
- Fachhochschule (FH) - something like technical college or polytechnic
A university is a publicly funded institution with EU-wide recognized degrees and certificates, whereas a college is a privately funded institution with sometimes rather dubious degrees and certificates, that sometimes are recognized in the U.S., but nowhere else.
Hence, most people go to university or an FH, because honestly, certificate! Also, both of those types of institution are more or less for free. It's true that there are costs at some point, but those are aimed at what we lovingly call "bemoostes Haupt", or "mossy heads", people who spend their whole life doing nothing but being a student.
But back to universities!
The most poignant difference to the U.S. is its structure in general. Universities consist of a multitude of buildings and branches that are scattered all over a city, a little like this:
Each of those buildings represents a main branch of studies and unifies another dozen or so of institutes that are - again - scattered over the city like confetti on your birthday party. When I studied biology, I sometimes had to take the cable cars and subway trains two or three times a day to get from one lecture to the next and spent most of my time in public transport, reading and working through my notes.
There's also no boarding for students. Hah, well, there is, actually, but it looks a little like this:
Nope, no walking out of your room and into the lecture hall for us! Everyone has to organize their own living situations, which often means renting an apartment and sharing it with someone, buying your own tickets for the subway and cable car and cooking your own meals. That whole "free education" stint actually costs a ton of money, because you still have to pay rent, buy food, pay taxes and get your own books and hardware, and although there are special concessions for students, studying still adds up to a hefty monthly sum. Students here are required to act like adults, at least in some aspects.
Which brings me to lecture plans, because holy hell, that's some crazy stuff.
Nobody. Tells. You. What. You. Need.
I am not kidding. You register for your major and get some kind of table with modules on it, very basic stuff. So-and-so-many ECTS (study points) to finish module this-and-that, that's all. Or not, because now you have to work through a database of each and every lecture, seminar, field trip, tutorial, laboratory course and whatever else might be needed for any and every field of study offered at one city, all of them sorted by index numbers and rather nebulous specifications as to what module might be influenced by taking it.
An example:
300026 VO Introduction to Cognitive Biology (2016W)
3.00 ECTS (2.00 SWS), SPL 30 - Biologie
Classification for:
Classification for:
BZO 10, BAN 6, BOE 11, BPB 11, BMG 10, BMB 10,
BBO 8, B-BZO 10, B-BAN 8, B-BMG 11, B-BMB 10, B-BOE 11, B-BPB 12, B-BPF
8, UF BU 10,
Those letters and numbers down there are Modules from eight different specializations a biology bachelor student can choose. This lecture is one of up to thirteen different lectures per each and every specialization, and most of them aren't recurring, so even older students aren't always able to help. In some semesters, there aren't enough lectures or courses to fill the required ECTS amount a student needs to keep his education free of charge, so planning my lectures and courses sometimes felt like choosing battle tactics to me.
Nobody monitors your success or how much you study but yourself and your parents. There are no notices and no report cards if you don't actively pursue getting one (for special concessions, for example), and nobody nags you to take exams or work harder. All of it rests on a student's shoulders and if he doesn't apply himself, well. At some point he'll have to pay a semester entrance fee, and at some later point - especially if a student repeatedly fails an exam - he'll be expelled, but that's it.
I failed at biology, partly because I underestimated the amount of work I'd have to put in just maintaining my education, but partly because I'm just not that into science. I found this out in my third year, failed an exam three times and decided to let it be.
Not studying, though. I'll be taking my entrance exam for a lectureship major at the end of August and start this madness over!
This time, I'll keep you up to date and entertain you with tales of European education, because why not? You already know how America works. Time for new insights!
Love,
Hannah
Freitag, 12. August 2016
Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 8
Find the entire story here!
“This isn’t quite what I envisioned for a public whipping,” Ilydra Gladfall of Yahir purred, shifting her weight from the left foot to the right. “Whipping someone to death is unpleasant, don’t you think? The screams last forever, even though he’d probably die over night, anyway, if they stopped now.”
The tall nobleman next to her tensed even more at her words. He had gotten that distracted look ever since the human whipping boy had started to scream and bleed, and Ilydra could only guess what went on in his head. She did know his tastes ran into erotic whippings, and maybe seeing what usually went on in his bedroom be used as a means of killing was just too tasteless for him. Or maybe he was fighting a whole different kind of feeling? Who knew what paid murderers like him found pleasing.
Still, she decided to be blunt. “Do you want to leave, Rhysling? You look unwell,” she whispered, leaning over so the guarding soldiers wouldn’t be able to listen in.
“You know I don’t like it when you call me by that name,” Rhysling Greyfell of House Nancarrow, Count of Yahir and soon-to-be appointed reeve of Tetharion, replied, but his words had a distracted tone to them. “But no, dear. This is something I didn’t expect, but will handle it.”
It was a strange reply to her question, but then, Rhys had always been a man of quirks and secrecy. Smiling amusedly, Ilydra watched him lean slightly towards his lieutenant of arms, an Ailill soldier by the name of Tyell, who was in some way related to the Earl of Tetharion. Ilydra had never been interested enough to find out in which way that strapping lad had blood bonds to the local regent, but she was quite sure that those bonds had something to do with Rys’s appointment in Tetharion.
Since it was improper to listen in when two people were obviously trying to speak privately, Ilydra tore her gaze away from Rhys’s profile and looked back to the raised gallows. The whipping had been going on for nearly half an hour and the third soldier was already flagging in his relentless beating. The human’s screams were hoarse and low by now, his clothes ripped to shreds and drenched in blood, and he looked to be on the verge of passing out. Not pleasant at all, Ilyrdra mused.
Rhys straightened himself and Tyell took off, waving another soldier with him as he walked briskly towards the gallows. This, Ilydra could watch without being improper, although it didn’t fully sate her curiosity. Tyell and his escort stopped next to the steps leading up to the whipping post, and Ilydra could see him give instructions to the burly man, then turn away and run towards the earl’s residence. The soldier meanwhile stepped onto the gallows, talked to the panting, whip-wielding man and then took the instrument from his hands.
Ilydra was puzzled. “Isn’t that your court marshal up there?” she asked Rhys, who seemed much more intent on watching the human than the ones bleeding him. What was a man proficient in the art of corporal punishment doing at an event explicitly meant to kill someone?
“Yes, that is him,” Rhys mumbled distractedly, taking a half-step forward. He didn’t offer any more explanation than that, but Ilydra knew him well enough to see the wheels clicking behind his oh-so-calm facade. He was planning something, and whatever it was had already been set in motion.
A loud, deafening crack sounded from the gallows and the whip bit into the delirious, moaning man. The crowd cheered with admiration, pressing forward to watch the newcomer’s proficiency up close, gushing over the way he could make the whip crack louder than any of the men before him.
A small smile trailed over Rhysling’s lips. “I had to send him, he knows how to capture the crowd,” he explained softly to his escort, pulling her hand onto his courteously bent arm to indicate he wanted to walk with her.
“But I can see in your face you don’t want the human to die today, do you?” she inquired, keeping up effortlessly with his controlled, calm pace.
This time, Rhys smiled wide, rocking his head from one side to the other. “That is the other reason for sending that man,” he purred, then stopped their pace, discreetly pointing at the gallows. The court marshal just performed another lash and from this angle, Ilydra could see what probably neither the crowd, nor the guards noticed: The cracking sound didn’t come from the whip hitting flesh, but from the tip cracking against its own body closely to the human, right before it scraped almost harmlessly against the torn up, bloody skin.
What a perfidious mind he has! Ilydra pondered, smiling again. It explained the presence of the court marshal on the gallows, but Tyell was still gone and nowhere to be found.
“I can see you keep an eye out for my confidant and I bid you to stop. You will draw attention to my little charade,” Rhys whispered right next to her ear, leaning into her frame like a courtier begging for her affections. It was another game of his, trying to hide his true intentions from onlookers, and this particular one was all too well known to Ilydra. Ailill nobles had been wondering for years which way the young count bent for pleasure, and Rhys himself did everything in his power to keep them guessing. Well, all except for her, his almost constant companion to social functions. Ilydra knew she’d never grace his bed with her presence and she was content with this. Rhysling’s tastes in foreplay were not of the kind she’d ever enjoy.
“Fine, as you please. But you will have to tell me what game you are playing later. You know how much I hate to be blindsided,” she chided him with a smile. Eons of life might be boring, but consorting with this young Ailill noble usually tided her over many drawn-out social gatherings. Rhys’s life was never dull.
The human had fallen silent and lifeless at this point, rocking softly in his chains as the whip kept on cracking. Even the people watching were quiet now, unhappy with the increase of violence, unhappy with their obligation to stay there until the punishment was finished, and distraught with the sight of so much blood and pain.
When the earl stepped onto the balcony of his residence overlooking the main square, the chatter of voices picked up and stopped once more. Even the whip fell silent as the court marshal looked up to the ruler of Tetharion, standing proudly next to a younger, blond Tyell.
The Earl Wilmoor of Tetharion raised his hands to call for attention he already had, and Rhys snorted softly. “Pompous ass,” he mumbled for Ilydra’s ears only, causing her to bite down a laugh.
“Hear, people of our fair city!” the earl thundered, pointing at the hanging, bleeding human. “I hereby declare this man punished, and order his body to the hands of my nephew to dispose of in any way he pleases. You may now go back to the pleasures of the fair, sing, dance to the music of the bards, and gorge yourself on wine and roast. Remember this day, as this will be the fate of everyone who dares to oppose my orders!”
As soon as the words had been spoken, the court marshal on the gallows handed the whip over to the waiting deathsman and gave a whistle that called two more soldiers away from Rhysling’s side. They made quick work of the chains, catching the falling man clumsily in their attempts to steer clear of the many deep wounds on his back.
“So your lieutenant is the earl’s nephew,” Ilydra whispered with mirth, “and you are using his influence to have your wicked way with a dying man? That is depraved, even for you.”
She had meant it as a joke, but the look Rhys gave her for those words was one of contained fury, hot enough to make her miss a step.
“That was a tasteless thing to say, even for you,” he growled in return, then he took a deep breath to contain his disgust and patted her hand. “No, I plan to nurture him back to health and keep him,” he explained with a hushed voice, smiling happily.
“The earl wants him dead. You are risking your life, your career on this,” Ilydra blurted out. Tightening her grip on his arm, she tugged at him and hissed, “don’t do this, not for a piece of dirt like that human!”
Instead of the fury he had shown before, Rhys just sighed and patted her hand calmingly again. “Don’t worry, dear. I know what I’m doing.”
And he knew what he would get out of this risky game. His prize was carried away quickly, disappearing into the dungeon he had come out of, accompanied by three of Rhys’s men. They would take good care of him and they would see to having him transported into Rhys’s residence safely.
All he had to do was out-maneuver the earl and find a way to persuade him that the human was worth more to House Nancarrow alive than dead.
“This isn’t quite what I envisioned for a public whipping,” Ilydra Gladfall of Yahir purred, shifting her weight from the left foot to the right. “Whipping someone to death is unpleasant, don’t you think? The screams last forever, even though he’d probably die over night, anyway, if they stopped now.”
The tall nobleman next to her tensed even more at her words. He had gotten that distracted look ever since the human whipping boy had started to scream and bleed, and Ilydra could only guess what went on in his head. She did know his tastes ran into erotic whippings, and maybe seeing what usually went on in his bedroom be used as a means of killing was just too tasteless for him. Or maybe he was fighting a whole different kind of feeling? Who knew what paid murderers like him found pleasing.
Still, she decided to be blunt. “Do you want to leave, Rhysling? You look unwell,” she whispered, leaning over so the guarding soldiers wouldn’t be able to listen in.
“You know I don’t like it when you call me by that name,” Rhysling Greyfell of House Nancarrow, Count of Yahir and soon-to-be appointed reeve of Tetharion, replied, but his words had a distracted tone to them. “But no, dear. This is something I didn’t expect, but will handle it.”
It was a strange reply to her question, but then, Rhys had always been a man of quirks and secrecy. Smiling amusedly, Ilydra watched him lean slightly towards his lieutenant of arms, an Ailill soldier by the name of Tyell, who was in some way related to the Earl of Tetharion. Ilydra had never been interested enough to find out in which way that strapping lad had blood bonds to the local regent, but she was quite sure that those bonds had something to do with Rys’s appointment in Tetharion.
Since it was improper to listen in when two people were obviously trying to speak privately, Ilydra tore her gaze away from Rhys’s profile and looked back to the raised gallows. The whipping had been going on for nearly half an hour and the third soldier was already flagging in his relentless beating. The human’s screams were hoarse and low by now, his clothes ripped to shreds and drenched in blood, and he looked to be on the verge of passing out. Not pleasant at all, Ilyrdra mused.
Rhys straightened himself and Tyell took off, waving another soldier with him as he walked briskly towards the gallows. This, Ilydra could watch without being improper, although it didn’t fully sate her curiosity. Tyell and his escort stopped next to the steps leading up to the whipping post, and Ilydra could see him give instructions to the burly man, then turn away and run towards the earl’s residence. The soldier meanwhile stepped onto the gallows, talked to the panting, whip-wielding man and then took the instrument from his hands.
Ilydra was puzzled. “Isn’t that your court marshal up there?” she asked Rhys, who seemed much more intent on watching the human than the ones bleeding him. What was a man proficient in the art of corporal punishment doing at an event explicitly meant to kill someone?
“Yes, that is him,” Rhys mumbled distractedly, taking a half-step forward. He didn’t offer any more explanation than that, but Ilydra knew him well enough to see the wheels clicking behind his oh-so-calm facade. He was planning something, and whatever it was had already been set in motion.
A loud, deafening crack sounded from the gallows and the whip bit into the delirious, moaning man. The crowd cheered with admiration, pressing forward to watch the newcomer’s proficiency up close, gushing over the way he could make the whip crack louder than any of the men before him.
A small smile trailed over Rhysling’s lips. “I had to send him, he knows how to capture the crowd,” he explained softly to his escort, pulling her hand onto his courteously bent arm to indicate he wanted to walk with her.
“But I can see in your face you don’t want the human to die today, do you?” she inquired, keeping up effortlessly with his controlled, calm pace.
This time, Rhys smiled wide, rocking his head from one side to the other. “That is the other reason for sending that man,” he purred, then stopped their pace, discreetly pointing at the gallows. The court marshal just performed another lash and from this angle, Ilydra could see what probably neither the crowd, nor the guards noticed: The cracking sound didn’t come from the whip hitting flesh, but from the tip cracking against its own body closely to the human, right before it scraped almost harmlessly against the torn up, bloody skin.
What a perfidious mind he has! Ilydra pondered, smiling again. It explained the presence of the court marshal on the gallows, but Tyell was still gone and nowhere to be found.
“I can see you keep an eye out for my confidant and I bid you to stop. You will draw attention to my little charade,” Rhys whispered right next to her ear, leaning into her frame like a courtier begging for her affections. It was another game of his, trying to hide his true intentions from onlookers, and this particular one was all too well known to Ilydra. Ailill nobles had been wondering for years which way the young count bent for pleasure, and Rhys himself did everything in his power to keep them guessing. Well, all except for her, his almost constant companion to social functions. Ilydra knew she’d never grace his bed with her presence and she was content with this. Rhysling’s tastes in foreplay were not of the kind she’d ever enjoy.
“Fine, as you please. But you will have to tell me what game you are playing later. You know how much I hate to be blindsided,” she chided him with a smile. Eons of life might be boring, but consorting with this young Ailill noble usually tided her over many drawn-out social gatherings. Rhys’s life was never dull.
The human had fallen silent and lifeless at this point, rocking softly in his chains as the whip kept on cracking. Even the people watching were quiet now, unhappy with the increase of violence, unhappy with their obligation to stay there until the punishment was finished, and distraught with the sight of so much blood and pain.
When the earl stepped onto the balcony of his residence overlooking the main square, the chatter of voices picked up and stopped once more. Even the whip fell silent as the court marshal looked up to the ruler of Tetharion, standing proudly next to a younger, blond Tyell.
The Earl Wilmoor of Tetharion raised his hands to call for attention he already had, and Rhys snorted softly. “Pompous ass,” he mumbled for Ilydra’s ears only, causing her to bite down a laugh.
“Hear, people of our fair city!” the earl thundered, pointing at the hanging, bleeding human. “I hereby declare this man punished, and order his body to the hands of my nephew to dispose of in any way he pleases. You may now go back to the pleasures of the fair, sing, dance to the music of the bards, and gorge yourself on wine and roast. Remember this day, as this will be the fate of everyone who dares to oppose my orders!”
As soon as the words had been spoken, the court marshal on the gallows handed the whip over to the waiting deathsman and gave a whistle that called two more soldiers away from Rhysling’s side. They made quick work of the chains, catching the falling man clumsily in their attempts to steer clear of the many deep wounds on his back.
“So your lieutenant is the earl’s nephew,” Ilydra whispered with mirth, “and you are using his influence to have your wicked way with a dying man? That is depraved, even for you.”
She had meant it as a joke, but the look Rhys gave her for those words was one of contained fury, hot enough to make her miss a step.
“That was a tasteless thing to say, even for you,” he growled in return, then he took a deep breath to contain his disgust and patted her hand. “No, I plan to nurture him back to health and keep him,” he explained with a hushed voice, smiling happily.
“The earl wants him dead. You are risking your life, your career on this,” Ilydra blurted out. Tightening her grip on his arm, she tugged at him and hissed, “don’t do this, not for a piece of dirt like that human!”
Instead of the fury he had shown before, Rhys just sighed and patted her hand calmingly again. “Don’t worry, dear. I know what I’m doing.”
And he knew what he would get out of this risky game. His prize was carried away quickly, disappearing into the dungeon he had come out of, accompanied by three of Rhys’s men. They would take good care of him and they would see to having him transported into Rhys’s residence safely.
All he had to do was out-maneuver the earl and find a way to persuade him that the human was worth more to House Nancarrow alive than dead.
Montag, 8. August 2016
Hannah's Cyberpunk Playlist
Soooo... how do I get in the mood to write?
Usually it just takes music and the right kind of circumstances to get me going on a new story. I tend to hamster songs into playlists, because this allows me easy access to the right mood. I recently started plotting a Cyberpunk-Romance and a matching playlist, so I'll share it with you.
Each and every song in this has its own meaning for me and gives me a boost to write either something aggressive, something fearful, something relaxed or something vaguely or blatantly erotic.
Listen in, find out if the songs move you! :)
Love,
Usually it just takes music and the right kind of circumstances to get me going on a new story. I tend to hamster songs into playlists, because this allows me easy access to the right mood. I recently started plotting a Cyberpunk-Romance and a matching playlist, so I'll share it with you.
Each and every song in this has its own meaning for me and gives me a boost to write either something aggressive, something fearful, something relaxed or something vaguely or blatantly erotic.
Listen in, find out if the songs move you! :)
Love,
Hannah
Freitag, 5. August 2016
Friday Fade-Out! - Bending the Unbreakable, Part 7
Find the entire story here!
Over the weeks following the end of war, the Ailill had opened the city of Tetharion to a wide range of species other than their own, even to a select few humans. The Fae still held an iron grip on those alien beings, keeping them away from military, politics and any other highly respected posts, but there was enough menial work to go around and enough mortal and immortal immigrants to fill the center square with the thunder of chattering voices.
Everyone was waiting for the main attraction of the evening; the fatal punishment of a house guard of House Nancarrow, rulers of the city of Tetharion. Niro’s face was not unknown to the people of Tetharion, after all he had been the last human to stay in the city and the only one present for the whole change of government. The voices in his favor were still few, though. Stories of his mercurial temper, his disregard for anyone’s safety, his violent outbursts and his defiance against those who had saved him and kept him alive were known to everyone. He was a mascot to the city, but one everyone wanted to watch falling, hurting, breaking, just as much as they had enjoyed watching him grow up and play tricks on his masters. To the humans he was a traitor, to the Fae he was an unruly pet, and the few Panders standing to one side probably just thought about how his dead flesh would taste, once he was no more.
The guards opened the barred metal doors quickly, not wasting time. One of them had a swollen, bloodied nose from a moment of negligence, and the pain and lameness the captive had acquired by hanging from chains throughout the night was already fading. Who knew what last grand gestures the crazed human beast might try to make, if they gave him the chance. And so they hurried.
Niro stumbled forward and out into the increasing light of day, accompanied by the harsh rattle of his chains. As soon as the onlookers saw him, they started to yell, to whistle and to call out obscenities, stepping closer and tightening the ring of living flesh around him and his guards. It was a strange kind of aggression, a distant, impersonal one, that could easily fade and just as easily turn into a frenzy, given the right trigger. Luckily for him, he wasn’t one of the religious pariahs who sometimes ended up at the gallows. It wasn’t uncommon for those people to get ripped into shreds by the common folk before the deathsman even had the chance to swing his axe.
He probably looked strangely unblemished to the watching eye, although the guard he had bloodied with his forehead had had his revenge already. A reddish bruise was building on the center of his rump where a fist had bent him in half with the force of the blow, but nothing more had been done to him. The guards knew how useless it was to hit him, how it only riled him up, and they took comfort in the knowledge he’d be maimed soon enough, anyway.
The young human male was a sight to behold as the guards dragged him onto the gallows and chained his arms to two posts. He wasn’t as tall as the Ailill guards, some six feet to their typical seven feet of height, but what they had in height he matched with contoured, rippling muscles. Not the muscles the strongmen at the fair displayed, since they were obscenely built and endowed with mountains of fat and thick thews, but the kind of brawn that gave away his limber grace, his endurance.
The scars on his body sent another wave of excitement through the waiting throngs, showcasing how many times the fair and good earl had already tried to correct the behavior of his slave by the means of corporal punishment. There were whispers all around the gallows, chatter of the many things the human might have done to enrage his master like this, but in the end none of it mattered.
At the left side of the gallows, a group of Ailill soldiers were insulating a man and a woman from the mob. Niro usually knew all the important people in the city by sight. His position as a house guard at the earl’s estate required him to know how to act in front of them, but those two, he had never seen before. It was the man who caught his attention more than the woman, because he stood out like a sore thumb. He had the palest skin Niro had ever seen on a Fae— and that was definitely what he was—, and it had a gray tint to it, almost like a bloodless corpse. Only the pointed tips of his ears held a faint blue hue, tinting them more white than gray, like jewelry in his raven-black hair. Something about the way that nobleman stood there commanded attention. Something in the way he stared at Niro made his insides flutter with anxiety. That man was probably a guest of the earl and by the way he was holding himself he was a high ranking noble.
The guards were tightening the chains until Niro had to balance on the balls of his feet, causing him to take a deep, calming breath through the renewed pain of being stretched to his limit. It took away his concentration from the new faces and he told himself that it didn’t matter who they were anyway. He’d be dead soon. Not much longer now.
The deathsman stepped forward, walking the rim of the gallows again and again as he spoke with a booming voice.
“For his impertinence, his disobedience and the reckless endangerment of fifty Ailill souls, the manslaughter of ten soldiers of the noble House Errea, the willful wasting of thirty purebred horses, and the damaging of the statue of the noble Duke Galdril of Yahir, ancestor of House Malach and great-grandfather of the Duchess Ilydra Gladfall of Yahir, the here presented human slave Niro, part of the estate of the noble Earl Firun Wilmoor of Tetharion, will be whipped to death by the hands of those who he robbed of their comrades!”
With a flourish, the hooded deathsman produced a bull-whip and swung it once, cracking it into the air over the heads of the onlookers. The sound made the people flinch and a thick silence settled over the main square.
“May his punishment be a lesson for all those who oppose our generous ruler!” the deathsman thundered and turned around.
For a moment, everyone seemed to be frozen to the spot, shaken by the promise of pain that one crack of the whip had given. Then one of the guards who had escorted Niro out stepped forward, raising his hand to grab the whip. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the one Niro had head-butted earlier, but his colleague.
He stepped in front of the shackled man, staring into Niro’s eyes just long enough to let him see the pent-up disdain for his existence, then the guard turned around and raised both hands to the cheer of the masses. “I will be the first, but others will follow!” he yelled, smiling to the frenzy of the onlookers. Then he turned and rounded the poles, letting the long, thick whip trail behind him like the tail of a snake.
Niro closed his eyes, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart, the fluttering feeling of panic bubbling up through his guts. It made his manhood throb and thicken in misguided excitement, but this was a reaction easily ignored. His body always did this in the beginning, reveling in the first few lashes like other men reveled in the feel of a woman’s flesh in their hands, but it would go down soon enough. It was calming to know he wouldn’t die with a bulging hard-on in his pants. His tormentors hadn’t earned this chance to degrade him further.
The whistle of leather through the air was the only warning Niro got. The bite of the whip came soon after, leaving a trail of surprising, burning pain across his back, making him buck and hiss and strain against the chains keeping him where he was. He didn’t cry out, of course, but he would at some point. Niro didn’t give himself over to illusions anymore. Sooner or later he would scream and cry, and then he would fall silent and limp, dying whilst hanging there like a piece of discarded meat. And all through that, the Fae would keep beating him relentlessly like they had always done, with no way to stop them, no way to earn their forgiveness, and therefor no need to try.
The pause after the first whiplash wasn’t repeated. As soon as the second blow came, the wielding guard fell into an unsteady rhythm, slower than Niro’s heartbeat and therefor impossible to predict or ride. It felt like a torment inside the punishment itself, to keep him from falling into a trance, to keep him from floating outside of his body and die in peace.
It didn’t take long for the whiplashes turn his whole back into a throbbing, burning mass. Luckily, the guard didn’t use enough force to break his skin and after ten lashes he gave the whip away. Another guard stepped forward to take over, putting a little more force into his lashes, but still containing himself. They were very proficient in the art of wielding a whip, never before having to kill someone with it, and they seemed unwilling to use their full strength and actually bleed him. Did they harbor soft feelings for him? Were they trying to soothe the rage in the soldiers dotting the crowd by lengthening his punishment, so those brutes wouldn’t try to actually shred him into ribbons?
The thought alone made Niro laugh. They had to know that there was no way he’d leave this place alive!
At that one sound, everyone seemed to freeze, gaping at the audacity of it. The whip fell silent, followed by a frustrated snarl from the guard holding it. “You stupid little cunt, I was trying to help you,” he hissed and only turned away when the dull sounds of heavy steps at the back of the gallows made the presence of the next interested party known. The guard and the newcomer started a low but heated discussion, but Niro didn’t try to listen in on what they were arguing about.
Instead, he let his tear-streaked gaze wander back to that ashen-pale Fae.
Their eyes met for the briefest of moments and the noble smirked at him, pointedly looking down at Niro’s crotch, then back up at his face. That indication alone made Niro’s face run hot with shame and turn away his own gaze, something he had never done before. On the other hand, nobody had ever acknowledged any of his reactions to a punishment. Interest in the way he fared with pain was new and confusing, something he definitely couldn’t accept in his dying moments.
The newcomer behind him seemed to have won the argument with the guard. Suddenly, the whip whistled through the air again. The hiss alone was enough of a warning that this blow wouldn’t be like the ones before, but the force with which it hit Niro’s back surprised even him enough to make him yell out. There was a definitive difference to the first few lashes because it didn’t sting as much, but left the area numb for a few heartbeats. Niro felt a rush of liquid start to drip down his back just as the whip hissed again, and he knew that his skin had been broken.
Over the weeks following the end of war, the Ailill had opened the city of Tetharion to a wide range of species other than their own, even to a select few humans. The Fae still held an iron grip on those alien beings, keeping them away from military, politics and any other highly respected posts, but there was enough menial work to go around and enough mortal and immortal immigrants to fill the center square with the thunder of chattering voices.
Everyone was waiting for the main attraction of the evening; the fatal punishment of a house guard of House Nancarrow, rulers of the city of Tetharion. Niro’s face was not unknown to the people of Tetharion, after all he had been the last human to stay in the city and the only one present for the whole change of government. The voices in his favor were still few, though. Stories of his mercurial temper, his disregard for anyone’s safety, his violent outbursts and his defiance against those who had saved him and kept him alive were known to everyone. He was a mascot to the city, but one everyone wanted to watch falling, hurting, breaking, just as much as they had enjoyed watching him grow up and play tricks on his masters. To the humans he was a traitor, to the Fae he was an unruly pet, and the few Panders standing to one side probably just thought about how his dead flesh would taste, once he was no more.
The guards opened the barred metal doors quickly, not wasting time. One of them had a swollen, bloodied nose from a moment of negligence, and the pain and lameness the captive had acquired by hanging from chains throughout the night was already fading. Who knew what last grand gestures the crazed human beast might try to make, if they gave him the chance. And so they hurried.
Niro stumbled forward and out into the increasing light of day, accompanied by the harsh rattle of his chains. As soon as the onlookers saw him, they started to yell, to whistle and to call out obscenities, stepping closer and tightening the ring of living flesh around him and his guards. It was a strange kind of aggression, a distant, impersonal one, that could easily fade and just as easily turn into a frenzy, given the right trigger. Luckily for him, he wasn’t one of the religious pariahs who sometimes ended up at the gallows. It wasn’t uncommon for those people to get ripped into shreds by the common folk before the deathsman even had the chance to swing his axe.
He probably looked strangely unblemished to the watching eye, although the guard he had bloodied with his forehead had had his revenge already. A reddish bruise was building on the center of his rump where a fist had bent him in half with the force of the blow, but nothing more had been done to him. The guards knew how useless it was to hit him, how it only riled him up, and they took comfort in the knowledge he’d be maimed soon enough, anyway.
The young human male was a sight to behold as the guards dragged him onto the gallows and chained his arms to two posts. He wasn’t as tall as the Ailill guards, some six feet to their typical seven feet of height, but what they had in height he matched with contoured, rippling muscles. Not the muscles the strongmen at the fair displayed, since they were obscenely built and endowed with mountains of fat and thick thews, but the kind of brawn that gave away his limber grace, his endurance.
The scars on his body sent another wave of excitement through the waiting throngs, showcasing how many times the fair and good earl had already tried to correct the behavior of his slave by the means of corporal punishment. There were whispers all around the gallows, chatter of the many things the human might have done to enrage his master like this, but in the end none of it mattered.
At the left side of the gallows, a group of Ailill soldiers were insulating a man and a woman from the mob. Niro usually knew all the important people in the city by sight. His position as a house guard at the earl’s estate required him to know how to act in front of them, but those two, he had never seen before. It was the man who caught his attention more than the woman, because he stood out like a sore thumb. He had the palest skin Niro had ever seen on a Fae— and that was definitely what he was—, and it had a gray tint to it, almost like a bloodless corpse. Only the pointed tips of his ears held a faint blue hue, tinting them more white than gray, like jewelry in his raven-black hair. Something about the way that nobleman stood there commanded attention. Something in the way he stared at Niro made his insides flutter with anxiety. That man was probably a guest of the earl and by the way he was holding himself he was a high ranking noble.
The guards were tightening the chains until Niro had to balance on the balls of his feet, causing him to take a deep, calming breath through the renewed pain of being stretched to his limit. It took away his concentration from the new faces and he told himself that it didn’t matter who they were anyway. He’d be dead soon. Not much longer now.
The deathsman stepped forward, walking the rim of the gallows again and again as he spoke with a booming voice.
“For his impertinence, his disobedience and the reckless endangerment of fifty Ailill souls, the manslaughter of ten soldiers of the noble House Errea, the willful wasting of thirty purebred horses, and the damaging of the statue of the noble Duke Galdril of Yahir, ancestor of House Malach and great-grandfather of the Duchess Ilydra Gladfall of Yahir, the here presented human slave Niro, part of the estate of the noble Earl Firun Wilmoor of Tetharion, will be whipped to death by the hands of those who he robbed of their comrades!”
With a flourish, the hooded deathsman produced a bull-whip and swung it once, cracking it into the air over the heads of the onlookers. The sound made the people flinch and a thick silence settled over the main square.
“May his punishment be a lesson for all those who oppose our generous ruler!” the deathsman thundered and turned around.
For a moment, everyone seemed to be frozen to the spot, shaken by the promise of pain that one crack of the whip had given. Then one of the guards who had escorted Niro out stepped forward, raising his hand to grab the whip. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the one Niro had head-butted earlier, but his colleague.
He stepped in front of the shackled man, staring into Niro’s eyes just long enough to let him see the pent-up disdain for his existence, then the guard turned around and raised both hands to the cheer of the masses. “I will be the first, but others will follow!” he yelled, smiling to the frenzy of the onlookers. Then he turned and rounded the poles, letting the long, thick whip trail behind him like the tail of a snake.
Niro closed his eyes, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart, the fluttering feeling of panic bubbling up through his guts. It made his manhood throb and thicken in misguided excitement, but this was a reaction easily ignored. His body always did this in the beginning, reveling in the first few lashes like other men reveled in the feel of a woman’s flesh in their hands, but it would go down soon enough. It was calming to know he wouldn’t die with a bulging hard-on in his pants. His tormentors hadn’t earned this chance to degrade him further.
The whistle of leather through the air was the only warning Niro got. The bite of the whip came soon after, leaving a trail of surprising, burning pain across his back, making him buck and hiss and strain against the chains keeping him where he was. He didn’t cry out, of course, but he would at some point. Niro didn’t give himself over to illusions anymore. Sooner or later he would scream and cry, and then he would fall silent and limp, dying whilst hanging there like a piece of discarded meat. And all through that, the Fae would keep beating him relentlessly like they had always done, with no way to stop them, no way to earn their forgiveness, and therefor no need to try.
The pause after the first whiplash wasn’t repeated. As soon as the second blow came, the wielding guard fell into an unsteady rhythm, slower than Niro’s heartbeat and therefor impossible to predict or ride. It felt like a torment inside the punishment itself, to keep him from falling into a trance, to keep him from floating outside of his body and die in peace.
It didn’t take long for the whiplashes turn his whole back into a throbbing, burning mass. Luckily, the guard didn’t use enough force to break his skin and after ten lashes he gave the whip away. Another guard stepped forward to take over, putting a little more force into his lashes, but still containing himself. They were very proficient in the art of wielding a whip, never before having to kill someone with it, and they seemed unwilling to use their full strength and actually bleed him. Did they harbor soft feelings for him? Were they trying to soothe the rage in the soldiers dotting the crowd by lengthening his punishment, so those brutes wouldn’t try to actually shred him into ribbons?
The thought alone made Niro laugh. They had to know that there was no way he’d leave this place alive!
At that one sound, everyone seemed to freeze, gaping at the audacity of it. The whip fell silent, followed by a frustrated snarl from the guard holding it. “You stupid little cunt, I was trying to help you,” he hissed and only turned away when the dull sounds of heavy steps at the back of the gallows made the presence of the next interested party known. The guard and the newcomer started a low but heated discussion, but Niro didn’t try to listen in on what they were arguing about.
Instead, he let his tear-streaked gaze wander back to that ashen-pale Fae.
Their eyes met for the briefest of moments and the noble smirked at him, pointedly looking down at Niro’s crotch, then back up at his face. That indication alone made Niro’s face run hot with shame and turn away his own gaze, something he had never done before. On the other hand, nobody had ever acknowledged any of his reactions to a punishment. Interest in the way he fared with pain was new and confusing, something he definitely couldn’t accept in his dying moments.
The newcomer behind him seemed to have won the argument with the guard. Suddenly, the whip whistled through the air again. The hiss alone was enough of a warning that this blow wouldn’t be like the ones before, but the force with which it hit Niro’s back surprised even him enough to make him yell out. There was a definitive difference to the first few lashes because it didn’t sting as much, but left the area numb for a few heartbeats. Niro felt a rush of liquid start to drip down his back just as the whip hissed again, and he knew that his skin had been broken.
Dienstag, 2. August 2016
Clumsy little me
I'm a big dog lover, as I mentioned before. I realize that I only have enough time for one dog, but I sometimes take in foster dogs for a few weeks, usually in the summer months. Right now, my foster is this little lady:
Unfortunately, she hates cats. My cats hate her too, so I can't just let her run in the garden whenever she feels like it. I walk her outside on the leash when the cats are there too, which was what I did last night.
And promptly missed the last step, twisting my ankle.
So now I can't walk her at all, or wear shoes for that matter. But at least I learned how to wrap a perfect dressing on my ankle, so there's that :)
I'm still wondering why people with a twisted ankle act like they're unable to stand at all in the movies, because standing honestly isn't a problem right now, it's just the walking that hurts like a bitch. I can drive better than put on my shoes!
Still, it doesn't help my foster dog. She needs two one-hour-walks a day to keep her calm, otherwise she starts to lick the floor, hunts shadows on the wall and whines excessively. I don't know what I'll do, but I'll think of something. Soon-ish.
Unfortunately, she hates cats. My cats hate her too, so I can't just let her run in the garden whenever she feels like it. I walk her outside on the leash when the cats are there too, which was what I did last night.
And promptly missed the last step, twisting my ankle.
So now I can't walk her at all, or wear shoes for that matter. But at least I learned how to wrap a perfect dressing on my ankle, so there's that :)
I'm still wondering why people with a twisted ankle act like they're unable to stand at all in the movies, because standing honestly isn't a problem right now, it's just the walking that hurts like a bitch. I can drive better than put on my shoes!
Still, it doesn't help my foster dog. She needs two one-hour-walks a day to keep her calm, otherwise she starts to lick the floor, hunts shadows on the wall and whines excessively. I don't know what I'll do, but I'll think of something. Soon-ish.
Abonnieren
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