The Immolation of White Feather
Turn 1
A Memory of White Feather.
You remember this scene from several years ago. The Winter Wolves had just left Master Thomas to become squires. Your first mission was to kill Grotneg, the ogre that was threatening Rosewood Circle several miles south of the High Home. You were victorious, bringing Grotneg's head to High Home and letting it rot in the summer sun on the blade of a tall pike. The fame of the Winter Wolves spread, and you were invited to complete a mission for King Sparrowhawk II. You remember going to the Palace Tree. You are now in King Sparrowhawk's antechamber waiting for an audience with him...
Scene: The room is made of the living wood of the trees that support the High Home, as are all the other structures here. Even the furniture is of living wood. The walls are high and the ceiling is now open unto a bright summer day. The ceiling will close in the event of a storm. The portal of the King's inner chamber is directly in front of you and the portal that you used to enter the room is behind. The King's Portal opens and an incredibly beautiful she-elf steps through. She is wearing a wispy white gauze gown and a tight black undergarment. Her hair is long and raven black. Her skin is supple, smooth and milk white. She is barefoot. About her head is a wreath of multi-colored flowers woven around a thin circlet of gold, and she is wearing a thin leather belt about her thinner waist. A red hyacinth hangs from the belt over her loins. A single white feather hangs from a leather thong attached to the golden circlet about her head. She is buxom with wide, round hips. She is wearing rosewater on her wrists. You know this beautiful creature. Her name is White Feather, the youngest daughter of the King. A plain looking human abigail (female servant) enters the antechamber after her.
White Feather [to her abigail]:
Who is this ragamuffin motley band?
I've not the like of these right clods beheld
Since five long year a'fore this very now.
[to the party]
Why art thou here, spurious blackened knaves?
[as a party member begins to respond]
Quiet now, listen I've import to speak!
Who art thou? and what is thy godly call?
Why dost thou sit the doorstep of the king?
Thou art the sorest bawdy colored rogues
A comely she-prince likely is to see.
Now if thou wilt, please answer unto me.
[The party answers.]
Turn 1 Character Reactions
Winsome Hawk
Ah, I remember that day fondly. We were all heady with our recent
fame, and then being invited to the Palace Tree, O it was a
wondrous thing indeed. My friends entered the room bold and brash.
We were full of ourselves at the time. Call it training, call it
a personality quirk... perhaps a tad of both but I never have
been comfortable in the center of an open room so I stood near
the walls and hid in the safety of the shadows. It was my way
then -- still is. Then she walked in.... I have never been so
taken aback by a person before in my entire life. It took all of
my training to keep from leaping from the shadows and ravaging
her... That smell, I still remember that smell, her smell...
roses... intoxicating, alluring... of all the things about her
that ignited my passion into flame, it was her scent that was the
most maddening. Whether it was my training, I would like to think
so, or my shyness I staid my ground in the shadows, but I could
not take my eyes from her. I knew that my more charismatic
fellows would do the work of repartee, and I wished they would
hurry. I did what I always do, what I am trained to do... lurk,
watch, wait and listen... but it was hard, the fire within me was
ravenously hot.
Korian Windsong
With the hood of my fine, gray cloak pulled low over my eyes, I
step forward and kneel before my Princess. As I kneel, with my
head low to the ground, I remove my hood and raise my head. I
look directly into White Feather's eyes, with a small quirky
expression on my lips.
"Your Highness,"I say, "It's been a long time
since our last...acquaintance. You look even more radiant than I remember."
I lean close to White Feather's round breasts, and I catch the
smell of her sweet perfume. [under my breath] "Perhaps
later we can get...reacquainted?" Thoughts of Korian
Windsong. As I marvel at White Feather's beauty, I wonder
how on the earth of the gods this woman was created with such
utter beauty. I also wonder how I bedded White Feather in the
first place and how I can bed her again. I become lost in White
Feather's deep green eyes, as if the palace had vanished. There
is no world, nothing except those deep pools of emerald green. I
forget the reason I am here, my mission. Mission? Ah, yes. White
Feather is my mission. My conquest. My lust. My love....
Camille
Camille stands fidgeting in the antechamber, unable, as
usual, to hold still for very long. She starts with a minute
inspection of her fingernails, frowning a bit as she remembers
how long and perfectly lacquered they were before her training
began. They are short now, as short as any commoner's, and
ragged, with bitten tips and gritty dirt caked beneath their
edges. Camille sighs, then raises a slender hand to touch the
wealth of coppery ringlets that spill over her shoulders. Her
wandering attention is immediately drawn to an object found
poking out from between her curls - a dirty twig! Biting her lip
in agitation, Camille plucks the small stick from her hair and
throws it to the floor. She tosses her fiery mane, longing for
the days when she had the leisure time to comb and arrange it as
was proper for a young noblewoman. At last, she sweeps it all
back over her shoulders, where it flows down to brush the top of
her small waist. With eyes as hard as frosty emeralds, she casts
another angry glance at the offending twig, which now lies next
to the toe of her very scuffed and tattered boot. When she
notices the condition of her footwear, her ivory face begins to
flush an angry red.
At that very moment, White Feather makes her entrance, so Camille
does not immediately notice the young she-elf. She leans forward
to brush the dust from her leggings, then stiffens noticeably
when White Feather refers to her group as bawdy rogues. Camille
straightens herself quickly, an angry retort on her soft lips and
many more forming in her mind... but the words die before ever
reaching vocalization.
Camille's eyes meet White Feather's, and all of their fire seems
to dissipate with that first contact. With her mouth still half-open
as if about to speak, Camille slowly drags her gaze from the she-elf's
exquisite face to her generous, sheerly-veiled endowments, then
down further to her ample hips and pale, slender legs. Her gaze
lingers momentarily on the red hyacinth hanging from White
Feather's belt, and she takes an involuntary step forward, as if
fighting the desire to kneel before the beautiful princess and
inhale deeply the aroma of her fragrant flower. She stops herself
with visible difficulty, wrings her hands nervously, and clears
her throat twice before any sound comes out. When at last she
finds her words, they are spoken in a soft, somewhat awestruck
voice quite unlike her usual saucy tone.
"Most beautiful lady," she addresses the princess with
much more respect than she normally shows anyone, "your
grace not only outshines the sun, but completely transcends this
world." She runs the tip of her tongue over her full,
sculpted lips to moisten them before continuing. "I came to
this chamber with some purpose in mind, but that purpose escaped
me the moment I saw you." She approaches the young she-elf,
stopping at a respectful distance, then drops to one knee and
lowers her head in supplication. "My only purpose is to
serve you, which I will do until my dying day. I beg of you, tell
me what I can do to please you, for your smile's radiance will
surely chase the gloom from my soul. I will do anything at all,"
her gaze rises once again to the princess's hips and the flower
that rests above them, "to bring you pleasure."
As she awaits White Feather's reply, Camille's gaze grows warm
and luminous with a heat to replace the chill of her previous
anger. Her long-lashed, verdant eyes, which sparkled with gentle
awe until now, have caught afire with unabashed, smoldering lust.
Enchandra
Enchandra sat in the living chair, her left hand
stroking the wood as if it were a new-born child in need of
calming. Her right hand stroking her thigh where the ghastly
wound from the Ogre's barbed spear once was. Now healed, the
memory of the pain of shattered bone and slashed tendon was still
seared in Enchandra's memory, and hung in her flesh like an
unbearable itch, not easily scratched away.
She held her face high to the sun, allowing its rays to strike
her firm skin, covering her almost handsome face. Closing her
eyes to the light, her mind left her body for a moment, and swept
across the trees to her small home, and she wanted to return
there more than anything. Almost anything...
The call to serve had been sudden for Enchandra, but the need to
protect and serve the natural domain of the Wood Elf was
ingrained in her nature, and she cared not to ponder the
situation. Rather, Enchandra relies on her instincts to guide her
in the proper rhythms of nature. The other Winter Wolves were an
interesting lot, but only in their sometimes unnatural reactions,
otherwise she was uninterested in them.
White Feather enters the Kings anteroom, and Enchandra opens her
eyes slowly, not really wanting to let go of her vision. The
beautiful Elven woman is appraised quickly by the Priestess and
the only thought that comes to mind is, "Why waste
flowers to cover ones head? They will die, and no longer be able
to swell with pollen and bring new life to the wood. Tsk."
If she was one to reflect on physical beauty, Enchandra would
have felt overwhelmed by the sheer volume of pure loveliness,
like so many others, but again her thoughts were more practical
as she glanced at White Feathers wide hips, "She will
bear many children, this one, and make her parents proud."
Enchandra rises from her seat, slowly, as if not wanting to leave
the comfort of the vibrant, growing, wood beneath her skin. She
does not smile. Her arms are straight down, and her hands are
clasped in front of her. Social graces not being natural for her,
she says, "My name is Enchandra, and a Priestess of Acorn
The Oak am I. A devout follower of The All, that which shelters
us, that which feeds us, and that which Loves us all. Acorn has
willed my presence here and that is the Only Reason. I serve The
Oak, the Father of the Wood, and he has brought me here to the
King, to serve and to protect the Wood Elves. The Will of All be
done."
Enchandra tugs at her leather vest because the garment never
seems to quite set properly on her shoulders. Once satisfied, she
pulls on her dark grey, knee length, cloth skirt, tugging on it
not out of modesty, instead perhaps absentmindedness, a habit the
Winter Wolves were accustomed to by now...