Paying Homage [1/?]
anonymous
August 28 2010, 20:23:33 UTC
He was already nose- and tongue-deep in Cousland snatch before he thought, perhaps, this had not been one of his more brilliant ideas of late.
“To the left, Seneschal.” Elissa bit a lip, a wheezing gasp escaping at his compliance. “Hn, better.”
Varel winced, shifting to alleviate the painful pressure building up in the joints of his knees, only to find that his shoulder hadn’t healed as much as he’d thought. He chanced a peek upward to see that his Commander had her eyes closed, slid low against the wall so that her hips were thrust out to meet his mouth. Snaking one hand around a bared thigh, he curved his tongue about the cusp of a lip, finding this position much more agreeable. There was still the matter, though, of his being on his knees in the first place, sucking up the Warden-Commander’s slick.
It was easy to explain, if not to comprehend. She was a woman who demanded absolute loyalty, but one who gave the same in return, and Varel valued such a virtue as highly as others valued coin. He valued the pert, well-rounded swell of her arse, too, but that only came later. Much later. Love didn’t enter much into this equation - it was a relationship comprised of mutual affection, admiration, worship, at times, but never love. Varel’s only love had been scattered to the winds decades ago.
“Another, my lady?” Varel ground the short, unavoidable stubble of his chin against the smooth, slick skin just beneath her folds, gratified to feel the tremor rip through her before she squirmed. He accepted the invitation, pried his ring finger into her dripping wet entrance to join the other two, ever stretching her, but keeping well away from penetration. “You are very eager, Elissa. It has been some time, I gather?”
“You’re not here to question me, only to support, Seneschal,” came the cold reply, forced through clenched teeth, nails digging into his scalp to remind him to focus. “How rude of you, speaking like that to your commanding officer with your mouth full.”
The older man quirked a brow, content to withdraw his tongue and run the kinked bridge of his nose over the tight, stiff bud above her sex for a short while. “Of course, my lady. Forgive me. Far be it from me to make the same mistake as that idiot whose arse now graces our throne.”
There was a sharp snort of appreciative amusement, until Varel cut her off with a curling lick over the length of her slit, finishing at her swollen nub only when he’d driven his fingers deep into the warmth of her channel, bringing her off with an expert haste. His hair, he assumed, would grow back where she’d ripped it out by the roots in her ecstasy, and they could repaint the inside of the closet where her armour had rubbed away most of the whitewash.
“Your cock, Seneschal,” Elissa was swallowing, panting, trying to keep her knees locked, to keep herself upright. “We’ve waited long enough.”
“You’re not ready yet.”
Her lids slipped open, swept imperiously over his hardened, angular face, the too-strong line of his jaw, the almost feminine arch of his lips, settling on slate-grey eyes. “If I get any wetter, I-” the lids shot apart, her eyes steadily widening into mild shock. “…I…oh. Oh. I see.”
“Do you? I’ve heard rumours that the king, as with many of his predecessors, is quite well-endowed,” Varel again peaked an iron-grey brow, watched her lick her lips uncontrollably. “Just gossip, Commander?”
“Hardly. Alistair is…enormous. For all the good it does him…Maker’s breath, Seneschal.”
Paying Homage [2/?]
anonymous
September 1 2010, 19:55:59 UTC
He may have fallen for her in the span of that first breath he drew without a darkspawn blade pressing into his neck. Men under duress do strange things, and it wasn’t that strange, Varel supposed, to give his heart to a walking fortress with cold, dark slits for eyes, and nothing to attest to femininity except for a narrow waist. He could do nothing but lay prone and watch as she battled herself into exhaustion, protecting him from the Withered, his love increasing with each wound she inflicted upon the darkspawn abomination, each slice pumping life back into Varel’s veins.
“Commander, I owe you my life.”
She removed the massive, striking helm and the coif beneath, revealing sweat-slicked hair, a bruised cheek, and eyes that looked far too old within her youthful countenance. Elissa gave him a cursory glance and helped him to his feet, and then her attention was elsewhere. Varel followed her gaze, saw the small armored force approaching; once the king came into view, she couldn’t disguise the tremble in her chin, the helm back upon her head before any further vulnerability was exposed.
The quick conference with the king was ruined, mostly, by Varel’s inability to tear his attention away from Elissa’s eyes. More than anything, they didn’t belong on that face. And the more the king spoke and jested, as ill-at-ease with the Warden-Commander as she was with him, the more the clouds rolled into those eyes, thick and grey, a pollution that must have corrupted far more than simply the surface. He watched, eager and obsessed, until the king finally hauled his wasted mass out onto the Pilgrim’s Road and away from the seneschal’s Keep. Away from his commander.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said quietly, watching as the preparations were made for the joining. Just the two of them and the mage performing the ritual. “Alist - the king and I were…involved. During the Blight.”
“I had heard that, my lady.”
Varel made no judgments, not because it was beyond his position to do so, but because she was young, and so was the king. He was not so old he couldn’t remember the feeling - and it wasn’t so difficult now, either, remembering that surge of hot, unbidden desire that had flooded him upon the rooftop.
“I assumed you had,” she kept her sullen tone, looked away from the seneschal, impatiently tapping her foot as she waited for the Joining to commence. “I thought you were due an explanation. That is all. So from now on, the king is not to be admitted to the Keep without express permission from the Warden-Commander, is that understood?”
Varel couldn’t stop the expression of mild shock spreading over his countenance. “Commander, if I may say so, that is truly unwise -”
“Do not lecture me on politics, seneschal. The Wardens are concerned only with darkspawn and preventing further Blights. We bend knee to no sovereign.”
His answer was an amused scoff, a new appreciation for the creature he was bound to serve. Whether that was duty or love, he knew not. “I stand corrected. It shall be as you order, Commander. From this moment, King Alistair is persona non grata at Vigil’s Keep. I will inform Captain Garevel.”
He did not, however, tell Garevel why the king was not welcome.
A quickie to tide you over, as I'm losing steam due to the other Varel-fills...
Paying Homage [3/?]
anonymous
September 5 2010, 02:40:34 UTC
“Let me get this straight…you served Arl Howe personally?”
“I did, Commander, but by station of birth rather than choice. I’ve lived on a farmhold not far from the Vigil all my life, was squired and risen through the ranks here.”
Elissa looked thoughtful. She needn’t have asked these questions, but she had been determined to know her fighting force, inside and out, especially after the decimation of the Orlesian Wardens. Still, Varel could not help but notice she had leaned on him more than any other, these past weeks.
“I objected too many times to the arl’s orders, and after I became seneschal, I was repeatedly demoted,” Varel continued, not without reluctance. “I did what I could to countermand his atrocity. The final straw was the attack on the Couslands. I threatened to reveal the arl’s treachery to the king.”
A grim smile curled her lips. “How I wish you had.”
“There was no opportunity. He had me thrown in the dungeons, was to see me hanged when he returned from Highever. He never made it back, fortunately.”
“Is this why you were so wroth with me, sparing Nathaniel?” Elissa asked. “If there is anyone inured to hatred of the Howes, it’s me. I stand by my judgment.”
“As do I, Commander.” Even when it was folly. Even when he could see, plainly, the same hungry look in Nathaniel’s eyes that he felt must be evident in his own. A fatal mixture of gratitude for a life spared and attraction that mocked every scar he bore in the name of duty.
In spite of the easy camaraderie she had fostered amongst her troops, Wardens and soldiers alike, Elissa was still detached, distant. “Frigid bitch,” Varel had overheard one evening, before sending two younger guards off to soak their heads with a stern reminder never to speak ill of the Warden-Commander. Honorable, principled, just - and distant.
Saying as much to the only visitor he’d had in months earned him a look rife with skeptical disbelief, a grim amusement tugging his companion’s mouth at the corners.
“Frigid? The Warden? Have you been swilling your own brew, mate?”
Varel smothered the oath at the edge of his tongue, shot a disparaging glance at the Knight-Commander before taking a demonstrative swig. “Save it for one of your impulsive whelps, you old bastard.”
Greagoir shrugged, finally dropping the look of discomfort he’d worn since being directed into one of the main hall’s bench seats, having declined a position upon the dais. Whether it was contempt for extravagance or for Howe, Varel wasn’t sure. The question remained upon his face, and he drew his brows together insistently.
“I saw her during the Blight, more than once, might I add,” Greagoir elaborated. “If anything, that woman was a composition of liquid fire and brimstone. If there was one thing you could say about her for certain, it was that she was passionate to a fault. You sure your boys were speaking of the same woman?”
“Hmph. You sure you should be speaking of a woman in that manner, Knight-Commander?”
Greagoir took an apparently satisfying gulp of his drink, setting it down too loudly. “Speech and action are nothing in and of themselves, old man. As well you know.”
Varel processed this, ran it through the mud of his liquor-splashed mind a few times before Greagoir began to make sense. “This is about the king?”
“I daresay it is!” the templar snorted, mirthfully indignant. “My whole party is supposed to be his guard detail, and they’re spending the night on the road, thanks to your Warden-Commander. I’m lucky she remembers me so fondly.”
“You’re lucky she is a charitable Andrastian, and believes in succor for the poor and the elderly.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same for you,” Greagoir’s smile dissipated, the smirk still etched beneath. “Or am I mistaken? That’s a look men our age reserve for comfortable settees and wide-brimmed hats.”
“Which look is that?”
“The one you leveled at your Commander six, seven times tonight.”
Varel perfunctorily scoffed, and made it a point to attempt the same sort of look at a serving wench instead. To limited success.
“To the left, Seneschal.” Elissa bit a lip, a wheezing gasp escaping at his compliance. “Hn, better.”
Varel winced, shifting to alleviate the painful pressure building up in the joints of his knees, only to find that his shoulder hadn’t healed as much as he’d thought. He chanced a peek upward to see that his Commander had her eyes closed, slid low against the wall so that her hips were thrust out to meet his mouth. Snaking one hand around a bared thigh, he curved his tongue about the cusp of a lip, finding this position much more agreeable. There was still the matter, though, of his being on his knees in the first place, sucking up the Warden-Commander’s slick.
It was easy to explain, if not to comprehend. She was a woman who demanded absolute loyalty, but one who gave the same in return, and Varel valued such a virtue as highly as others valued coin. He valued the pert, well-rounded swell of her arse, too, but that only came later. Much later. Love didn’t enter much into this equation - it was a relationship comprised of mutual affection, admiration, worship, at times, but never love. Varel’s only love had been scattered to the winds decades ago.
“Another, my lady?” Varel ground the short, unavoidable stubble of his chin against the smooth, slick skin just beneath her folds, gratified to feel the tremor rip through her before she squirmed. He accepted the invitation, pried his ring finger into her dripping wet entrance to join the other two, ever stretching her, but keeping well away from penetration. “You are very eager, Elissa. It has been some time, I gather?”
“You’re not here to question me, only to support, Seneschal,” came the cold reply, forced through clenched teeth, nails digging into his scalp to remind him to focus. “How rude of you, speaking like that to your commanding officer with your mouth full.”
The older man quirked a brow, content to withdraw his tongue and run the kinked bridge of his nose over the tight, stiff bud above her sex for a short while. “Of course, my lady. Forgive me. Far be it from me to make the same mistake as that idiot whose arse now graces our throne.”
There was a sharp snort of appreciative amusement, until Varel cut her off with a curling lick over the length of her slit, finishing at her swollen nub only when he’d driven his fingers deep into the warmth of her channel, bringing her off with an expert haste. His hair, he assumed, would grow back where she’d ripped it out by the roots in her ecstasy, and they could repaint the inside of the closet where her armour had rubbed away most of the whitewash.
“Your cock, Seneschal,” Elissa was swallowing, panting, trying to keep her knees locked, to keep herself upright. “We’ve waited long enough.”
“You’re not ready yet.”
Her lids slipped open, swept imperiously over his hardened, angular face, the too-strong line of his jaw, the almost feminine arch of his lips, settling on slate-grey eyes. “If I get any wetter, I-” the lids shot apart, her eyes steadily widening into mild shock. “…I…oh. Oh. I see.”
“Do you? I’ve heard rumours that the king, as with many of his predecessors, is quite well-endowed,” Varel again peaked an iron-grey brow, watched her lick her lips uncontrollably. “Just gossip, Commander?”
“Hardly. Alistair is…enormous. For all the good it does him…Maker’s breath, Seneschal.”
Moar to cum come, including plot
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“Commander, I owe you my life.”
She removed the massive, striking helm and the coif beneath, revealing sweat-slicked hair, a bruised cheek, and eyes that looked far too old within her youthful countenance. Elissa gave him a cursory glance and helped him to his feet, and then her attention was elsewhere. Varel followed her gaze, saw the small armored force approaching; once the king came into view, she couldn’t disguise the tremble in her chin, the helm back upon her head before any further vulnerability was exposed.
The quick conference with the king was ruined, mostly, by Varel’s inability to tear his attention away from Elissa’s eyes. More than anything, they didn’t belong on that face. And the more the king spoke and jested, as ill-at-ease with the Warden-Commander as she was with him, the more the clouds rolled into those eyes, thick and grey, a pollution that must have corrupted far more than simply the surface. He watched, eager and obsessed, until the king finally hauled his wasted mass out onto the Pilgrim’s Road and away from the seneschal’s Keep. Away from his commander.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said quietly, watching as the preparations were made for the joining. Just the two of them and the mage performing the ritual. “Alist - the king and I were…involved. During the Blight.”
“I had heard that, my lady.”
Varel made no judgments, not because it was beyond his position to do so, but because she was young, and so was the king. He was not so old he couldn’t remember the feeling - and it wasn’t so difficult now, either, remembering that surge of hot, unbidden desire that had flooded him upon the rooftop.
“I assumed you had,” she kept her sullen tone, looked away from the seneschal, impatiently tapping her foot as she waited for the Joining to commence. “I thought you were due an explanation. That is all. So from now on, the king is not to be admitted to the Keep without express permission from the Warden-Commander, is that understood?”
Varel couldn’t stop the expression of mild shock spreading over his countenance. “Commander, if I may say so, that is truly unwise -”
“Do not lecture me on politics, seneschal. The Wardens are concerned only with darkspawn and preventing further Blights. We bend knee to no sovereign.”
His answer was an amused scoff, a new appreciation for the creature he was bound to serve. Whether that was duty or love, he knew not. “I stand corrected. It shall be as you order, Commander. From this moment, King Alistair is persona non grata at Vigil’s Keep. I will inform Captain Garevel.”
He did not, however, tell Garevel why the king was not welcome.
A quickie to tide you over, as I'm losing steam due to the other Varel-fills...
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“I did, Commander, but by station of birth rather than choice. I’ve lived on a farmhold not far from the Vigil all my life, was squired and risen through the ranks here.”
Elissa looked thoughtful. She needn’t have asked these questions, but she had been determined to know her fighting force, inside and out, especially after the decimation of the Orlesian Wardens. Still, Varel could not help but notice she had leaned on him more than any other, these past weeks.
“I objected too many times to the arl’s orders, and after I became seneschal, I was repeatedly demoted,” Varel continued, not without reluctance. “I did what I could to countermand his atrocity. The final straw was the attack on the Couslands. I threatened to reveal the arl’s treachery to the king.”
A grim smile curled her lips. “How I wish you had.”
“There was no opportunity. He had me thrown in the dungeons, was to see me hanged when he returned from Highever. He never made it back, fortunately.”
“Is this why you were so wroth with me, sparing Nathaniel?” Elissa asked. “If there is anyone inured to hatred of the Howes, it’s me. I stand by my judgment.”
“As do I, Commander.” Even when it was folly. Even when he could see, plainly, the same hungry look in Nathaniel’s eyes that he felt must be evident in his own. A fatal mixture of gratitude for a life spared and attraction that mocked every scar he bore in the name of duty.
In spite of the easy camaraderie she had fostered amongst her troops, Wardens and soldiers alike, Elissa was still detached, distant. “Frigid bitch,” Varel had overheard one evening, before sending two younger guards off to soak their heads with a stern reminder never to speak ill of the Warden-Commander. Honorable, principled, just - and distant.
Saying as much to the only visitor he’d had in months earned him a look rife with skeptical disbelief, a grim amusement tugging his companion’s mouth at the corners.
“Frigid? The Warden? Have you been swilling your own brew, mate?”
Varel smothered the oath at the edge of his tongue, shot a disparaging glance at the Knight-Commander before taking a demonstrative swig. “Save it for one of your impulsive whelps, you old bastard.”
Greagoir shrugged, finally dropping the look of discomfort he’d worn since being directed into one of the main hall’s bench seats, having declined a position upon the dais. Whether it was contempt for extravagance or for Howe, Varel wasn’t sure. The question remained upon his face, and he drew his brows together insistently.
“I saw her during the Blight, more than once, might I add,” Greagoir elaborated. “If anything, that woman was a composition of liquid fire and brimstone. If there was one thing you could say about her for certain, it was that she was passionate to a fault. You sure your boys were speaking of the same woman?”
“Hmph. You sure you should be speaking of a woman in that manner, Knight-Commander?”
Greagoir took an apparently satisfying gulp of his drink, setting it down too loudly. “Speech and action are nothing in and of themselves, old man. As well you know.”
Varel processed this, ran it through the mud of his liquor-splashed mind a few times before Greagoir began to make sense. “This is about the king?”
“I daresay it is!” the templar snorted, mirthfully indignant. “My whole party is supposed to be his guard detail, and they’re spending the night on the road, thanks to your Warden-Commander. I’m lucky she remembers me so fondly.”
“You’re lucky she is a charitable Andrastian, and believes in succor for the poor and the elderly.”
“Funny, I was thinking the same for you,” Greagoir’s smile dissipated, the smirk still etched beneath. “Or am I mistaken? That’s a look men our age reserve for comfortable settees and wide-brimmed hats.”
“Which look is that?”
“The one you leveled at your Commander six, seven times tonight.”
Varel perfunctorily scoffed, and made it a point to attempt the same sort of look at a serving wench instead. To limited success.
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