Tuesday, July 8, 2014

I haven't looked at this in a bit

I've been kind of busy and tired. Well, been *made* tired by a certain Miss Tease (who is nonetheless wonderful).

I don't exactly feel like posting too much porny about what we've been doing, but sufficed to say that she's a good person, a good Mistress, and a good lover. :)

Workwise, I was passed over for the Team Leader spot I was aiming for. Not much of a surprise really, since I am still relatively new at the store and have little to no management experience. Still, I thought I would have been ace at the position, since I already mostly know just about everything there was in the position itself. ah wells.

I am generally doing better on the mental health front, due to both the meds and the afformentioned Miss Tease. Not sure which is more the cause, but I'll take it anyway.

I need to write more.

my legs are so sore why :(

Tuesday, June 17, 2014

To Miss Tease

It's only been a few short weeks since you took ownership of your cock, and already I have trouble remembering why I ever thought that being in control of touching it, stroking it and making it come was a good thing.

This morning, when I woke up, your cock was rock hard and aching desperately to be touched. I wanted to run my fingers over the whole length of it, and stroke it gently at first and ever quicker and harder until I exploded all over my hand, spent and drained. I wanted to feel the delicious rise to the edge and heartstopping plunge over it.

But your instructions were clear, and did not brook argument. I was not allowed, not yet. As much as your cock ached to be stroked, my entire body ached to obey your commands and deny myself the pleasure until you gave permission.

That's what it comes down to; the control I have you, that you took so happily. The control over your cock and what happens to it, and when. I always knew I wanted to give it up to someone, but it always comes as a shock to me how deeply and desperately I do until it happens. Many crave the rush of orgasm and the sweet caress of sex in all forms, and while I do as well those feelings pale when compared to my need of not being in charge of my own sexual pleasure. The feelings that rush through me when I ask for permission to touch your cock are indescribable, and never depend on your answer. It is not the act of touching, or stroking, or coming that get me off. It is the act of asking to touch, stroke and come, and submitting to your answer, whatever it may be, that does.

Your cock exists to bring you joy, and to torment and tease me with delicious anticipation. My orgasms are yours, to do with as you please, and I would not have it any other way.

My only regret is that I do not have a cage for it yet, so that you could hold the key.

Monday, June 16, 2014

Hello Internet, I've missed you

My modem has been on the death for the past weekend, so I couldn't do anything internet related. I have discovered that TV really *does* suck, Soccer is actually pretty interesting at the international level, and video games are more annoying when you can't look up what you're doing wrong at a moments notice (how the fuck did we survive the 80's and 90's as gamers?!)

But it's all fixed now, so I can resumed my aimless wanderings about the internet. And get Game of Thrones before being *too* horribly spoiled (even though, as a book reader, that's not much of a danger).

I have started another writing project which, hopefully, will keep me at least writing something until I can get back to working on Lanos more. It's going to be kind of a porny Dresden Files inspired modern/urban fantasy thing. I'm still sussing it out but I'm having some fun writing it. It's a lot more fluff than Lanos, so it tends to go down smoother than struggling with the heavy metaphysics and philosophy I want Lanos to involve. Ah well.

I've also gotten myself an E-Cig, since my new lady friend (what should I call her... Heart? Adorable? SexyHobbit(she's really short)?) dislikes cigarettes a fair bit. I've been needing to quit for a while, this is just a kick in the pants to get working on it I guess.

I devoured the last Dresden Files (as you may have imagined since I'm working on something Dresdenesque) and enjoyed the living shit out of it still. It may not be the highest of literature, but goddamn if it isn't a good, fun read. Just wish they lasted longer.

Sunday, June 8, 2014

The taste of you

The lights are dim once again, and I am kneeling in front of you. You smile down at my naked body, your stockinged foot gently running down my chest and stomach. I groan, shivering with need and emotion, my cock trying to swell up before you but being contained by the solid steel of my cage. You grin wider, playing with the key around your neck.

“Aww, is someone horny?” you tease lightly, foot grazing the steel. Your other hand slides beneath your skirt and I can begin smelling your arousal already. “Does someone want that poor, mean cage off so you can stretch and grow?”

I nod, whimpering in the high, needy way I know you love so well. Your foot lists up my caged penis, supporting it from beneath my balls, and I moan again the flesh pulsing warmly inside of the metal. You give a moan and bounce it lightly on the top of your foot, sending more shivers through my body. A clear drop of precum forms at the tip of my cock as my heavy balls bounce on your foot, and I groan again deep in my chest, shivering again from the need of you.

“Poor slutty kitty. Well, maybe if you take care of me right, I'll take care of you.” You grin wickedly again, and lift the hem of your skirt up. I can see the glistening wetness of where your fingers got started, and my mouth began to water already. You lick your probing finger clean, then summon me to your crotch with it.

I barely needed the invitation, as I almost plunge my face between your thighs. Your smell invades my nose as my face slides into the shadows beneath your skirt. One one your hands grips my hair, wrapping the locks around your fingers, to bring me in harder to your dripping cunt. I oblige. Normally, when I eat you, I like to begin slow and teasing, kissing and nibbling my way from your mouth, down your throat, over your chest, across your stomach and then finally cover your inner thigh entirely in kisses and love bites before plunging my tongue into your folds and going to work. But today you are in no mood for it, and you press me tightly against your pussy and begin to grind. I whimper, my cock straining harder against your foot as you use my face as your toy.
I do my best with your movements. My mouth and lips fumble at your labia, sucking and nibbling on them as they come within reach. I thrust my hips at your foot and moans again, the taste and smell of you all over me turning my arousal into overdrive. After what feels like ages fumbling against your movements, I finally grab your hips and pin your ass to the couch, which causes your fingers to tighten in my hair. I don't care, as I can finally show your cunt the worship I feel it deserves.

I begin on the outside, my tongue tracing the outer edge of your majora. I kiss it gently, moving from the soft tickle of your pubic hair to the musky taste of your ass, and back up on the other side. The warm, plump lips are covered in kisses, and I take care to suck every inch of them into my mouth.

I move my attention to your protruding inner lips, using my teeth a bit more as I nip and tug at them. Your smell is stronger now, and I stop my ministrations of your labia to give your hole deep, languorous licks, dipping as deep inside as it can reach. I swallow your juices, purring, before resuming my slow and methodical work.

I finish with your labia, and then attack your clit. My tongue swirls around it in circles as I suck it between my lips. I grip it tightly, but gently, keeping my teeth away from direct contact with anything but your hood. I can hear you moaning more as I swirl and suck, and my own movements become more desperate. I whimper louder, my slurping becoming less measured and calculated as my lust overwhelms me. My hands leave your hips, on moving between your legs to slip two fingers inside of you. I hear you gasp as they slide in easily, and I curve them up to hit the fleshy mound of your g-spot. Your hips buck in answer, and your hands bring my face tight into you again. You grind away at my face, my fingers fucking you, my mouth desperately sucking and licking your clit as it passes by and crushes itself into my face.

It is not enough for me. I need more of you, and my movements increase against you. Your legs tighten around my head as I feel you get close to your orgasm, and I desperately try to bring you there. I moan at the thought of your juices exploding on my face, in my mouth, all over me, dripping heavy and sweet to the ground.
I feel you shudder, and your flow becomes thick. I greedily slurp it up as your hips raise strongly from the couch, pressing me against you in orgasmic bliss. Slowly, your body relaxes but my mouth continues it's work, my fingers slowly popping out of you. I gently cover your swollen cunt with soft kisses and gentle licks, soothing the reddened flesh with my loving tongue. 

I lean back from you, my face a sexy-smelling mess, and breath hard at your feet. Your gentle teasing of my cage cock never stopped, and several drops of precum have landed on your toes. You don't seem to mind, lounging lazily from your voluptuous orgasm.

"Good pet... Now come, lets go to bed." you smile tiredly at me, and I moan, cock twitching and more precum pearling at the tip. Once more, blue-balls for me.


Outside of a few friends who know me out there and meatspace, I've been keeping this little thing close to my chest for a little bit, 'cause I've been terrified of jinxing it and having it slip through my fingers.

But, after a few weeks and some more assurances that it is not a fluke, and will not just turn into shapeless smoke if I say something about it, I'll just reveal my good news.

I found someone to play with ^.^

This may not seem like such big news for some people (mostly those who don't know me well), but for me it is amazingly huge. I don't play very much at all, online or off, so even getting someone to fool around with me in text or cam form is a huge gain over my usual time. To, on top of that, find someone who is caring, warm, fun, experimental, open, and *local* to me who is willing to explore and experiment with me is... Kind of something that has never happened before.

And yet here I am, with exactly that warm, kind, fun, experimental, and incredibly pretty woman who is willing and able to do dirty, sexy things with me. There are times where I felt I was walking on air, because of how nice and good it felt. At which point another part of my brain would be there to club the floating one down and go "stop it, you're getting your hopes up again".

And then the second part would be proven a liar. It's not the kind of thing that happens a lot with me.

We met at Pearl's birthday party a few weeks back (a party i almost missed, and fuck would that have been a crime). We chatted a bit, and snuggled on the couch watching Pearl and Wildcard play with someone. I was feeling good at the time, and also horny (there was another person at the party I snuggled with, and she also happened to be naked and didn't mind beind groped. I need to show up to these parties more often), and desperately trying to not do the "lost puppy" routine that I sometimes fall into. It must have worked, because she sought me out once or twice during the party, and didn't mind me being close to her at all.

Afterwards, I asked Pearl about her and got a few answers that cooled my ardour a bit. Yes, she was single, yes she was kinky, no she wasn't into or experienced with my kinks at all but would probably be willing to learn, no is not looking as she's busy with school and has just come out of a hard relationship.

I'll admit I was a bit sad to hear that last bit, but I swallowed and thought to myself "She's willing to cuddle and be physically touched and touchy with you, that's more than you've got right now. So give it a shot".

I did, and messaged her of Fetlife. We started to chat, first just general life stuff, nerd things, setting up a friend-date to just hang out. Nothing too flirty or overt really. I was going into this pretty much only aiming to get a new friend.

Then something strange happened. One night, a couple of days before our friend-date, the conversation turned more frankly sexual than it had been previous, and the flirting began from both sides. I was still a little aprehensive, but willing to go along and see where it led. Flirting led to talking about our toys, which led to webcaming to compare them, which led us both to undress on cam, which led to... Her agreeing to tease me and play some.

I was beyond head over heels. This is something that happened in my quiet, before-sleep fantasies involving her (I've had a few before that evening. Like I said she was pretty sexy and fun and warm, all of which are things that make me react strongly physically) and never something I expected to happen at all, much less so soon in our relationship together and so quickly and easily.

The day of the date came, and she showed up at the movies wearing what was practically a see-through top with a small, push-up black bra beneath it. My eyes may have popped out of their sockets a bit, and I tried to keep as close as possible to her all the time together. If only to have a good angle to look at see-through-shirt-cleavage (she's quite a bit smaller than me, so me being in a ten foot radius of her gives me cleavage-vision).

That day was an amazing amount of fun. The movie wasn't terrible, the company was great, the food we grabbed after was tasty, and the flirting and groping we did in the car after was sexy. The date was less than a week ago, and already we've progressed and moved on with our fun. And it doesn't look likely to stop or die soon.

So I write this, partly in defiance of jinxing what I've found, and party out of my giddy glee at finding someone to share my warmth and sexiness with.

Plus now I'll totally have more stuff kink-related to share here :D

Friday, June 6, 2014


On this day, four score minus ten years ago, one hundred and sixty thousand soldiers from thirteen countries crossed the english channel to invade Europe. Late the previous evening, and into the early hours of the morning, a further twelve hundred airbourne infantry landed behind the beaches of Normandy, and rang the opening shots of the Battle of Normandy.

By the end of the day, near fourty five hundred Allied soldiers lay day, with thousands more wounded. The German forces lost around one thousand. By the end of the Operation Overlord, the total losses would mount to three quarters of a million.

The scope of war sometimes boggles the mind. Since we've seen the movies, and played through recreations of the battles in gods know how many games, one would think that one would have a grasp of it. One would in fact be wrong.

Those things can help bring us context and scale to the events, possibly better than any people in the history of this little planet we cling to. That context still comes at the cost of being emotionally distanced from the events by the very means we use to experience them. This is of no fault of the medium, as we do still get an emotional investment into these events by their portrayal in movies, games and books (anyone who says otherwise doesn't know what they're talking about. I've said it, games are art as much as movies and books are), that would be impossible without them. It's just that the very nature of a second (and often more) hand medium of experiencing even the most vivedly captured historical events leads to it being a historical event. And, with that, boring and dusty.

One hundred and sixty thousand men charged from boats onto fortified beaches and into the screaming mouthes of the machine guns and mortars. The dedication and belief in their cause must have been the only thing that kept some of those soldiers running, until they felt the hot slam of an MG-42 bullet in their gut. Some I guess would have spit it back out in blood spattered bitterness at the world before dying. Others let it cradle them into the darkness.

With the hindsight of years, we can baldly say that it was a just cause. The Cassus Belli against the Germans could not have been more justified in the long and sad history of war. Those poor sad hundred and sixty thousand bastards didn't know that, however. They'd been told exactly the same thing every soldier before and since has been; the enemy is monstrous, we are virtuous, the virtuous destroys the monsters. The men shooting at the beaches from the fortifications probably got the same pep-talk, after all. The fact that one side was right, and the other were monstrous butchers, doesn't really mean much in general. For all history could have said, those soldiers on the beaches would have died for no reason other than a trade dispute gone very sour.

That is something that I feel is often glossed over during our rememberance of World War II. Their deaths lead to the stop of the deaths of more millions, and this should be justly sung to all, lest we forget.

Their deaths could just have easily been for naught, and this too should be justly sung to all. Lest we forget.

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

i swear to god i am not making this up.

I just finished A Bridge Too Far (which is a movie based on a book about Operation Market Garden and then the PVR went back to what the TV channel was. And I saw...

(well one of those two, the player didn't load right for me (it's not chrome compliant. You'd think they'd hire a competant webmaster to just use standard flash)
(ps:i am copy pasting this into my gtalk with Pearl (her reaction was quite simply "What. The. Fuck." (that is a direct quote and she is a liar if she denies it) and my reaction was "RIGHT?!" (except with a lot more?!'s)

     There are a lot of things wrong with this, and I don't know if I'll ever have the time and coherence to go through them all so I'll give the major highlights.

1) it doesn't fucking matter what other countries do, quebec is part of a country currently
2) said country already *has* an official language. 2, actually. French and English.
3) despite all of this (and the fact that French was made an official language because of Quebec *and other francophones who live outside of quebec*), Quebec does not have English as an official language outside of federal places. In fact, english is legally obligated to be *less visible and legible* than french on signs.
4) it is more xenophobic vomit from the branch of the Quebec people that think that being inclusive means "you can't make the white french people uncomfortable by being different, or talking english"
5) fuck this condescending bullshit

*takes a breath*

So A Bridge Too Far is still a most excellent film, you should check it out if you like war movies, or are interested at all in World War 2 (June 6th is soon people, lets not forget the longest day).

Monday, June 2, 2014

Tashi's NSFW (part one of is this joke even worth it?)

I am on my back on your bed, nervous as hell. The feeling of the cool metal wrapped lovingly around my cock didn't help the nerves, or the aching and persistent swelling of my trapped penis. I take a deep breath and try to calm myself, the lingering incense of your room whispering into my lungs.

Every motion of my body brought my massager into lingering contact with my prostate, and I try to lay as still as possible. But still, every flex of my hips, or abs, or especially kegels brought more stimulation, and a new drop to the faucet that was my cock.

The last time I'd been out of the cage was two weeks previous, when you'd decided that you wanted to see what palming felt like. The inflamed nerves all over my cock still remembered the relentless slick motion of your hand, the head especially tingling in fond fear of your torments. The torture seemed to last forever despite the rest breaks, but must have only been an hour or two, before you announced you were done and I was to be locked up again. We had cuddled together, and you petted my hair soothingly as I whimpered into your neck.

My cock tried to grow again, pressing vainly against the cold solidness of the cage. My attempts to change my train of thoughts had been useless, and I could only wait in dripping anticipation for you to appear.

And appear you did, finally. Your skirt was scandalously short, and your underwear seemed vanishingly small. As a classy person, you wore your panties beneath your garter belt. The stockings ended at mid-thigh, leaving a large tempting swathe of eager flesh to caress. The corset was brand new and the bones skimmed and fitted to your body just so, the lush fabric coloured with deep greens and muted golds.

You smile at me as you step closer to the bed, letting the scent of your perfume announce you. You're gently holding an item in each hand. The left, a paddle. The right, a small handheld wand. My body shivers as I take you in, and I slowly curl up, whimpering softly. A raise brow is all I need to straighten back out. My reward for this act of submission is for you to straddle my face, keeping your barely clad pussy mere inches away from my face.

“The better job you do of making me come, the more chances I have of being nice.” Your knees weigh down on my shoulders as you keep yourself barely away from me. The vibrator clicks on, and the paddle begins to stroke my swollen balls.

“Begin,” you say, mockingly and comfortably authoritative. I do, and raise my face into your thonged crotch. My eager lips and tongue suck and nibble at all the sweetest places you've shown me, and your ministrations begin. The head of the wand presses against the eager swollen flesh of my trapped cock, and the paddle begins its work.

The better I did, the harder you went with both. Relentless and a little cruel, you drive me ever to the edge, then back off. In those moments of break for my cock, you lower yourself down and put your full weight on my face. The better I do, the sooner the break stops.

Time seemed to stand still, and stretch on ever onward. It became merely your cunt, and the taste and smell of it on me, and your ass, and greedily worshipping both. I can hear you moan and writhe above me, your hips rocking in slow circles as you keep teasing my cock to a caged edge, and spanking my balls as freely as you like. Sometimes, you drop the paddle and just squeeze them in you hand, then slap them back and forth.
Every hit, every moment of contact with that wicked wand, every taste of your juices down my throat, causes me to moan, whimper and writhe under you. And every motion of my body tickles that poor, swollen prostate... Were I wearing underwear, they'd be soaked in precum.

Finally you press down on me and you don't stop your tortures. I know, my the sound and feel of you, that you're close. I devour you, ravenous to make you feel that flood on my face. And I can taste it approaching, my own orgasm fast on the trail. And just as I cannot hold it back, and the final bridge is past, you toss the vibrator aside and redouble your beatings of my balls. My hips thrust up vainly, desperate for just a little more contact, just enough...

But that contact never arrives, and the orgasm is ruined. My come merely oozes slowly out of my tumescent cock, pushed by my pelvic muscles and the massager. You give a sudden cry above me and you come messily, my mouth lapping as much as it can.

Finally, your orgasm subsides, and mine continues to gently and cruelly dribble out. I whimper beneath you, shivering with need. My cock is as swollen and aching as ever, except twice as sensitive as before, and twice as desperate to come. My balls ache, feeling bloated and full despite of being emptied over the course of an hour. You lay down next to me, cooing softly and kissing my face and lips. I return your kisses eagerly, purring.

Your fingers dip into the come that dripped onto my balls, and scoops some up. You bring it up to my mouth, trace it slowly over my lips, giving them an inviting gloss.

“That was fun,” you declare, satiated. Your eyes however are still hungry, and the evil smile I've learnt to fear crops up again. You slide your come-covered finger into my mouth, and I suck it off hungrily.

“How about we do it again in say... A month?” you say before you kiss me deeply.

Tuesday, May 27, 2014


I've been seeding my blog everywhere and now I have hits!




carry on

Monday, May 26, 2014

A break from rage

I've been writing and reading and commenting and arguing about Elliot Rodgers all weekend (and today), I think it's time for a break. So here's a short sample from a fiction project I'm working on.


Shan knelt by the pit, looking at the bones that covered the bottom of it and repressing the urge to swear. He could not be sure how many bodies were left here, scavengers and the weather having taken their toll, but there were at least seven heads staring back at him, some decayed down to grey bone, others with strips of flesh and hair still clinging tenaciously.
“So much for finding survivors,” the Ranger muttered to himself, standing up and brushing the dirt from his knee. He glanced up at the sky, watching the red tinge bleed away into a deep blue. The first stars began to glimmer, and Shan knew they would be the only light to guide him for the rest of the night. He briefly considered making camp, and continuing at dawn, but there were still two children to account for. None of the remains were fresh enough.
A part of his mind wondered if he had not made a mistake by taking on this unofficial mission. There was no requirement, in the code or the Oath they swore, that obliged them to take on tasks outside of those given within the chain of command, though several of the older Rangers seem to believe that there should be.
“The Seal you carry with you comes with a heavy responsibility,” their elder instructor would repeat. “You are tasked with the defence of the Empire, from threats varied and hidden. If you graduate, and take the Oath, your responsibility is not to follow the orders from your superiors, but to maintain order and peace throughout our lands, no matter the cost.”
Those words, and many more like it, had made a profound impression on Shan during his training, and he swore, the day he received his commission, to live up to the heavy expectations of his instructors, and of the Empire itself. It had led to some less than desirable moments in the past, as he zealously attempted to solve any wrong that was brought to his attention, many of which still make the rounds in the Posthouses he frequents. The veteran members adore telling the newer recruits of the time Shan found himself infiltrating a brothel, disguised as a woman, to recover blackmail documents, and how he quickly discovered it was merely an attempt by a merchants wife to humiliate her husband by catching him in the same room as a cross dresser.
The howls of laughter are generally exuberant.
It was through events like these that Shan eventually learned to restrain his impulses and plan his outings. The stories remained widespread and repeated, as any story inside of a closed group tends to, but they were soon accompanied by real successes. Though Shan would no longer simply go off the moment he heard of a problem he would always listen, and store the information in the back of his mind, ready to be compared to other information he gathered. Matched with his innate curiosity, and zealous drive to excel, it led him to a long string of successful missions, most of them from outside official channels.
So it was that, as he was passing through Gallemsberg on his way west toward Allair, he heard the locals talking of missing children. His curiosity perked by the alehouse gossip, Shan began to dig deeper. Wary glances were dissipated by a flash of the Imperial Seal and eager, frightened tongues wagged with desperate pleas.
The town had been plagued, for several years, with vanishing children. The townsfolk were adamant of the distinction; many children died each year, from illness or accidents and, rarely, murder, but the disappearances that happened on the nights where both moons were hidden from view were different. Some had vanished from their beds, their covers discovered perfectly made in the morning, others from trips to the market, or the well. The town had been under curfew on the night of any new moon, with militia patrolling the streets, and still the children went missing.
Both moons would be new that night, and two children had already gone missing from their home by midday. With the tear strained faces of the parents still haunting his memory, Shan took to the forest surrounding Gallemsberg in what he expected to be a fruitless hunt. The mass grave had been a surprise, one that served to confirm the Ranger's fears; whatever was happening to the children of Gallemsberg was done at the behest of an intelligent agent.
“There's nothing more to do but press on,” he finally said, throwing a handful of dirt into the open grave.

There were six of them around the fire, their backs away from it. Each of them was dressed in a long red robe, with the hood covering their faces, save for one. His back was directly to Shan, robbing him of the chance to see his face, though he could make out a heavily scarred bald scalp. He had spotted at least one sentry, on the far side of the clearing from where he was hidden, and knew there would be at least two more somewhere in the woods. He remained quiet, kneeling, taking the scene in detail for the report.
Next to the slowly banking flames was a spit, upon which were tied a boy and a girl. Both were naked, their lips sewn shut and eyes empty black pits above streaming tracks of red running down their cheeks.
He knelt, observed, and listened. The language they spoke was foreign to Shan, seeming to consist of guttural warbling and sharp staccato explosions. The man without the hood seemed to be leading the chant, with the five others responding in what felt like rote chant.
Shan's disquiet grew with every moment. His mind was screaming for him to flee, to report to the nearest Posthouse, and bring a troop of deputies crashing through the forest to hunt these six men down. He remained, however, waiting, his teeth grinding at the sight and sound of the tableaux. He remained, ignoring the desperate cries for his own safety, because he needed to see the face of the scarred man. To be able to confront him, in public, for Infernalism.
His thoughts were interrupted by a noise to his right, in the darkened woods. He checked a swear, and slid his hand slowly to his sword, mentally berating himself for letting his guard down and ruining his night vision by staring at the only light source for miles. Scanning the shadows around him, Shan slowly began to creep backwards from the clearing, hoping to evade notice and make his way out of the forest and back to Gallemsberg. With some luck, the locals would be convinced by his description, and the Imperial Seal, and join him in raiding the camp. With even further luck, they might return and find someone remaining.
The sound, the dry snap of a dead branch, repeated itself and was joined by the rustle of leaves to his back. Deciding that secrecy was no longer warranted, Shan spun on his left heel, his long blade sliding out of the oiled leather scabbard at his side. The sentry creeping up on his back was taken by surprise, and the Ranger took advantage of those few moments of shock to stab him through the lung, pressing his hand against his mouth to stiffle the gurgling scream. Had the sentry been alone, it would have been enough.
Reacting purely on instinct, Shan dove to his right, away from a downward strike of an axe aimed at his head. The sudden dive made him lose the grip on his blade, and the first sentry crumpled to the ground two yards away, three feet of steel sticking out of his chest. Swearing, audibly, Shan tore his short blade from its scabbard and prepared to deal with the axeman and run into the wild.
He did not count on the scarred man getting involved.
Shan felt a sudden pressure on his throat, and he turned and slashed with his sword to dispatch what he thought was a third assailant. His blade whistled harmlessly through the air, and he heard the second sentry, the one with the axe, chuckle at the sight of it. Clawing at his throat, vainly trying to breathe, Shan stumbled away from the campsite and crashed through the woods. Dark spots were beginning to appear in front of his eyes, and his chest felt like it was freezing, and on fire, at once. The pressure relented for a moment, allowing Shan to draw in a gasping breath, then resumed as strong as before. Tears streaming down his face, the Ranger collapsed to his knees, short blade falling from nerveless fingers.
“Well, it would appear we have a spy in our midst.”
The voice seemed to float in the night air, coming from in front of the prostrate Ranger. Looking up, blinking away tears and spots, Shan tried to focus on the face.
It was scarred, horribly scarred, a network of lines drawn over every inch of exposed skin on the mans face. They seemed, to his oxygen-starved brain, to dance together into an interwoven script, a language he could not read or comprehent.
Another breath made it to his lungs, only seeming to increase the pair bursting in his chest. Shan did not feel the hands searching his body, opening his pockets and pouches, and extracting the precious Imperial Seal that every Ranger carries.
“Ah...” the man said, shaking his head softly. “It would appear that the Posthouse will miss an expected guess.”
The man who was searching him chortled again, and pushed Shan down onto his face.
“I am happy you could join us before the... meat of the ritual. We have so many hours of darkness left, and it always brings me such joy to entertain an unexpected guest.”
The world swam before his eyes, and Shan saw only darkness.