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| pity is the fool,; Margaret Kingston! | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Dec 14 2011, 09:25 PM (663 Views) | |
| William de Braose | Dec 14 2011, 09:25 PM Post #1 |
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Baron de Braose
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The evening air had grown crisp with the promise of an early Spring; the slight hum of music drifting down several corridors from the Great Hall and to the man who stood in the concealment of an alcove’s shadow. The Baron de Braose watched the iron goblet he held in his hand, brows furrowed in disapproval in regards to the remainder of level. The night had begun promising: the twirling of skirts, the soft thunder of dancing feet, the beacons of flickering light and the pretty faces of the young women. But as the Lord de Braose had stood by, observing the flirtatious whores, the laziness of the younger men, the spiteful wives whom did not understand their place, the enemies whom glared at each other across the room, the joyful laughter of a fat man and his pitiful excuse of a son babbling about something that the Baron simply had no time for …. Well, it caused William to wonder where the legends of Hampton Court were depicted from. Not this place, surely. After he had inhaled the contents of his goblet and refilled it to the brim several times over, William had bluntly excused himself from his present company –though detriments on society would have been better an adjective- and had made his exit through the waves of people who claimed to be of nobility and of gentry. Why was it that the King had granted favor and riches to those whom were no better than scum, while William had fought and killed the blood of his own only to achieve his father’s barony by matter of default? As he violently threw his goblet at the stone wall, a small shower of crimson wine fell to stain the floor, and William growled in response to the taunting of his own thoughts. Through the blaze of his drink-induced anger, the Baron’s subconscious hardly came to register the soft pat of light feet as it trailed down the corridor aside him. Though the light of the corridor was dim with the effort of a few flaming torches, the flames forming silhouettes onto the walls and rooftop; William snatched his goblet from the floor and leant against the stone; faintly acknowledging the wet cold seeping through the fabric of his attire as he made out a light figure from a distance. A woman of a comely shape, but someone the Baron hardly figured was worth his time, or effort, as all women were unless there was something he needed from them. "You." William stated, unsure whether or not the voice was his own as it boomed into the silence and caused a slight cringe of his features. His head would ache in the morning. It mattered very little to him of what standing this woman was, of whether she was the sister of an earl, or the wife of a Marquess. A woman was a woman; little difference between them and any other ordinary servant. “More wine. Go.” He ordered, extending his arm and holding his goblet out for her to take. William need not consider the option of this woman refusing him. His words had no room for questionability, but were final, absolute. |
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| Margaret Kingston | Dec 15 2011, 05:07 PM Post #2 |
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Princess Mary would be wondering where she was. If she took much longer, the princess might even send another maid or two to look for her. Margaret sighed and hurried through the hallways, having lost grasp of time only to find both her fellow ladies and maids of honor and the princess gone from sight. How she had missed them, how she had even left Mary's side was beyond the young girl, and as she made it through the halls, she silently berated herself for becoming so worthlessly distracted. She did not mean to give in so easily to the dances, and a trip to fetch the princess a new pitcher of wine turned into a rendezvous all about the ballroom floor. Margaret had never seen the face of her dance partners, as they all had been decorated with masks she had not the privilege of having, and by the time she'd realized the flush in her cheeks and the slight ache in her ankles, Princess Mary was gone. Knowing she had gone back to her apartments, Margaret quickly retrieved another pitcher of wine, knowing she'd need some sort of excuse to escape embarrassment, and scurried from the Great Hall. It were times like these that Margaret was only seconds from panicking, her heart already thrumming from the exertion of dancing and now fear that trouble only awaited back in the princess's apartments. If she was lucky, she could enter unnoticed, she could sink into the group of the other maids and stealthily pick up a thread and needle and be as if she she'd never gone. By God, she would try, and as she made her way down the hallways, she focused her eyes through the archways and only hoped there was nothing on the floor to trip her. But, if it was not a dropped book or an overturned candelabra, it was an unseen stranger demanding her path to be thwarted for what... a chalice of wine? Freezing in her tracks, the pale blue eyes of Margaret's gaze flickered to the cup he'd jabbed in her direction and up the arm it came from, her expression confused if not entirely shocked. Yet, having received these sorts of orders her entire life, Margaret did not bother informing him she was not a maidservant, and instead plucked the chalice from his hand and, using the pitcher she'd grabbed for the princess, refiled it to its very brim. "I will not have to go anywhere, my Lord," she replied quietly, her eyes falling to the cup as she handed it back over. What else could she do? What was she supposed to say? She could have cursed under her breath in front of him had she the guts. "How convenient," she began a little awkwardly, "I am sure the Princess Mary will not mind, if anything I am sure she would have given you much more had you asked her instead." Glancing to the pitcher in her hands, she even wondered if the princess would notice. Of course, Margaret would tell her.... "do you need any more, my Lord?" She took a small breath and brought her striking pale blue eyes up to the man, curiosity overwhelming their widths. "I could fetch a pitcher for you, or.." she trailed off, her voice light and lowered as she seemed to remember the one in her hands. "I could give you this one?" Another would always be waiting for the princess, if not already a handful filled in her apartments. After all, the pitcher was to be only a tool to excuse herself from any interrogations... Margaret was suddenly no longer worried about the princess, though, and instead kept her eyes fixated on the grunt in front of her. |
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| William de Braose | Dec 15 2011, 07:38 PM Post #3 |
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The Baron rolled his azure eyes at her incompetence; whatever patience he still maintained growing thin. Her own gaze –which was quite striking- flickered in a sort of confusion in regards to his order, and Lord Braose could not help but remember how little his tolerance was for silly women who could not fulfill what was required of them: uneducated, petty, and inevitably distasteful. Thick brows creasing into a frown as she poured the wine into his goblet, William recognized the stature of her hands. Petite and clean fingers, but worn from hard work; the kind that required a certain load of considerable weight and was only suitable for that of a servant. So why was this woman dressed in attire above her station? Snatching back his chalice with a heavy hand, William set it on his lips and threw it back with the synchronization of his head. The Baron ignored her talk, catching snippets of “Princess Mary …” and “… fetch a pitcher …”. Though he found interest in this woman and her background, it was more or less the interest that was on the level of comparison with that of a breed of hound, or perhaps the breeding of horses. Swallowing the contents that left a reassuring burn in his throat, and growing familiar with the sight of a barren vessel, William exhaled with a heavy huff before averting his attention to the woman who stood obediently before him. “Do you belong to someone, woman?” He said, taking the pitcher from her hands and refilling his chalice; sipping at it and cascading his eyes onto the crimson substance. “ Tell me your name. And where it is you come from.” His tone carried the aura of statement; portraying that it was unnecessary for this woman to evade any truth. William doubted that she had it in her to lie. From the moment he had recognized the hesitation in her pleasant features, it was plain that she was merely another fawn in the dangerous observation of a hunter’s paddock. Though, as far as the Baron could decipher, there was no reason for her to speak a falsehood. Inhaling the last of his goblet’s content, William refilled his wine; feigning patience as it spilled over the brim. “ Far from home, I expect … What is your reason for being here?” A request for elaboration. Though, as words from the mouth of the Baron de Braose, the description of “request” was simply rhetorical. William would not accept a refusal, nor would he accept an attempt at one. Sipping his wine, the Lord Braose took a pause from the careful supervision of his pouring to watch her; to judge whether or not she was worth his time. Perhaps a better alternative would be to return to his chambers, fall to a slumber, and challenge his ache of the morning. Though this woman wasn’t of fine blood, that much was apparent, it was usually those whom were of inferiority that presented the most entertaining of evenings. |
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| Margaret Kingston | Dec 15 2011, 11:10 PM Post #4 |
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If there was one thing Margaret could already gather about this wine-drinking stranger was not only did he make commands as if the entire world was waiting to serve, much like soldiers did, but he did not like answering questions. Instead, the wine pitcher was snatched from her hands and she was left standing there quite aimlessly as she kept her eyes just barely upwards on his face, shadowed by the night and the dim torchlight. She did not say anything more as she watched him gulp down the chalice she'd filled and pour another for himself, his movements smooth and effortless as if the pitcher weighed but a mere feather... and the wine but only water. He seemed to pay no mind to the words she said or the questions she asked, and instead reverberated with questions of his own... questions that were not such a far-cry from interrogation. Hadn't she tried sparing herself from this originally? Stopping a sigh from passing her nostrils, Margaret's eyes fell to the floor and she parted her lightly pink lips. At first an answer completely left her, and she briefly pondered scurrying away from him and disappearing down the hallways. No one taught her how to properly encounter people like this. Before she could even fathom who she could possibly belong to, she was demanded of her name and perhaps some far distant planet she had hailed from. Arching a single brow, Margaret took a single step backwards and lowered into a graceful curtsy, the crimson and emerald of her gown simple but still she wore it quite fittingly. Her dark curls draped about her shoulders and barely swayed as she rose back into a stance. "I am Margaret Kingston, my Lord," she began, completely ignorant if her name meant anything, anything at all to any ears at court. "And I come from.." she glanced off to either direction through the hallways stretching out to each side, as if the word she was searching for would be standing right there for her discovery. So many things she could respond with, and still she could not quite understand the depth of his question. What would he say if she told him she came from a mere farmland in Gloucestershire? What would he think if she was without parents, without her brother who had gained any name for her family, and was yet one of the many girls at the complete whims of their mistress the Princess Mary? He finally seemed to answer for her, though, and she mustered a small nod and brought her wide, curious eyes back to him. "Surely most of us are?" She asked, her voice just barely piqued as she pondered the notion. Eventually given a question better answered, Margaret offered a small smile and briefly appraised the taller man before her. "My brother the late Lord Warrington sent for me," she began, her proud voice betraying any remorse for his untimely death. "He had secured a place for me in service to the Princess Mary," her smile seemed to take on a more affectionate light, so grateful for the princess and her endless generosity. "After a long wait, of course.." she trailed off, recalling those long, empty years waiting for William's call. Not even the death of their parents had swayed him to her, not even George's coming of age, and only when she had nearly lost every hope had he finally sent a letter mentioning her. "But well worth the struggle. I was just on my way to her now..." she took the full cushion of her bottom lip between her teeth, stopping herself from delving into details as to what had kept her from following when called. "Shall I go on believing you hail from the shadows, my Lord?" She bravely asked, relenting her bottom lip and smiling almost mischievously at him. Margaret remained curious, though, and noticed how loose his muscles seemed by the work of what was surely the wine... she lightly knew of the symptoms, but this man had to be the class act. She was intrigued, and the cup in his hand was slowly becoming a more and more tasteful idea. Having sipped it only once or twice, the effects of an entire chalice or two seemed ever more compelling as she watched the unnamed man in front of her. "For I think not even in this light could I see properly your face.." |
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| William de Braose | Dec 25 2011, 01:55 AM Post #5 |
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Margaret Kingston. Through the self-induced buzz of intoxication, William attempted to provide clarification to the name. Dark brows frowning and cobalt irises narrowing in concentration, the Baron Braose failed to put any form of recognition together in his mind. It appeared that the woman he had encountered and had forced into conversation was no one of consequence, just as he had originally deducted. Pity. William took his chalice to his lips and managed to wipe it clean within the expanse of a breath. Running his tongue over his bottom lip, and watching her carefully, William wondered whether there was much point to stretching this encounter to its limits. Clearly, if he hadn’t consumed the amount of wine he had on this brisk night, the Baron Braose would have dismissed her and associated his time with something worthwhile. However, that was not the case, and even if William had been as sober as a wooden plank, this slight little thing was rather easy on the eyes. Perhaps there was potential for the both of them, after all. Warrington. William arched a brow at the indication of pride in her voice, and the corners of his lips lifted into a cruel smile. The Earl of Warrington was someone the Baron Braose had heard very little about and yet quite a great deal. As far as William knew, from word of misguided and sultry mouth, the man had started with little than nothing, and had come to something of a petty standing through what some might consider "perseverance". The greatest thing that man had ever done was marry his wife; just another idiot whom had gained much, but was worthy of very little. His temper rising in response to the lack of justification, William glared at the woman before him; it was because of the recklessness of the Monarchy that these breeds of people were permitted to wander the halls of court. Pathetic. Ah well, they must have been useful for something. "Shall I go on believing you hail from the shadows, my Lord?" William’s scowl softened into an expression of curiosity. Brow arching, once more, in response to this mood she had abruptly adopted. Refilling his chalice with a simple tip of the arm, the Baron regarded her gaze that directed toward the wine in his hand. Smirking at her interest, he extended the goblet toward her bodice, glancing at the fullness of it. “Take it.” He said, striking hues of blue watching for her reaction. “As for where I hail, Mistress Kingston, best believe that I belong in shadow.” Chuckling heavily at his own inclination, William continued, “Or at least some would like to believe that.” His smile lingered for a few moments, a glint of his own mischief passing over his gaze. “Shall I move underneath a torch, then? So you might recognize me when we are meet again?” William pondered the opportunity that had been delivered to him, and to what ability he had to stretch its events of interest. “Though I do think the advantage of my ability to recognize you, and not yours to recognize me seems rather tempting.” He chuckled again, breath potent with wine and emitted as fog into the chill of a Winter’s night before it evaporated into nothing. Taking a step forward so that he was no longer shadowed by the darkness of the alcove, William’s expression grew further more amused. With the light of the torch dancing silhouettes against the hollow of his cheeks and exerting emphasis to the spark of mischief in his eyes, the Baron offered, “Then again, perhaps it might be rude of me.” William paused for a moment to regard her, pulling the pitcher to his lips now that he was without a goblet and taking a large intake of the beverage. “For alas, I think you are already a sheep dancing with wolves. |
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| Margaret Kingston | Dec 26 2011, 07:49 PM Post #6 |
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When this stranger of a man thrust in her direction a chalice filled with the very wine that seemed to loosen his own muscles, Margaret didn't know what to make of it. Did he need her to hold it for him? So many puzzled things flitted through her mind by the time he finally told her to take it, a movement which she made right after his demand but still with little hesitance. Her nimble fingers wrapped about the body of the chalice and her bright, pale blue eyes studied it with curiosity. She had seen and held wine nearly every day of her life, even at her family's farmhouse, but when for some reason it seemed entirely different now that it was for her... a thought that seemed entirely intriguing. She'd seen so many people go into fits of silliness after a number of these filled chalices, and the man before her seemed to be enjoying it just as well. Glancing back up to him, she wondered why not? After all, it was the blood of Christ, no? A sip of it at communion was no sin, surely an entire chalice of it wasn't, either. A tiny smirk tugged the edges of her full mouth in final conclusion, putting it to her lips and taking quite the liberal sip for a inexperienced girl like Margaret. It burned and soothed her throat all at once, leaving a trail of warmth as it sloshed into her stomach and left a strong, almost bitter taste on her tongue. She cringed only minimally, her lips puckering only slightly as she lifted a hand to wipe them clear of any purple droplets. Her eyes went to his face as if checking for approval, but instead she was met only with a comment that left her wondering... what could that possibly mean, belonging in shadow? Her thin eyebrows furrowed and a tiny sigh passed her nostrils; she was accustomed to being treated as a child, after all, she was the baby of her family. The baby of a family that was much too exhausted of their pride from giving it all to a son that had died in the end. A son that died after his paren, ts but left very little for his younger brother and sister. But Margaret, unlike usual, lifted her chin in subtle defiance; surely she deserved the treatment of a woman, if nonetheless a young one. She was nearly alone in the world, she had very little guidance save for her memory and for Princess Mary... she was no child. "Thieves and bandits stalk in the shadows," she commented, studying him through the little torchlight hung in their sconces. "And I think all would believe that." A small, almost unnoticeable smile touched the appearance of her pink, full lips, barely touching the light of her eyes. But surely this man was no thief or bandit; he dared to step into the yellow luminance to show him her face, allowing her a better view... no criminal would allow anyone to be able to point a certain finger at them in conviction. As if to stifle any unsettling nerves this stranger had put within her, she put her unknowing mouth to the rim of her cup and took yet another gulp, her eyelids wincing over her gaze from the alcohol's sting if only for a moment. She was still unsure how anyone like this man could drink it so freely, so easily, but she assumed with time it would be easier... and by the looks of it, it would be much easier. It left her throat sizzling again and her stomach warm, almost rising the temperature of her skin and putting a light flush in her cheeks. Her gaze remained, though, on the newly lit expanse of his expression, and as he spoke of temptation, she wondered if this man had criminal tactics. Criminal tactics that would indeed shadow him from her recognition... allowing him to stalk as he pleased and do as he pleased without her notice, without her recall. It almost frightened her, and she was glad he had stepped into better view. "Oh, my Lord, would it be rude or not... I think you owe nothing to me." She gave him a small, bobbing curtsy then, knowing her place well below him. After all, she was only the youngest sister of a man hailed from shepherds and merchants. He had married a woman for his peerage. And now, he was dead. It filled Margaret with both an overbearing sense of remorse and resentment. She may be well below him, but a sheep? Her eyebrows furrowed and her lips pursed rather prettily, her expression displeased but almost too adorable to take seriously. "I have no wool to yield nor any bleats to yelp, my Lord... and I hardly think you have any fangs to bear or howls to howl." This man was peculiar, unlike others she met -if she ever did- and in his presence, talking to him with the cup of wine in her hand, she was compelled only to drink from it. That sort of burning warmth it left within her was something she found herself wanting to refresh every other minute, and at this rate the chalice would soon be surely emptied. "If you are implying I am but mere prey to men like you..." her striking pale eyes almost sparkled, intrigued with the concept but still, beneath her layers, offended by the idea... and even frightened. Her heart lurched once or twice against her ribcage and her stomach went cold, despite the warm wine filling it, and she took another sip to defrost it. It were times like these where she wished she had a male charge to protect her, her brother, her father.. and how she wished she hadn't strayed from the one that was Princess Mary. "Then I would say I am a foolish, foolish sheep... traveling alone, and out in the open no less. A perfect target for a hungry wolf." Margaret hardly had the idea of what to say, as conversation with fellow ladies in waiting and maids of honor were entirely limited, and to men? Ha! The Princess Mary would have very little of it unless she explicitly approved. And so far, seeing a man snatching a pitcher of wine from one of her maids and drinking from it no less, she most certainly would not approve. |
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| William de Braose | Dec 29 2011, 03:36 PM Post #7 |
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"And I think all would believe that." William emitted a throaty chuckle, curving slight dimples into his cheeks. The Baron’s gaze was redirected to the pitcher a moment, his piercing blue irises watching the hue swirl in colors of crimson and purple; it was indistinct in the light of the hallway, causing the Braose to wonder whether it was his mind beginning to play tricks on him. The woman … Margaret … began speaking now that he had fallen silent, awaiting for the response that had fallen to her as if only a mere fact of default. William had not left space for her to deny, or to accept, merely to know. The very fact that he had allowed her opportunity to respond was a mere courtesy. The girl could talk, so long as she said things that the Baron Braose wanted to hear. It was a while before William spoke again; his gaze shifting from inanimate to animate object alike. The indentations of the stone wall, the soft curl of this girl’s brunette hair, the weight of iron pitcher, the familiar sensation of a burning throat as wine was swallowed, the entrancing eyes of his … sheep. The Baron’s lips curled into a crooked smile, amused by the scene that unfolded inside of his own head. His attention seemed unwilling to settle, but William’s ears called upon her every word. “ … I hardly think you have any fangs to bear or howls to howl." The Baron Braose took a bold step forward; now close enough that he might inhale the scent of her perfume. “Ah,” He begun, almost mischievously, “As far as you know.” William chuckled again, tossing back the pitcher and consuming several mouthfuls of the purple-hued beverage. He resumed watching her carefully, arching a thick brow as she pressed her contemplations to him. Ah, foolish, very foolish indeed. “To imply something, Mistress Kingston, is to not speak bluntly.” William began, azure irises watching the perk of her lips and the occasional blink of her heavily lashed lid, and to those beacons of sapphire that looked up at him. “To say that one was implying something of such a nature, is a brave accusation, and risking the offence of the other.” William continued, his tone lowering almost dangerously, as if daring her with his natural authority. “Now, my question is …” The Baron continued, taking another step forward and leaning toward her so that there was mere inches between them. “Are you so very confident that you have not pried beyond yourself?” His smile grew at the corner, eyes raking over her lips, her small nose, the point of her chin, the elegance of her neck, and the generosity of her breasts; licking his parched lips, William’s gaze flickered to those eyes of hers. “And if you have, Mistress Kingston,” He spoke quietly now, his tone just above a gentle whisper; the sweet exterior of a poisonous substance, the compelling of a hunter to its prey. “Then the wolf is howling.” |
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| Margaret Kingston | Jan 1 2012, 10:40 PM Post #8 |
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As far as she knew. Keeping a brow from arching in speculation, Margaret actually wondered if this man possessed something beyond her knowledge. If he actually had every reason for her to fear him, for her heart to quicken like it was and her breath to feel a little damp in her throat as it was now. Looking at him now, her eyes bright even in the glowing yellow luminance, Margaret realized she in fact knew very little... and for that very reason she knew she should make it back to the Princess Mary before this man unveiled his fangs or shrieked his mighty howls. When he began what sounded like a sour-mouthed lecture, the girl had no choice but to listen, but to keep her eyes on his face as if an attentional child. This was not to say, though, that she enjoyed it... quite truthfully, this man confused her beyond reason. Accusations? Offenses? Margaret stopped short of retorting, wanting so badly to tell this man that he had spoken bluntly... and she had actually used the word "imply" to soften the meaning. Had he not, word for word, called her a sheep among wolves? Frustrated, she took another gulp from the chalice and sighed, slowly but surely coming to like the burn it left down her throat and the bittersweet taste in her mouth. "I do not mean any disregard or offense, my Lord," she spoke a little quickly, hoping to redeem himself before his thoughts took him any further. If anything, she would expect him to call her another name then deny it seconds later... was it his personality, or just the wine? Margaret felt trapped and cornered, certainly a dazed sheep as a most clear and confident wolf both interrogated and studied her. And apparently, had she overstepped herself, the inner beast within was howling for its revenge. Finally lifting a brow, she wondered if these metaphors frightened her or just confused her more... certainly the way this man carried himself, spoke so richly intimidated her and shook her to her core, and it seemed the more wine he drank, the less he would be able to account for his actions. This most definitely frightened her. Feeling as if the only option was to humbly submit and agree to his every word, Margaret lowered her eyes and gave a meek nod. "A sheep most not pry, my Lord," she began quietly, glancing to the wine still left in the cup. "Its will is only to follow... not to ask of its leader." Taking a small breath, she brought her eyes back to him, still so very curious and lingering with helpless frustration. "Could a howling wolf possibly be soothed by a helpless bleat of apology, my Lord?" She asked, a faint memory of a smile tugging at the edges of her mouth. Tiny, almost unseen droplets of wine were left on her bottom lip but were soon washed away as she took yet another gulp. The chalice would be empty soon, and though her stomach felt a little churned, she wanted more. "Or has all hope been lost for the poor sheep? Is this howl a hungry battle cry?" Her eyes flickered to the pitcher in his hand and briefly wondered the last remaining swallows of wine were left, but fluttered her eyelashes back to his face and a tiny grin flashed across her plump mouth. "Are wolves prone to diplomacy?" She nearly giggled but instead only smiled, the idea of returning to the princess any time soon but a mere, fading thought in her mind. |
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| William de Braose | Jan 15 2012, 08:34 PM Post #9 |
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The corner of the Baron’s lip curled into a smirk, amused by the expressions that fleeted across her sweet face. Frustration, confusion … it was all a game induced by the little substance that remained in his pitcher; and for this girl, it grew increasingly dangerous. Watching the torches flame silhouettes onto the damp walls of cold stone, and clarifying to his conscious that the hall was barren aside from the two who stood in a shaded darkness, the Baron Braose wondered what a passerby might conceive their exchange to be; a small and feeble woman of interesting background, and the other a man of intimidation, and who would accept nothing else. "I do not mean any disregard or offense, my Lord," William’s smirk remained steadfast, his thick brow rising a little in expectation of further words. She was a careful thing; as if a mouse evaluating the safety of its location, cautiously edging further from its zone of familiarity and comfort. What the Baron wanted, if only for his own amusement, was to coax her from her path; to invite her into a sea of uncertainty. Reaching forward and taking hold of her wrist, William steadied her hand and lifted his pitcher to refill her goblet, watching as the fluid flowed inside to raise its levels. He couldn’t afford her to finish it and to scatter away, most definitely not. She was proving to be far too amusing. Tilting the pitcher to his own lips and taking a generous sip, William allowed his cobalt irises to watch her above the iron rim. As a small droplet crept from the corner of his mouth and drifted to his chin, William released her wrist and brushed the back of his hand against his jaw; light scratches drawing across the skin from the rough stubble. Though the Baron Braose registered her voice, timid and quiet- though at times reaching to a bold pitch- as it was, William found his interest averting to the gentle line of her jaw, the point of her cheeks, the graceful arch of her neck, the soft curves of her breast, and the protrusion of her hips underneath her unfortunately modest cloth. Rather appealing, even if she was a woman of insignificant standing. “Diplomacy.” William repeated, his amused smirk broadening into that of a smile as he reached out and curled his finger around a lock of her ebony hair. He watched it, as if his interest became immense at its texture before his chest moved in unison with the expulsion of several heavy chuckles. “A woman is not usually adhere to political exchanges,” William ran his tongue over his lips, flickering his gaze to return to her own and not to the more interesting aspect of her person. “And for good reason, it is beyond their extent of understanding.” The Baron paused, his mind running with the prospects of his next decision. “Perhaps it is merely the wolf’s direction to the rest of his pack, and he seems rather content with what he sees.” William’s stare grew intense, his intentions translucent of any remaining better judgment. With dominance a thing the Baron was rather accustomed to portraying, William leaned closer, took the line of her jaw with his hand, and pressed his lips to her little mouth that tasted of wine. It was a determined hold, one that really offered no other option than the one he offered her. |
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| Isabel Leigh | Mar 9 2014, 08:29 PM Post #10 |
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Virtue alone is invincible.
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This thread has been archived either due to forwarding of board timeline or because of a month of inactivity. If you would like to continue, please PM an Admin! |
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[align=center]Mistress Leigh Isabel is in 8 threads and can has more! App | Plot[/align] | |
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10:58 AM Jul 11