The year is 286 AC. King Jaehaerys II has just passed, leaving the throne without a rightful ruler. While his three children fight for the crown, Winter creeps closer, and unimaginable darkness looms.
Not all alliances will be so typical this time. In fact, many people have a crucial effect on the way this story is told. As for the ending, we only hope there are enough people left alive to tell it after its passed.
Events
Join us for our first event, the wake of recently deceased King Jaehaerys II.
Updates
AUG. 19: So we are now officially open to the public. We have a mini-event flashback thread going on, and our main event just began. Feel free to make a second canon if you can keep both of them active enough.
Don't hesitate in pestering staff with questions; it's what we're here for! Let's raise a glass and make a cheer toward a successful launch of Winds of Winter.
Beads of sun cast through the carpet lined tent, decorating the scene with slow moving light. The expanse radiated warmth to a sweltering degree, causing beads of glistening sweat to gather on her forehead. The beaten warrior was still, laying on a bed of furs and hides, still sleeping from her defeat. She was clean, mounded herbs and prairie grass plastered against the wound on her neck, and a not a leather on her, as she was stripped of her armor.
Eyes darkened by her lids quivered as the pain ravaged her skull, the dull sensation of constant pain a reminder of the events. She expected death, or at least humiliation and then death. Yet she still breathed, while painful, was still breath. A soft groan escaped past her lips, her eyes opening to see the colorful and bronze decorated ceiling.
Great, she was a prisoner.
One that expected to be shackled to the bed or at least guarded to prevent waking up and running off. Yet she knew that she was not going anywhere anytime soon. Perhaps if she was to feint sleep until she was strong enough to make off with a horse? At least there was the option of life.
Her throat dry, she felt like choking, her voice coarse as she called out, "W-WA-WATER!" hoping someone would be there to answer, or at least put her out of her misery. If this was indeed a Dothraki camp, or even worse, -- Vaes Dothrak, she was not in for a pleasant time.
The question of why never left her mind. It was not like a savage to let their opponent win. She certainly wold not have let him live if he faltered.
Propping her body up on her elbows she struggled to glance around her surroundings, the pain increasing as she did so.
Post by KHAL VORSAKH on Sept 13, 2017 17:18:09 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Splendor blessed his dothraki horde, taking their stolen treasures to the bazaar to be traded amongst the foreign merchants. They brought nearly everything save the armor and spear of his mare. Vorsakh wanted the euphoria that came with fighting a rival of his strength. Never did he expect the spirit of the warrior within the beautiful mare.
Returning to the tent that housed his spoils of battle. Pushing apart the hide that formed the entrance as he came upon the lowly sight of the mare. Begging for water to sate her thirst. Fortune blessed her, for her common tongue was understood by the khal. Plucking a waterskin from their tent.
Bringing his armored hand to her chin, coarse fingers tracing her soft flesh. Placing the tip upon her lips as the water began to tumble towards her throat. Upon her lips defying any more the khal would bring the bottle up to her forehead. Dousing her head softly with the cool water before lifting his hand from her chin to stroke her mane
Bringing the soothing water across her forehead and through her hair until grasp retreated. Taking his own drink from the waterskin. Beads of water rolling from his lip to his chin. Falling upon his battle worn breast. Discarding it upon it being empty. Eyes tracing the mare, as his lips formed the first words of the day.
Post by SYRIUS BUROS on Sept 13, 2017 18:44:49 GMT
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The slap of leather caught her attention, eyes glanced to the entrance of the man she previously intended to kill, unmistaking the length of hair, and bronzed skin which surrounded the eyes that previously gazed upon her in battle. His demeanor was the same, lengthy strides that spoke hymns of his superiority and class of bred.
He was no common Dothraki.
The caress of water soothed her throat, and when she had her fill, the woman laid back against the furs, a sigh escaping past her lips before the winded breaths of her exhaustion. The sensation of his fingers followed after the cool of fluid which poured over her head and down her body. Crimson hair matted to a pale forehead, water falling from the strands and onto her cheeks. Dark brows pinched, her gaze turning to rest on him, as the sound of his strange lexicon filled her ears.
"You understand the common tongue?"
A simple question, which would provide her with more answer than just one; She never knew a savage to spend time learning a language that was not his, even if shared by many types of people.
Dark rust colored orbs surveyed the frame of her host, finding a disappointment in the little damage he suffered at her hands. There would be scraps and cuts, each being the dark pink color of freshly grown skin, and the purple hue of bruises across his muscles, specifically on his torso. Yet he lived and breathed. To her dismay.
"Why?"
Another simple question. Why was she here? Why was she alive? Why disgrace a warrior of a honorable death?
Post by KHAL VORSAKH on Sept 13, 2017 21:32:29 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Words would leave her pale lips misunderstood, knowing choice worlds from her dialect. Having interacted with the merchants and traders here and those begging for their lives. Speaking the little he knew to the second son upon her inquiry of his knowledge.
" Sekke little."
Blending the languages together as he expressed himself with the mare. A barrier between them from the dialects. Vorsakh watched the second son study him, bruised flesh shown above his half dressed attire. Asking of him why he choose to spare her.
Taking up her hand he brought it to his torso, pushing her fingers and palm upon his damaged flesh. Urging her hand to trace his figure before directing her hand back to her belly, pushing into her upon the bed. Taking what was his, pressed upon Syrius his motion eased to a warriors softness.
" Anha need a rizh, anha need mae to be haj, anha need yeri."
Knowing his words wouldn't reach her, scowling at what common words he knew to share his intentions.
" Anha - Yeri."
Resting upon her hips as he brought his hands to his own breast to express the word. Explaining rizh through motions of her belly and his lower half. Returning his hands to his chest, haj defined with the display of his muscle shown upon his torso and arms. Tracing back to himself before directing his hands upon her. Hands embracing her hips and torso.
* Very little ** I need a son, I need him to be strong, I need you.
She understood that word. A margin of relief coming to her as she eyed the man, the presence of his being causing goosebumps to crawl over her skin. She wanted to know what he desired with her, or what it was that he needed from her, as there was no other reason to keep her alive when death would have been more welcoming.
From what she knew of the Dothraki, she expected that she was merely kept to be a prisoner in the camp. Groomed to serve the Khalasar and the Bloodriders until she was cut down for lack of use. The savages were very materialistic beings, holding value to even the most common of objects.
To her surprise, the sensation of fingers curled around her hand, cupping her wrist and palm as he guided her touch. The urge to yank her being from his grasp never came, instead she remained curious until the pads of her fingertips rested against his torso. The soft difference between the harsh sun kissed, and the tender wounds was mesmerizing, captivating her attention as she traced his frame. Then the small distance between them grew smaller, his body draped over hers and without a moment to protest.
Words escaped her, her breath taken away by the forceful Dothraki. Teeth bared at the gentle caress of the male, anger blooming in her eyes at the daring action, his words only frustrating her more in her inability to understand his conveyed emotions. So his body rested at her hips, the slow tongue of his people echoing in her ears as he explained.
"Anha," she repeated softly, her hand pressed to her collarbone, "Yeri..." she continued, her hand moving to rest on his chest. She was trying to understand the words expressed with his body, piecing it together as he slowly shown.
"Anha... Rizh..."
'I... need ... body...'
"Anha... Haj..."
'I...need... strong...'
"Anha need Yeri..."
'I... need... you'
A soft audible gasp escaped her lips in understanding, with the disgusting combination of dialect she formed an idea as to what was his desire, -- she was kept alive to be selected as his breeding mare.
Eyes flashed and her hand curled into a fist, the movement of her hand slow as she pulled it back in her attempt to fight him. Yet she had little strength, her muscles still screaming at her from their previous fight.
Post by KHAL VORSAKH on Sept 15, 2017 16:37:25 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Vorsakh had expended enough effort to explain to the foreign mare her purpose. Sharing his words through his motions would be far easier. Conquering her little frame, hands undressing the buttons from the linen she wore. Exposing the curve of her belly and swollen breasts.
Weakened fists sought to defy the might of the horse lord but simply crashed into the mountain of flesh. Warding off little of his actions. Hands caressing her succulent hips. These coarse hands bound to a blade now enjoying the succor of the beautiful mare beneath him.
Bringing his to the nape of her neck the khal brought his blood stained lips upon the wound he inflicted earlier. Pursing the painted lips upon the bruised flesh, sharing a tender kiss with the burning flesh as his hands grasped tighter. Devouring the second son with desire.
Never had the gods rewarded him with such a beautiful mare, blessed with the strength of the warrior and father. Knowing that the mother mountain and the great stallion would bring into the world the greatest warrior from his seed and the womb of this mare. Pressing his nose into her neck, warm breath rolling down her neck.
Post by SYRIUS BUROS on Sept 15, 2017 18:58:51 GMT
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Pale hands grasped at large sun kissed arms in feeble attempts to subdue them. His fingers still pursuing to undo the thin constraints of the garment she wore. With each button unfastened she felt more and more helpless under the Dothraki, her efforts to stop him foiled by her own lack of strength. Syri's expression shifted, no longer wearing anger and hatred, but instead fear and regret with the horse lord pressed against her.
A lump grew in the back of her throat, choking her as she tried to mentally prepare for circumstance she was in. For years Syri's own master protected her from the lust of men, and after his death she just killed any man that tried to touch her, never feeling the desire to bind herself to someone or share a bed. She refused to force her harsh reality upon any child, like her mother did to her.
Now she would suffer the same depredation as her forebearer.
The woman writhed underneath him, the tender kiss on her wound sending pain to course through her body. With teeth bared, she closed her eyes, the evidence of emotion under her eyelashes. Syrius refused to cry, but found that near impossible with her frustration building, finally accepting her situation.
He was far too gentle.
She had seen men fucking whores; like wild animals, with screams and howls of girls, either from pain or pleasure.
The way he held her, was different, and not what she expected of a Dothraki. Yes, he was taking what he wanted, but she couldn't help but think a part of him was being considerate of her.
'For what reason? Shouldn't he just get it over with?'
With cheeks lit like fire, breath grew ragged, the shame of desire crashing against her mind. Small buds of goosebumps covered the nape of her neck that his breath tickled, and her body quivered in discomposure. The scent of his body and the iron of her wound filled her senses, and in defeat her body relaxed.
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Sun blessed fingers massaged the wounds of the defeated mare before tracing what little fabric dressed her breasts. There was something disarming about undressing the scarlet mare. Vulnerability caught in her eyes that the khal could not resist. Golden orbs following from her face to her collarbone, how delicate her flesh was in the shade of the tent, drawn to the bare chest of the mare. Without her armor they sat lower, not close together, each perfect and molded to her form.
Lingering just long enough for Syrius to see how beautiful she was to the khal. It was her eyes he wanted to see, his hands could handle the rest. Undressing the mare of what little fabric she had left, discarded it besides them. Though beneath him was not the warrior he had met on the battlefield. Defeated the second son was painted with red and whimpered at his every motion. This was not the partner he desired, she was not meant to be a thrall who obeyed his cock.
Guiding her hands with his to the furs and belts that outfitted his lower half. Helping those hardened fingers undo leather and metal that were bound to his contours until the khal rested bare on top of her. Tanned flesh upon pale flesh, sweat starting to drip from his chin and breast onto the valkyrie beneath. Nails begging for her to act as a warrior not a virgin, leaving trails of crimson in their wake upon her hips.
" Yeri are a lajak, take ase ki yeri athvilajerar."
Vorsakh explained as his lips met with hers, they were wet from their shared drink. Taking her breathe from her until her heart was ready to burst. Letting both of them gasp for the arid breathes. Chest heaving above hers, scars displayed from countless battles. All the details of the khal shown to the eyes of this mare. A select few privileged with the closeness they shared. Eyes drawn to hers. * you are a warrior, take control of your battlefield.
Confusion continued to plague her mind, filling with questions of the stallions intention, and his change in character. When they fought, it was for life and death, each compelled to gain victory over the other. His expression was once dipped with hatred as he attempted to claim her head. Now as he gazed at her, it was as if he was planning to claim her heart, --their common enjoyment of a battle had brought them together.
Rufous irises gazed up at shimmering gold, her face softened at the demeanor of desire they shed upon her. Hands moved with his, pulling apart the intricate wrap of fur at his waist to expose his flesh. Cheeks burned red, confusion still adamantly displayed on her face, yet she was unable to stop herself from embracing the man that rested above her, arms wrapped around the broad shoulders of the horse lord.
Heart pounding, anticipation making her blood boil beneath him, she furrowed her brows and exhaled swiftly. His hands throbbed at her hips and she found herself lost in the moment. It all happened so fast, starting with the kiss that left her breathless and wanting more.
Her body wrenched out, raw desire and instinct directing her as her body pressed against his, and a aching need growing within her core. Syri tilted her face upwards to kiss him once more, giving into the primal act of flesh. She felt hot, skin burning, mind flooded. No sense came to her, and outside of her pragmatic practices, she yearned for this man's continued touch. A person never misses what they never had, and for Syri, she never grew the want for a man. So in this moment, where she finally felt the pleasure of flesh, she found herself lost in the experience.
She wanted to say something, but there were no words that her body could not say for her. Breath husky and ragged, the jolting electricity making her body quiver, and the look in her eyes eliciting a reaction from him. His touch, the sound of his voice, and the rhythm of his heart beat.
It was as if she was teetering on the brink of sanity, these sensations driving her farther into ecstasy.
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Hands swept across his back, fingers finding solace in tracing the scars of his shoulders. Muscles beneath the curled digits would tense, excitement building through the core of the khal. Feeling her writhe in bliss as his hands swept up to her chest. Cupping the heavy breasts within his hands upon the end of their lips embrace.
Feverish lips returned to his, begging for his taste. Hands pulling upon the exposed mounds of flesh. Beneath him no longer a broken warrior. Belly heaving for breathes that the heart desired. Delirium taking her upon his hungry kiss. Stealing her breathe upon making them one. Hips following the rhythm of her heart.
Never did his control cease over the mare yet nor did her freedom wane. Letting the warrior battle the stallion with heated breathes and passionate motions until they both were left exhausted. Wounded the stallion kept pace with the mare. Sharing everything to the very last drop, sweat painting them both. Until their world was painted black, fatigue and bliss bringing him to slumber with her in his arms upon the pelts and wool.
Post by SYRIUS BUROS on Sept 19, 2017 21:16:15 GMT
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Fingers intertwined, mounds of flesh coming into unison with ragged breath, and the pain that once wrecked havoc over her body ceased to exist as it was replaced by the primal desires of her body. The scent of his body filled her senses, leaving her in absolute euphoria. Consciousness slipping from pure exhaustion of her strength, she managed to fall asleep to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
It wasn't until the threads of the evening sun peaked through the tent folds did she wake. Her body even more sore than before, yet she pelt pain in different areas, and ones she had yet to experience before. Crimson orbs revealed to gaze upon dark tresses and an unguarded expression. He looked peaceful there, as his mind continued to sleep, unaware to her pale body lifting from his.
She was motionless, only staring at the face of the warrior who shared his bed with her, -- who opened her into a woman.
Furrowed brows and teeth bared, she swiftly glanced around the room. She would find no sword within the confines of the tent, the Dothraki sacred religions preventing that. But perhaps a knife? Except there were none within his leathers and furs either, and she grew frustrated in the failure of her attempt.
Syri turned back, petite hips moving to straddle him softly. She couldn't wake him, not until the last moment when he would realize his death imminent. Fingers caressed the nape of his neck, wrapping around his throat to cut off his breath. Anger present in his eyes, yet she couldn't place the source of her anger. Was it this man who turned her into a breeding mare, or Herself who enjoyed the feeling of his passion?
Either way she attempted to end it.
MADE BY NOVA
Last Edit: Sept 19, 2017 21:18:52 GMT by SYRIUS BUROS
Post by KHAL VORSAKH on Sept 19, 2017 22:43:50 GMT
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Wind danced upon his breast, movement on top of the stallion taken by the mare. Conquering him with quivering hips and a shared soul. Though ire devoured her heart, ruby orbs focused on the khal beneath the mare. Fingers strangling his flesh, robbing him of his breathes.
Clutching upon the source of her defeat with the intent of taking his spirit from him. Pale pools greeting the sight of malice as the flesh beneath her fingers flushed red as his face began to fall pale. Hands shot up towards her neck, but they did not strike her instead they embraced the face of death.
A thumb with fading strength brushing her cheek with a tender touch. Fingers reaching up to play the tresses of crimson as his lips pursed to give a final curse upon the second son, whispering just soft enough for her to hear, hands comforting the mare.
" Yeri are zheana "
Knowing only one master her whole life, just how would she handle herself with the freedom of the world. The man beneath her had taken her purity. A life dwelling within her not yet taking shape. The entire world rested upon the shoulders of the mare, would she conquer her feelings or be crushed
Slowly she felt life leave his body, the weight of her grip increasing until her knuckles grew white in color. Anger and malice painted within her eyes as milky mirrors stared up at her. She had seen a man's dying face many times, all of them showed fear as they faced darkness, except this one. She saw something else, resembling acceptance. Crimson orbs widened in her disbelief.
Sun kissed hands reached up in protest, except instead of an attempt to stay off his fate of death, he merely stroked her cheek and repeated the words that shook her whole world. Immediately she released her grasp, flying backwards and away from the horse lord she attempted to kill.
He was going to let her do it.
Syri clicked her tongue and locked her jaw, her fists curling in and shaking in frustration. Breath quickened, and she crawled off the bed, stumbling onto the floor and staggering as she stepped away. It made her feel sick, the weakness she was showing for the man. Nausea built in her stomach until she could hold onto it no longer, fluid rejected from her body to the outside of the tent.
"I hate you!" she screamed at him, eyes flashing as she turned back to face him, should he even let her live at this point.
Confusion flooded her mind, an ocean of doubt muddled her mind. Did she really hate him? Could she hate the warrior that he was? She respected the fight in him, yet seeing him hold back against her was infuriating.
Reach out your hands Don't turn your back Don't walk away How in the world Can I wish for this? Never to be torn apart Close to you 'Til the last beat Of my heart
Starring into the abyss, the stranger greeted him but this stallion had hardly conquered the plains, he was meant to claim the world. Focus returning to the world with her volatile grasp waning from his throat. Casting herself off of him, creating a void between them as she fled from the khal. Fortune would not favor her as stomach wretched with her motion. Struck ill with her rage.
Hating a man she knew nothing of beyond his finese for fighting. Though Vorsakh understood little of her tongue. Knowing what she expressed through the curves of her lips and the blazing suns that were her eyes. Knowing only one response for such ire. Picking himself up from the bedding, rays of light caressing the tanned contours of the warrior.
Taking a hand back he struck the mare. Coarse fingers drawn across her cheek to knock sense into the scarlet mare. Having endured such scolding from his mentors to rid his mind of chaos. Picking up the beaten woman to face him as he guided her hands into his chest like fists. Letting her hooves rage upon his breast until their strength was sapped.
Then and only then the khal would offer her an embrace. Cupping her head against his chest, she could gnaw all she desired. Thrash upon his chest and kick the dirt. It was a tender embrace that he only knew from his mothers arms. Sharing it only with the second son before him within the tent. Stroking the mane of the scarlet mare
" Mithri yeri lajak zhor. Shekh ma shieraki anni. "
Pain surged from her face, the throbbing sting of his strike catching her off guard. She fell back, head raising to find him pulling her closer, his hands grasping at her's to touch his chest. Syri's reaction was to fight him, attempting to pull away or push him back, but each attempt was foiled, --he was a rock.
A welcome embrace intended to soothe her rage, the familiar warmth of his body wrapped around her in effort to stay the fierce warrior's hand. Moments of struggle slowed, followed after the words of the horse lord which she could not understand. An exhale passed her lips, recognition that her struggles were pointless.
Chin raised up to gaze at the stallion, hair draped over his shoulders and across his forehead. His expression was no different than when he was sleeping, differing greatly from the warrior she seen on the field. Eyebrow raised in curiosity, her figure still pressed against his as she looked up to the Khal.
Who was he that he accepted her so willingly? What drove his desire for her?
She never understood the ambition of love, or experienced the gentle caress of a mother's embrace. She grew up alone, serving a man that attempted to kill her every moment of the day. Her only knowledge was how to fight.
Standing there, listening to the sound of his breath as it left his body, --for the first time she didn't want to fight anymore. Instead, she wanted to learn. Hungering to know what drove this man to choose her, and what it would be like to choose him.
Lips trembled as she tried to repeat the words he once shared to her. Understanding little of the meaning.
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