Being An Erotic Tale of Majik In An Untolde and Unknown Number of Parts Composed By A Coward Preferring To Hide Behind the Pseudonym "Ocelot Phayze"
It's been nearly three years since I originally composed the following story. Since then, I've revived another story on the same premise for a different purpose, tried the same premise from different directions in other, unpublished stories, and haven't ever returned back to this one. There was something about this story that I felt was somehow less fluid than I like my erotic stories to be. It's quite verbose, even for me. There's no sexual contact until the third chapter and, from there, the sexual interaction is rather varied and sporatic. (Note, of course, that this posted version only contains up to chapter three - the rest of the story is nowhere but the baffling confines of my own psyche.)
So I submit this story in the hopes that there will be some individuals out there who will enjoy it, but with the knowledge that it is unlikely to ever be finished. If you need a completion to the story in order to feel whole again, freely append a safe retreat from the inn at the end of chapter three; it's not how the tale was intended to end, but for now it should suffice. Perhaps my own insecurities are unfounded, and a torrent of praise will assail me, enamoured fans who beg and cry out for the completion of the tale... but I find it unlikely. Until then, please enjoy what of it you can and ignore what you can't.
-- Ocelot Phayze
Chapter One: In Which The Story Begins
I've come to the realization that one of the necessities of extended trips over land or otherwise is the capacity to ignore your bladder. Someone, somewhere, sometime in my past must have warned me about coaches, but I either don't remember exactly what they said or, more likely, I never bothered to listen in the first place. They bounce. Rather, they don't bounce so much as they lurch; they don't bounce so much as they twist, jerking and slamming into every hole in the road they can find; the driver searches in his gleeful sadism for the largest, deepest holes and then guides the horses into them without so much as a single thought of the welfare of the party within and our poor, bursting bladders.
Then again, I really couldn't say anything for certain about my traveling companions. For all I knew, they had grown accustomed to riding in the accursed things from birth. They certainly seemed to assume that riding around in the beastly things was the preferred mode of travel. I'll be the first one to admit that horses are disgusting behemoths of bad-temper and cruelty, but to say that a coach is comfortable is preposterous. It would be like saying that losing an arm beneath the saw of a Ysil warrior is better than losing an arm beneath the hammer of a Dwarf -- it may be true that it's better, but that doesn't mean that it's necessarily good.
Judging by the expression on his face, Baron Torilis was perfectly comfortable. On the other hand, the expression on his face, to my experience, had never changed. His face was chiseled from stone. In fact, the artist must have slipped once or twice; the Baron's face a mismatched collection of pockmarks and degradations that paid full homage to the beautifying wonders of inbreeding. From the looks of things, the Baron had at least made some futile effort to cover his visage, a dark brown beard covering the majority of his lower face -- or perhaps he'd just decided that shaving wasn't worth all the effort. He was on the dumpy side, with far too many beers and good meals in his gullet during what he fondly would refer to as 'the better days, ' and he seemed to move as little as he could.
His wife, the Baroness Torilis, had supposedly been a commoner before he'd taken her as his wife, and I, for one, believed the rumors. I've run into Kings and Queens, Dukes and Duchesses, Earls, Regents, Princes, almost the entire cadre of nobility, and I've found that the majority of them are about as appealing to the eye as a Dwarven whorehouse. Not that I've ever been to one. Whatever the case, the Baroness possessed a physical beauty about her which was rather surprising in human nobility, something that made me suspect she had a bit of Elf or T'ildrian in her. Her skin was as fair as spider's silk in the same way that her husband's was as fair as a Goblin's. The Baroness' cheeks were slightly thin and gaunt, her nose a bit hooked and eagle-like. Her eyes, usually framed with wisps of her raven hair, were on the thinner side, free of bags or marring, with a very lovely shade of blue sparking within them. All in all, the Baroness seemed almost unreal, a figment of reality, or one of the magical folk. I swear she had T'ildrian in her.
Both the Baron and his wife rode on the opposite side of the coach from me since, I imagine, it's in their best interests to stay as far away from commoners as they can, even when one is of high enough esteem to ride along in their coach with them. Ironically, the Baron had no problems whatsoever with his daughter sitting next to me. Perhaps I was being a bit oversensitive, perhaps the Baron simply wanted to be seated next to his wife. Perhaps I was being a bit jealous or envious.
Not that his daughter wasn't an attractive girl. She was clearly illegitimate to everyone who laid eyes on her, and it surprised me that the Baron hadn't done something about the girl already. Most human nobles are a bit overprotective about their varying titles and refuse to let them have any chance of passing on to offspring not made of their own loins. Perhaps this was acceptable because the child was a woman, I'm not sure. She couldn't have been older than sixteen, however, unmarried and virginal, and quite demure. The poor thing was uncomfortable next to me the entire trip, keeping her crimson tresses turned towards the Baron, her eyes on the ground between her richly decorated feet.
Or perhaps she too was trying to control her bladder.
See, the problem is that you can't just stop a coach to hop out and find a tree and take care of things. Not with a Baron, a Baroness, and the daughter. (I resisted the urge to call her a Baronet. I'd made that little mistake once to the wrong man. There's an embarrassment. If you don't know what a Baronet is, find out before using it in conversation. Trust me on this.) Not with two or three knights outside the door and a mercenary or two for added protection. Oh, no, you don't lean your head out the window and call out, 'Hey! Pull it over! Had a little too much wine and it's done with me now!' Not a chance in any of the Hells. If you don't understand why, go find yourself a mercenary. Ask him how he feels about wasting time every half-hour so that the little merry-maker in the coach who isn't even paying your bill wants to hop out and take a slosh in the grass.
I noticed, perhaps a bit belatedly, that the Baroness was waving a slim, pale hand before my dazed eyes.
"Silvertongue?" She intoned in a smooth voice, one that sparkled and shone, and one that you should know never to trust implicitly. Realizing that I'd finally caught sight of her motions, she smiled a tight-lipped smirk, "You seem to be thinking rather hard, Silvertongue. Composing a new ballad, perhaps?"
A little explanation is in order, I think.
My name is Lucan. Lucan Matson. My father's name was Matt, and-- never mind. It's pretty self-explanatory. So why is this vision of perfection calling me Silvertongue?
It's very difficult to survive in the world when you're fairly incompetent at the majority of trades available to the working class. I'm far too old to start up an apprenticeship with anyone for any reason, but I'm old enough -- or at least wise enough -- to know that it's pure idiocy to attempt anything like reckless 'adventuring, ' as they call it. Suicide is what it is, of course, since eventually you jump a little too slowly, duck a little too late, or just happen to miss that one parry. Having a total lack of competency in anything but the least noble of weapons helps discourage thoughts of adventure, of course.
I'm built with a rather slight frame. It's not my fault, it really isn't. My grandfather was a sinewy man, having made his trade as one of the more successful merchants on the Coast of Chirsin. In his case, being of a less than bulky build was a boon rather than a bane. After all, who really trusts a fat merchant? It's common knowledge that any fat merchant has gained his wealth via unpleasant means, either though misdirection, or pure, un-distilled lies designed to unbalance the recipient. My father was an assassin. He was a rather sinewy man as well, consistently preaching out to me the benefits of a smaller frame and a slimmer, more compact rack of muscles to support you. So, clearly, my size is just a matter of selective evolution. The gods had it out for me since I was born.
An unsatisfied client killed my grandfather. A satisfied one killed my father. Consequently, I'm a coward. It works very well for me so don't insult the profession. I really didn't have too many options left to explore.
Unfortunately, being a coward doesn't generally pay very well.
So, passing through Torilis after a rather exhilarating run from an angry troll in Xento, I happened upon a call for bards. Apparently, the Baron and Baroness were on their way to the High City of Falion and they wanted a little entertainment to show off when they'd gotten there.
.... There is more of this story ...