HSE: Open Season, PG-13 (Earthly Delights)
Aug 11, 2020 12:12:18 GMT 10
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Post by mistrali on Aug 11, 2020 12:12:18 GMT 10
Title: Open Season
Rating: PG-13
Summary: What might have happened post-WOTE
Pairings: Isha/Berenene, Isha/Quen.
Warnings: Nudity and implied sex.
Prompt: The End of Things (Glake Triathlon) - 500+ words
Words: 568
****
Isha spent three days asleep after the border wall fell. She thought it fitting revenge for her curse on Trisana.
It was a shame the four hadn’t stayed. Trisana would have been a splendid war mage. She had trained, controlled power and she could wield it like a whip. It was a shame the girl hadn’t the stomach for it. With the right training, moreover, she might have channeled her ocean-sized store of magic and that temper of hers into curses with catapult-strength behind them, with runes and oils to contain and collapse all that wild lightning energy into something fluid and forceful. Instead she had sent the empire’s strongest mages to lick their wounds in a corner.
Isha didn’t anticipate visitors, though it was her first day doing more than sipping on vile teas and potions and sleeping. Quen was as feeble as Isha and was in Berenene’s bad books besides, and most other courtiers stayed away from their wing of the palace. That suited Isha fine: she had no wish to be seen lying here as weak as a kitten. Besides, she had a feeling she wouldn’t remain chief mage for much longer; the role would be vacant to any handsome, talented up-and-comers from the Empire, likely some mage from far-flung parts who would find the imperial purse difficult to resist.
When she heard a familiar voice on the stairs, just before dawn on the fifth morning of her enforced bedrest, dread curdled into certainty. So, then, Berenene had spared Isha the indignity of dismissing her before the open court. Was it better or worse, to be exiled from the palace in disgrace under cover of darkness? Preferable, certainly, to being kidnapped and put to death.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” said Isha, and tried to bow. The movement sent pain rocketing down her shoulder blades. Clenching her jaw, Isha ignored it.
Berenene was as lovely as ever. Even with sleep-mussed hair tumbling from its dark red pins and a face bare of paint, she was resplendent in a burgundy robe over a sheer gold nightgown, sans breastband, that clung to every curve.
Isha wondered if she had come from Quen’s bed - from the look of her lips, and the love-bites on her neck, she had not slept alone last night - then shrugged off the thought. Quen was the jealous sort, inclined to play his cards too recklessly when it came to sex. One day that jealousy would get him a minor merchant’s daughter as a contract-bride and lands on the Rusalki tundras, far to the northwest. Isha herself had never minded Berenene bestowing her affections on her fellow courtiers, men or women. She was as selective in her confidants as in her bedmates. She courted the powerful, the gifted, the wealthy and the beautiful, and shone upon them all like a flame, benevolent, indiscriminate and dangerous.
“Isha.” Berenene’s voice had no inflection, and her mouth was turned up at the corners in a mockery of a smile. “What a shame it had to come to this. I shall give you ten days’ rest until the healers say you can be discharged. After that, you may pack your things.”
Isha didn’t say I told you so. It was no use. Cheated of her prize, Berenene would sulk for a week and then move on to the next hunt: in flirtations as in empires and mages. She might change her mind and call Isha back from whatever godsforsaken corner of Namorn she had banished her to, or she might not.
Rating: PG-13
Summary: What might have happened post-WOTE
Pairings: Isha/Berenene, Isha/Quen.
Warnings: Nudity and implied sex.
Prompt: The End of Things (Glake Triathlon) - 500+ words
Words: 568
****
Isha spent three days asleep after the border wall fell. She thought it fitting revenge for her curse on Trisana.
It was a shame the four hadn’t stayed. Trisana would have been a splendid war mage. She had trained, controlled power and she could wield it like a whip. It was a shame the girl hadn’t the stomach for it. With the right training, moreover, she might have channeled her ocean-sized store of magic and that temper of hers into curses with catapult-strength behind them, with runes and oils to contain and collapse all that wild lightning energy into something fluid and forceful. Instead she had sent the empire’s strongest mages to lick their wounds in a corner.
Isha didn’t anticipate visitors, though it was her first day doing more than sipping on vile teas and potions and sleeping. Quen was as feeble as Isha and was in Berenene’s bad books besides, and most other courtiers stayed away from their wing of the palace. That suited Isha fine: she had no wish to be seen lying here as weak as a kitten. Besides, she had a feeling she wouldn’t remain chief mage for much longer; the role would be vacant to any handsome, talented up-and-comers from the Empire, likely some mage from far-flung parts who would find the imperial purse difficult to resist.
When she heard a familiar voice on the stairs, just before dawn on the fifth morning of her enforced bedrest, dread curdled into certainty. So, then, Berenene had spared Isha the indignity of dismissing her before the open court. Was it better or worse, to be exiled from the palace in disgrace under cover of darkness? Preferable, certainly, to being kidnapped and put to death.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” said Isha, and tried to bow. The movement sent pain rocketing down her shoulder blades. Clenching her jaw, Isha ignored it.
Berenene was as lovely as ever. Even with sleep-mussed hair tumbling from its dark red pins and a face bare of paint, she was resplendent in a burgundy robe over a sheer gold nightgown, sans breastband, that clung to every curve.
Isha wondered if she had come from Quen’s bed - from the look of her lips, and the love-bites on her neck, she had not slept alone last night - then shrugged off the thought. Quen was the jealous sort, inclined to play his cards too recklessly when it came to sex. One day that jealousy would get him a minor merchant’s daughter as a contract-bride and lands on the Rusalki tundras, far to the northwest. Isha herself had never minded Berenene bestowing her affections on her fellow courtiers, men or women. She was as selective in her confidants as in her bedmates. She courted the powerful, the gifted, the wealthy and the beautiful, and shone upon them all like a flame, benevolent, indiscriminate and dangerous.
“Isha.” Berenene’s voice had no inflection, and her mouth was turned up at the corners in a mockery of a smile. “What a shame it had to come to this. I shall give you ten days’ rest until the healers say you can be discharged. After that, you may pack your things.”
Isha didn’t say I told you so. It was no use. Cheated of her prize, Berenene would sulk for a week and then move on to the next hunt: in flirtations as in empires and mages. She might change her mind and call Isha back from whatever godsforsaken corner of Namorn she had banished her to, or she might not.