Written by Woodclaw :: [Wednesday, 29 August 2012 10:42] Last updated by :: [Friday, 10 October 2014 16:12]
It was low vaulted den with the ceiling and pillars made dark by years upon years of smoke, and the floor covered with dried blood and filth. The smell of it was like a slap in the face. The renegades and rascals of five nations and three people were drinking, smoking and gambling in the uncertain light of pine torches, when she appeared on the door.
It wasn't just her gender – so rare it was for a woman to cross that door without wearing the scarlet cape of a common whore – but her looks stemmed concern and surprise. She was fairer than any other women in the joint and as tall as tallest male patron. Despite wearing thick soled boots, her bearing was that of a queen and a tiger, elegant, regal and fierce. The leather pants wrapped tightly across her powerful calves and tights, threatening to rip with each step. A thick belt clearly showed a waist thin enough to be the envy of every noblewoman, yet layered with the hard muscles of a warrior. A sleeveless leather jerkin was the only garment on her upper body, allowing everyone a perfect view of her generous cleavage and strong arms. A silver torque wrapped around her left bicep, and a red headband – that kept her long black curls in check – completed the outfit. Her dark skin and darker hair clearly marked her as a barbarian of the Southern Lands, causing her strange, piercing blue eyes to stand out even further.
She took a stool next to the counter and surveyed the whole scene. Many looked away from those burning blue eyes, scared like rats in front of a wolf. “A flagon of your best.” she commanded in a heavily accented tone to the fat bartender. In a moment the mead was pushed across the greasy surface.
The mead tasted awful, but she hadn't come here for the drinks. She was looking for entertainment, and it soon arrived. A massive northern mercenary – blonde and scarred – emboldened by the cheap alcohol, grasped her steely butt and whispered an obscene proposal to her ear.
“Oh really.” she returned with a low growl. She grabbed his arm with feline speed and twisted it. There was a loud crack, but it took several seconds for the mercenary to realize and start to cry.
“So, this how civilization feels like.” she laughed before swatting him away like a rag.
A heartbeat later the room exploded into action. Many patrons ducked behind tables or toward the door, others unsheathed blades and charged the barbarian woman screaming profanities that would make a priest cry.
She didn't bother to rise, knowing well that mere steel was no match for her gifts, but she didn't wait idly either. With a flick of her wrist she tossed her mug at the closest assailant. The man's neck snapped under the power and precision of her casual throw.
A second thug stabbed at her throat with a large bladed dagger. She didn't make any effort to parry or counter, allowing the steel to sample her far harder sinews. The thug's eyes widened in fear as his blade dulled against her skin, a second later she lunged with tip of her index finger and ripped his throat apart.
While she shook the blood from her hand, two other mercenaries brought their weapons down. The first landed a short club across her nose, his whole arm went numb with the reverberation. The short sword of the second slid across the expanse of her left breast stopping in the valley of her cleavage, with no other result than cutting her leather jerking, fully revealing the round beauty beneath. With a small flex of her pecs, she trapped the blade and with a little twist she snapped it in half. As the two looked down in stupor at their weapons, she grabbed them by the back of their head and mashed their faces together.
The survivors of the gang roared and leaped for the amazon, trying to bring her down with the strength of their number. The tips of her mouth curled in a wicked smile as she inhaled sharply from her nose, causing her magnificent breast to swell and giggle. As she blew, a wind – mightier than the worst hurricane that ever swept the Great Ocean – blasted her opponents away along with the furniture, the cutlery and even the layers of dirt caking the floor.
Without bothering with her victims anymore the amazon crossed the room. She swatted aside a heavy oak table and grabbed a young red haired man, barely old enough to shave. He was the only person in the room not regarding her with utmost fear, but rather awe. Without a word she kissed him. There was no love in her kiss, just ferocious abandon, the kind that a thirsty desert dweller reserves to a jar of water.
The young man inhaled her exotic fragrance mixed with the scent of death and his loins responded. She wasn't sensual, she wasn't intoxicating, these words felt too weak to describe her. She dominated the scene with her simple, elemental presence. She was like a thunderstorm made flesh, a pure, unbridled force of nature. She took what she wanted, when she wanted simply because she could. And now she wanted him.
She broke the kiss and looked at him with her piercing ice blue eyes. There was no need for words, the message simple, clear and universal: “You are mine for tonight and all the night that I want.”
She threw him across her shoulder and marched out of the den with long, powerful strides. Anything and anyone that was caught in her path was obliterated by the unearthly strength of her legs.
For a long minute after she disappeared with her prey the scene remained silent, until the querulous voice of the owner rose from behind the counter. “She … She …” he stammered “She didn't pay for her mead.”