Flawed Femmes wielding Whips, Guns, and Blades
Agaric wrenches the sword from the dirt-scratcher’s throat and the man spasms one last time. Pain-filled gurgles, and the slick crunch of steel hacking through bone fills his ears as his warriors dispatch the last of the armoured men Read More …
“Well, get yer ass up on the roof if you’re so damned set on getting it shot off.” Droellen resumes shoving a ramrod down the matchlock barrel, grunting as he pushes the wadding home, muscles rippling across his bare shoulders. Read More …
Hurry, damn, it. They’re coming. In seconds a thousand clan hooves will be pounding up to Little Westhold! Merreth looks up sharply and peers along the road. No clan. Of course, if they were on the road there’d be Read More …
Merreth’s mount stamps its foot and snorts. She leans forward and rubs its neck. A bead of sweat rolls down her cheek, drips onto the saddle horn, and vanishes. It’s is well past mid-afternoon and the air is stone still Read More …
Her eyes closed, Merreth lets the water run down her face and listens to it drip back into the wash basin on Charadell’s desk. She splashes her cheeks again and rubs her nose. I’m still dirty, and smell like a Read More …
“I have you to thank,” she says. Mistress Merreth does not turn around as I sit down a few feet from her. She looks out over the Milderdort harbour. The small Temple plaza is perched on a hill and affords Read More …
“They’re just standing around basking in the sun?” asks Charadell. “How many?” The scout, young and blonde, sits on her horse and shrugs. “About sixty, Domina, and yes, that’s exactly what they seem to be doing. There’s one in Read More …
The morning sun beats down as four hundred mounted nobles of the Domina’s column canter down the road. The clank of sword and lance overlay the steady drumbeat of hooves on packed dirt. Dust, oiled steel, and leather smells fill Read More …
A rare night breeze wafts through the open window and without thinking Merreth raises her head to let it cool her neck. Her hand slips and the quill leaves a splotchy ink trail across the paper, obscuring the words she’s Read More …
If you dread doing something, best do it quickly. Lady Samretta Lyem takes the lead line from the groom, a young boy of no more than sixteen summers. “Thank you.” It costs nothing to be polite. Some of the nobility, Read More …
