Salacious Caitlin
Well-Known Member
This is the first chapter, and it's meant to be a slow burn, but it will go to some big places... trust me. It's more along the lines of a romance novel than anything I've written before, so please let me know what you think!
Chapter 1
When I heard the sound of the carriage rattling over the frozen road, I tried to jump up and leap from the cover of the stone wall I was hidden behind. In truth I lurched to my feet, which were numb inside my tall riding boots of formerly polished leather, and staggered through the knee-deep snow holding my tattered greatcoat closed with my left hand while brandishing my pistol in my chilblained right. “Halt!” I shouted.
The carriage stopped. Lucky, I was so lucky today, because I could see the crest on the side, the golden falcon on azure blue. It was the Warden himself, de Valeriano, the lord over all these lands as far as the eye could see (or could have seen had the fucking blizzard not been rattling down). There’d be money aplenty, gold coins to buy food and warmth – maybe the Warden even had something to eat with him, a flask of mulled wine, candied fruits, the kind of thing the rich and powerful ate without even so much as considering the cost – I was so hungry –
“You know who I am,” I declaimed, as I’d done so many times before. When I’d had my horse, and my other pistol, and a rapier sheathed at my side. But I was down to one gun, three bullets, and a skinning knife. “You know what this is. Stand and deliver, Lord Warden.”
I was watching the coachman, swaddled in a wool coat and scarf as he was, to see if he would do anything, but he made no move. The horses, fine bay matched hackneys wearing rugs against the weather, stamped and blew. There were, incredibly, no guards. Lucky, I was so lucky…
He descended the carriage steps, a man I’d seen before only from a great distance; tall and broad-shouldered with the line of a scar down his left cheek. Tavern talk said he’d gotten that in the war against the Others, across the sea. That he’d killed hundreds of those sharp-toothed goblins, maybe thousands.
But today he was going to be robbed, so I said, “Throw out your gold. Your gems, yes, the brooch on your collar, there. Quickly!”
The wind tore at me. The lord was smiling. “You look somewhat past your days, Midnight – is that whom I have the honor of addressing, behind that mask? Midnight, the dread highwayman? Though your famous plumed hat seems to have gone astray.”
My erstwhile comrades had thrown the hat on the fire. Horse, money, everything else they’d taken; except what I’d been able to snatch up and run with, once they thought they’d beaten me insensible. The bruises still ached in the cold.
Hunger ached worse. My head spun. “For your humor, I’ll take one of the horses, too. Do it! I’ll shoot!”
“Don’t be a fool,” said de Valeriano. “You can barely stand.”
I raised my pistol. The sky tilted. Darkness fluttered at the edges of my vision. I felt my body hit the snow, and simultaneously there was a brutal impact, heat in my leg, the sound of an explosion.
Hot wetness pumping from my lower leg, through the leather of my boot. I’d dropped my weapon. I tried to get up. Couldn’t.
I would be hanged. Or the Warden would shoot me again. In the head this time.
I tried to rise, to meet it standing. I was too weak.
The last thing I knew was powerful arms picking me up as though I were a feather, and a voice saying, “Help me here, Petro. Goddess, he’s no more than a bone with a rag wrapped around it. I’d better get this bleeding stopped.”
Pressure on my leg. Agony.
Nothing.
When I woke, the first thing I felt was something warm against my lips, and I sucked at it desperately, understanding only after a while that it was a soft cloth, and I was being fed warm milk, as if I were an orphaned kitten.
“Sit up a little. I think you can drink on your own now.” And strong hands helped me to raise myself, leaning on soft pillows.
I opened my eyes. A firelit room, very fine, paneled in wood with paintings on the walls; a featherbed under me; four bedposts with silken gauze cascading to the floor; a warm goosedown coverlet over me. Fever racing through my veins, hot pain in my leg, and the Warden of the Coast of Storms sitting by my side, feeding me milk.
I could not determine how this had all come to be. He should have killed me, or given me to the Watch. Maybe he was simply waiting for the storm to relent before he sent for them.
But why feed me, then? He was putting a cup in my hands. This time it was rich broth, fortified with wine. I gulped it down.
“You’re a pathetic sight,” he said. “The ballads led me to hope for so much more.”
It seemed unwise to answer back, so I only regarded him: his strong-boned, scarred, pleasant face and sandy hair.
Looking at his face, I realized my mask was off. Not that it mattered now.
“Have some more,” he said, refilling the cup.
Once I had drunk it my shrunken belly was full to the point of discomfort. There was a sensual quality to the fullness, the warmth around me; things I hadn’t felt in far too long.
I drifted into feverish sleep, still wondering for how long he would let me live.
The Transformation of Midnight
by Salacious Caitlin
Chapter 1
When I heard the sound of the carriage rattling over the frozen road, I tried to jump up and leap from the cover of the stone wall I was hidden behind. In truth I lurched to my feet, which were numb inside my tall riding boots of formerly polished leather, and staggered through the knee-deep snow holding my tattered greatcoat closed with my left hand while brandishing my pistol in my chilblained right. “Halt!” I shouted.
The carriage stopped. Lucky, I was so lucky today, because I could see the crest on the side, the golden falcon on azure blue. It was the Warden himself, de Valeriano, the lord over all these lands as far as the eye could see (or could have seen had the fucking blizzard not been rattling down). There’d be money aplenty, gold coins to buy food and warmth – maybe the Warden even had something to eat with him, a flask of mulled wine, candied fruits, the kind of thing the rich and powerful ate without even so much as considering the cost – I was so hungry –
“You know who I am,” I declaimed, as I’d done so many times before. When I’d had my horse, and my other pistol, and a rapier sheathed at my side. But I was down to one gun, three bullets, and a skinning knife. “You know what this is. Stand and deliver, Lord Warden.”
I was watching the coachman, swaddled in a wool coat and scarf as he was, to see if he would do anything, but he made no move. The horses, fine bay matched hackneys wearing rugs against the weather, stamped and blew. There were, incredibly, no guards. Lucky, I was so lucky…
He descended the carriage steps, a man I’d seen before only from a great distance; tall and broad-shouldered with the line of a scar down his left cheek. Tavern talk said he’d gotten that in the war against the Others, across the sea. That he’d killed hundreds of those sharp-toothed goblins, maybe thousands.
But today he was going to be robbed, so I said, “Throw out your gold. Your gems, yes, the brooch on your collar, there. Quickly!”
The wind tore at me. The lord was smiling. “You look somewhat past your days, Midnight – is that whom I have the honor of addressing, behind that mask? Midnight, the dread highwayman? Though your famous plumed hat seems to have gone astray.”
My erstwhile comrades had thrown the hat on the fire. Horse, money, everything else they’d taken; except what I’d been able to snatch up and run with, once they thought they’d beaten me insensible. The bruises still ached in the cold.
Hunger ached worse. My head spun. “For your humor, I’ll take one of the horses, too. Do it! I’ll shoot!”
“Don’t be a fool,” said de Valeriano. “You can barely stand.”
I raised my pistol. The sky tilted. Darkness fluttered at the edges of my vision. I felt my body hit the snow, and simultaneously there was a brutal impact, heat in my leg, the sound of an explosion.
Hot wetness pumping from my lower leg, through the leather of my boot. I’d dropped my weapon. I tried to get up. Couldn’t.
I would be hanged. Or the Warden would shoot me again. In the head this time.
I tried to rise, to meet it standing. I was too weak.
The last thing I knew was powerful arms picking me up as though I were a feather, and a voice saying, “Help me here, Petro. Goddess, he’s no more than a bone with a rag wrapped around it. I’d better get this bleeding stopped.”
Pressure on my leg. Agony.
Nothing.
When I woke, the first thing I felt was something warm against my lips, and I sucked at it desperately, understanding only after a while that it was a soft cloth, and I was being fed warm milk, as if I were an orphaned kitten.
“Sit up a little. I think you can drink on your own now.” And strong hands helped me to raise myself, leaning on soft pillows.
I opened my eyes. A firelit room, very fine, paneled in wood with paintings on the walls; a featherbed under me; four bedposts with silken gauze cascading to the floor; a warm goosedown coverlet over me. Fever racing through my veins, hot pain in my leg, and the Warden of the Coast of Storms sitting by my side, feeding me milk.
I could not determine how this had all come to be. He should have killed me, or given me to the Watch. Maybe he was simply waiting for the storm to relent before he sent for them.
But why feed me, then? He was putting a cup in my hands. This time it was rich broth, fortified with wine. I gulped it down.
“You’re a pathetic sight,” he said. “The ballads led me to hope for so much more.”
It seemed unwise to answer back, so I only regarded him: his strong-boned, scarred, pleasant face and sandy hair.
Looking at his face, I realized my mask was off. Not that it mattered now.
“Have some more,” he said, refilling the cup.
Once I had drunk it my shrunken belly was full to the point of discomfort. There was a sensual quality to the fullness, the warmth around me; things I hadn’t felt in far too long.
I drifted into feverish sleep, still wondering for how long he would let me live.
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