White moon night, Tavien and Aisling[Mature]

[Cureless]

((WEB (Tavien) and me (Aisling). Not sure if you wanted it here or on the OnexOnes, but because it was Medieval, I put it here. It's not much and I don't think it's a good start, but whaddya think? If you want to scratch this and have me write something else or have us use whatever you've got, that's good too))

She had made sure to arrive at the most remote side of the shore. It was the second time out of the sea out of her skin, but it still took a moment to regain the memory for the use of her legs. Each time that she fell, sand caked and clung to her pale skin and black-coffee brown hair. She was not so disgusted with the sand in her mouth compared to the first and spat the grains out without ceremony. Rekindling the memory, her back straightened and each step became confident with less falter and less sand in her mouth. She walked over to the large stone far from the shore with the help of the white moon and began to dig with her hands. It was dark even with the moon, but she knew what she was looking for. Eventually, she came to a pelt covered package. She drew it out, opened it, and shook out the garments that she had hidden.

She had heard tales from her folk of when one would be careless with their skin. A fisherman might sneak upon the innocent victim, take the pelt and force her to marry him. Most returned to the sea by good fortune; their children while playing would unearth the lost skin and return it to their mother without understanding the significance of such an object. In the water, Aisling had always promised to herself that she would never be so careless.

The girl from the water was an average framed short of delicate, average weight female with the appearance of twenty winters. Her pale skin scarcely held back her blooming flesh, each curve taut and innocently sinful. She pulled her dark hair speckled with drying sand and saltwater away and pulled off her pelt. She dropped it on the ground and dressed herself with the cream leine, green dress, and a brown ankle length skirt underneath. There was a small pouch that hung from her belt with a few small coins and two fish bones. On her feet, she wore the old leather boots an elderly couple had given her. Over her shoulders, she draped a brown woolen shawl. She picked up her pelt and walked towards the city.

Her liquid emerald eyes sparkled over the moonlit buildings. Much of the city was hushed in its sleep. The buildings looked different under the moon and she realized that it was more difficult to find her way to the elderly couple’s home. She stumbled once and found that pain was just as unpleasant above as it was under water. She had heard noise made from a man and woman and , blushing, she quickly passed by. A dog barked fiercely at her and she would have run, had it not been tethered. Aisling stood in the dark, lost. Silently, a blade rose to her neck and an oily voice commanded her not to make a single noise. She could not even nod.

[WEB]

((Yeah, it took quite a while, but it was fun writing.))

There was smoke all around. It seemed to rise up out of the ground as though the world was steaming or smelled like shit. Only there was no shit here, no smell, no wind, no feel of air at all. It was as though the entire place was set upon a backdrop and he the actor who did not know he was in a play, including the all-too-real feeling of stress accompanying a lead role he never knew he was possessed of. Briefly, in the back of the haze that invaded his thoughts and filled up the corners of his vision, the dreamer decided to play his part, that of a peasant human. Pushing his way through the seeming crowd of bodies felt like trying to walk underwater. There was the resistance of the other people, first off, who moved with all the grace that they normally possessed, while he felt gradually fell under the effects of the hanging mist that dropped over everything like a concealed euphoria, covering everything with a sublime sense of fear and fiery passion.

Gradually, as more mental focus was directed on overcoming this handicap that began to fill the dreamer with fear, walking became easier and more natural. He was no longer struggling against forces less lenient than gravity and water resistance. The fog, too, would have cleared, with more thought, but he did not care to try. He had begun to play his part, but his role was different than originally intended. Instead, a sense of action came into his head, and he moved away from it, forming into the background, becoming just another person, caught by the notion of haste and significance. But there was a difference here, one that could be caught by most people who looked, but this was his dream, and he decided what the rules were and how he was going to play.

Right on cue, he missed his turn into heroism, and made a bee-line toward sin and indulgence. Feeling as though he were, spoken plainly, in a dream, his heart leaping, making a cold feeling in his stomach, this one the kind that did not mean a negativity but signified his own fiery yearnings, he seemed to shed his clothes with a thought. They were there, then not, with hardly any time with which to imply the words “and then”, which would have undoubtedly included a pause in thinking. There – gone. The simplicity of the fact was that there was nobody there to determine if this strange passerby, this soul only differentiated in the fact that somewhere, deep down, he was a real being, had ever been clothed in the first place. The beauty was that it did not matter, no phantom thought of it, nor realized they were all but playthings to him when and if he decided. Rather, they did not think, and therefore could have no realizations. Feeling a fiery burning only enhanced by his own nudity and the anticipation of the next-to-come, the same fate of his own clothes happened to that of the young girl standing exposed in the street, her back turned to him.

With hardly any thought to his actions, the man came up behind her and wrapped his arm around her, grabbing one firm breast and pulling her upper body back into him, the other hand shamelessly finding a place between her thighs, reaching behind her only to assist in putting himself inside her. The virgin blood dripped softly, but she moaned as loudly as he did, feeling the pleasure – and the pain – too acutely. He gripped her breast harder in something that might have been described as a deep tissue massage that some nobility went out monthly to bask in. As he thrust into her, things faded off until he no longer felt or heard anything except the pleasure. If the hurt the girl, all the better. The control he exerted over her as he held her up there to his thrusting made it even more enjoyable. There were no sounds anymore, just feelings. They hung in the air like the smoke, and choked the senses. It was his anger and lust and ecstasy. It was her fear and lust and ecstasy and pain. And the blood ran down her thigh now, past the pounding of their bodies. The sound of his flesh hitting her soft pink sensitive was almost like bare feet running on cobble stone roads. As the dogs got closer, the sound got faster, the panting grew heavier, the yells more emphatic. Things faded off now, the animals nearing the closure of their disgraceful deed. There were no questions of what was to come next, because when everything reached a crescendo, when the feet ran faster and the cries rose to blasphemy, the loins a rush of convulsions, her legs breaking up into involuntary spasms when he lay her against the ground, now a bed with soft satin sheets, the two laying front to back on their sides, it was over.

Following the heaved exhalations coupling the climax, the two, the dreamer and his toy, puffed away like so much smoke, and the true dreamer, the one with both parts of his mind connected, what was whole anyway, looked on with an indifferent air as all of it dispersed, many pieces of smoke that simply drifted off into nothing, leaving him with an wide-open empty space of nothing. The true dreamer wore clothes, didn’t wear clothes, the distinction did not occur at this moment. His eyes were locked onto the space the two hapless adulterers had hitherto occupied, trying to get that moment back when he could feel so…good.

There was a bed that was more a heap of pillows laid on top of a heavy carpet that covered the majority of the floor. A blanket on top was meant to serve as covering for the occupant, but he had sat up and pulled it off of himself, assuming a sitting position cross-legged on the floor. Rubbing his head to clear the dream, he made attempts to rid himself of the horrid headache and disorientation to which he should now be accustomed. Sleeping should give him rest, both of the mind and of the body, but for several weeks, it had done neither. His conscious did not help him, either, for the man was not sure if he had chosen correctly that time that seemed so long ago, his decision before him in a split second, with the consequences just after. Every night he lay down to sleep, dreading what was to come next, knowing that in sleep he would be proven weak just like every human he came across, and every morning he asked himself again, through his disorientation, ‘is this worth it?’. Perhaps more to spite that dark prisoner who always tried to overthrow the warden, he had to say to himself, ‘it is.’ Perhaps one day he might just mean it. But now, the girl might have been right. Perhaps it had been better in her hands. The burden had not been what he had expected. No, it was much worse, but they always seemed to follow the same pattern.

Feeling something wet against his lower stomach, he reached his hand down, almost without thinking and made a slight grimace, nodding slowly to himself, agitatedly. It was amazing how the mind could play tricks even on those who prepared for them. There was one good thing, anyway. Generally speaking, the loudest noises of pleasure were reserved for waking moments of passion, not those that snuck up on you in the middle of the night. Like him.

The dreamer had stripped himself of the cloth that covered him during his daytime resting, and placed them in a small wicker basket in the corner, used to contain soiled clothes that would later be put into a basin filled with hot water, used for the purpose of laundry. Through brief meditation, he prepared himself for the night by circulating energy throughout his body. And now, only his eyes and the fingers of his right hand showed themselves to the night, the rest of himself covered up as securely as the insides of his walls. His right hand was gloved, but the fingers showed, slightly tan through work in the sun. His legs were covered by simple breeches, although the shins were covered by pieces of steel armor, dulled to a metallic black. The tops of his feet were likewise sparsely covered, and he wore no boots, only incredibly thick socks with padded soles, angled for grip. A wide strip of sturdy cloth was tied about his waist as a belt, the same midnight blue color as the dueling cloak he wore around his shoulders that covered the left half of his body down to his knees, curling around his left arm and barely gracing his right shoulder, where it was pinned to a spaulder made of a mixture of silver and black leather. A piece of the same material connected to this by a thin strap and covered his torso and abdomen, as well as curving around to protect his back. A curving sword hilt of arcane patterns vaguely resembling leaves carved in bronze on both sides of a handle of black crystal poked over his shoulder, inciting images of valor and vanquished foes. His face was by far the most frightening, for he looked like a mixture of a demon and the mystical figures who were said to dwell in the shadows of the exotic Southern nations. The rest of his samfu, the loose-fitting black clothing he wore continued up around his neck, where the cloak bound up to make a scarf, and up to cover the bottom half of his face. Strips of the same black-metallic steel were sowed into the cloth over his face in opposing angles where they met at a point where the bridge of his nose was located. A piece of steel like a hawk’s beak jutted down over his eyebrows and cast a shadow upon his face where it was part of a headband he used to tie up his short black hair.

The dreamer made his way along the rooftops, seeking the location to where his spirit had departed just a half hour previous. He knew the way his dreams worked, and on a more well-to-do street, he found a play ready to be enacted. Next to a house with a modest picket fence about four feet high, and nearing an alleyway, walked a young woman along the cobblestone, soft boots hardly clicking. She seemed to look about the moonlit roof tops with sparkling wonder, and her eyes drifted over him, where he stood on the edge of a roof, the wind pressing the front of his cape to wrap his left arm and the rest to waft like the waves of the sea. A trick of the light for her, then, because she would not see the shadow of a man again, and it must have been her imagination. Only there was someone behind her, then, with a knife to her throat and a – oily? – voice to her ear. Of all the proper descriptive words that could have been used, she chose oily? The dreamer leaned forward over the ledge, contemplating merely observing tonight’s events. He watched the disgusting wretch pull his dick out of his pants, and reach around the girl, and the dreamer watched intently as he began to grope her through her trousers. It might have aroused him if this sort of thing could make him wince outside of a dream. When awake, he was uncompromising, unfeeling ice. The man slowly stroked his cock as he turned the girl around and pushed her up against the wall. The man’s fingers were almost as dirty as his thoughts. Just hearing these fantasies, the sexual desire fell like honey on the dreamer, and he screwed up his face in disgust under his mask of cloth and steel.

The man leaned in to try to give the girl a filthy kiss. His breath stank of fish and cheap wine. The repulsion was slightly consumed by the fear in the girl. As the creep’s mouth opened as if to eat the dainty sweet, the dreamer thought only to put a blade in it. The taste of a kiss lingers on the kisser for others to taste at behest of a kiss. The dark dreamer would not subject the woman to dirt and decay upon her rosy lips. A sound like wings wafted at them like a wave through the alley as he threw his cape away from his left arm, revealing a grey-silver claw that covered his arm up to his elbow. Individual armor plates were sown over the knuckles and the back of the hand, gradually growing larger and room permitted. Along the bottom, he had strapped a line of slender needles. The most terrible feature of the strange tool was not the wisps of smoke that rose off of it as chilled steam from a lake at morning does at the first sight of the sun, but the way that a spectral trail seemed to follow it when he moved his arm. And move it, the dreamer did, stepping off the roof and putting the arm behind him to gauge deeply into the masonry in the building behind him as he fell, slowing his fall in a shower of sparks and his rapidly flapping dueling cloak.

Moving his feet as though running backward down the wall, he descended about as quickly as anyone falling normally would, but when he touched along the ground, he ripped his claw out of the wall, pulling his claw up next to his face where they could all see the individual fingers were tipped in orange, but they cooled quickly. Staring at the potential rapist and murderer, the figure stalked in, slowly shaking his head. Behind the metal, however, oddly enough, he was laughing, a horrible, mocking, evil, yet somehow cultured laugh. The claw was back at his side, and the cloak had moved back over his arm and around his body, partially concealing him, but a slight shrug sent the sword at his back bobbing for a second. With an eye at the knife in the man’s hand, he laughed again, this time an open dare.

“Go on. Do it. Better men than you have tried.”