Ladies First

You turn away, meeting eyes with Oliver as the two of you begin the slow, cooperative march back up the hill. The charge has torn up the grass, leaving the ground a bit uneven, but you can see where you're going and the Duke seems surefooted enough. A few men ride past you during the climb, bowing faintly in their saddles and offering a tire "m'lord" as they go by, but for the most part you don't look up or answer. Instead, you find yourself constantly checking your burden's face... wondering what your vassal's plan was if she woke up and silently praying she'd stay asleep. Thankfully, she isen't jolted around too much, and remains just limp at the top of the hill as she was at the bottom.

All around you, the men are busy setting up camp: the sky already starting to turn orange the sun sinks behind the mountains framing the horizons. Some are kneeling; pounding stakes into the earth for tents or the perimeter and gathering dry grass for kindling, while others walk around with salvaged wood or bandage-cloth for the wounded. Your own tent stands at the center of it all: easily four times the size of the others with a pair of skirmishers hammering in the last of the anchors. They stand up as you approach, one of them limping as they approach you: reaching into their work-satchels to reveal two pairs of heavy iron prisoner's manacles. "Sorry, your lordship... diden't pack for the wings," the limping one joked with a pained smile. "Best hope our little jailbird doesn't try fly'n away." You find yourself smiling for a brief moment at the image, laying the dragon-lady out on the ground as you take the manacles: making sure they're locked tight around her arms and legs. The fear starts to subside as she's slowly rendered harmless, the good-footed skirmisher giving Burtrexx a curious kick to the side. She responds with a something between a growl and a purr; body flinching in reflexively.

"Don't worry... I handled her once didn't I?" You answer with rekindled confidence, the workers offering you a respectful bow before returning to their work. Without that distraction, you can finally make out the noise behind you: a pair of trotting hooves, glancing over your shoulder to see your and Oliver's mounts being lead towards you. Suddenly, you find yourself breathing a sigh of relief as you see the saddlebag... remembering how your best set of cloths and everything you'd brought on the expedition was in their. The Duke seems pleased as well, taking the reigns and even slipping a copper into the helpful soldier's palm before petting his steed's neck: a stout but hardy brown pony. He turns to you, looking you over one more time with his eyes lingering on your sword before answering.

"If if pleases you, my King, I'll be taking my leave," he explains dutifully, eyes scanning the camp. "Somebody has to get this this chaos under control. Make sure everybody's accounted for and aren't doing anything uncivilized to the prisoners," he freezes up for a moments there, pursing his lips in disgust. "But that is beneath your royal concern. You'd best settle in for the night, organize a watch and proper restraints for our... honored guest. I'll admit, we've never dealt with a live dragon-kin prisoner before. I'd advise caution." He stands near still, waiting for permission as you lean up against your steed, exhausted.

"You may go, my friend. You've done well," you answer honestly; none of that stiff court politeness, not out here, getting a softer smile from Oliver in return as he climbs up onto his horse, driving his foot into the side and shouting down a distant group of men. You can't see what they're doing, and quite frankly you don't care: instead hooking your arms around the lady's stomach. As you pull her, you can feel the sides press up against the bottom of her breasts: generous and clearly well-compressed beneath the rough chain and boiled hide of her battle-shirt, a far cry from the soft caress of the silk that flows over you as you enter the tent. The fabric is thick enough to block out everything but shadows from the outside, casting a soft light over the inside, as you dump her unceremoniously to one side: leaving to fetch your possessions from the saddlebags. Feeling the grit of the dirt and itch of the filth on your cloths, for a moment you pin for the baths back in the palace. _My kingdom for a washerwoman... _a mental sigh sounds in your thoughts as you finally find a passable change of cloths in the jumble, draping it over your less filthy arm. Perhaps there's a spring nearby... you'll have to ask one of the Vismark soldiers when you get a chance.

The thought keeps you busy until you return to the tent: laying out your bedroll and unrolling the accompanying quilt. Not the most comfortable, but better than the thin mats the other men would have. With your horse just outside the door, it only takes a few short trips before everything you need for the night is set up: the constant din of the work fading into so much white noise as you close the flap on your semi-private world. Finally done, a wave of relaxation washes over you: letting out a deep breath, rolling your shoulders, and sinking into a cross-legged sitting position. Ready to get out of this stiff armor, your reach back and start to fiddle with the clasps: already a few inches down and shrugging the chain and under-padding from your shoulder's before you're suddenly interrupted.

From the opposite side of the tent, you hear a pained, distant moan, followed by the rattle and snap of a chain being tugged taunt. Your attention flashes back from your work and idle thoughts of home: brought to the small but clear movements of the female in your tent... suddenly conscious of the slight exposure. The noises she makes grow increasingly louder and more frustrated as she regains consciousness: facing the far side of the tent as she struggles and jerks her arms and legs: each time the iron holding firm. For a moment, you're uncertain of what to do: hands freezing in place as you wait to see if they bindings will keep. For a half-dozen attempts, they do, before Burtrexx rolls over onto her stomach... struggling with a clenched face and closed eyes for a few minutes before opening them in a sharp squint: your view of her only just now close and clear enough to catch the pastille ruby of her iris.

At that moment, she stops her struggle: slowly blinking, each time her eyes getting a little bit wider. Her gaze is drawn to your face, even as you look away self-consciously. You can see her mouth starting to relax: the sharp outlines of her clenched jaw disappearing to reveal a smoother face, scaled skirt hanging loosely over her ass, revealing its shape. Her shoulders seem to pull in on themselves, wings remaining folded in as she resumes moving once her eyes are fully open; bending herself back onto her knees before shuffling herself so she was facing you. There's no need to look up: she's lowered her head and scrunched in her torso so she's looking at eye level, clawing at the ground with her bound hands. "You..." she sounds like she's not entirely their, staring you right in the face with those wide, slitted, inhuman eyes: impossible to read. She's breathing heavily, leaning forward and increasingly putting the weight on her arms. "You... did that to me..." the breathy words continue, mouth slowly starting to slack open.

Your sword is right there... fingers twitching uncontrollably as you don't dare reach for it despite every muscle in your arm begging to, guts twisting in nervous confusion. All you can do is hold your ground: refusing to pull back no matter how close she gets, refusing to blink even when your eyes itch. "It's... not fair..." she whimpers, lips quivering, back almost perfectly straight as she props herself up on her hands and the tips of her knees, face less than a foot from yours. "I never thought..."

Then, she did something you hadn't expected, something that actually makes you flinch. The War-Lady shoots her arms forward: avoiding punching you in the side by less than an inch, and collapses herself onto the floor. Legs shoot out in the opposite direction: pushing out the fabric and talons cutting a few holes as she spreads out as far as she'll go. In a flash, you leap to your feet, dodging what your reflexively assume is a surprise attack and positioning yourself for a counterstrike. Yet, when you're about to swing you look down to see she's entirely still: her face pressed into the grass and wings curled up to form a cocoon around her torso. The woman was completely prostrate the points of her crown lightly poking into the boot her tiny horns were framing. "You've bought your puny nation a few more decades of sovereignty... _Oh mighty King of Itheria..." _The muffled words come up almost mockingly sweet. "Enjoy them while you can."

Slowly, you lower your weapon as you realize she's not a threat: giving the unusual sight a confused squint. "Yes..." you state the obvious to the back of her head. "I'll be discussing the exact terms of your ransom with your overlord at a later date, but I assure you Itheria's continued independence will be one of my conditions." You see her muscles tense at the word 'overlord', the show of pride clashing strangely with her totally **** position.

"Why?" She asked sternly, grip on the turf loosening as you take a step back; your prisoner still refusing to look you in the eye even after you give her the space to stand up. Before you can answer, you catch you breath at the sudden realization that she might not understand what you're saying. _Still sticking to her claims _you think. The woman had guts, at least. You clear your throat, drawing up your regal, throne-room voice before speaking

"Really Warlady? I imagine someone with Imperial ambitions would understand." The tip of your blade wedges under her forehead as you try in vain to wedge her face up from the ground. "Wyrd the Blue is by right of inheritance the legitimate High-Warlord, so he'll be the one we'll be returning you. No doubt he'll want to apply a suitable punishment for treason..." A quick puff of smoke comes up from her hiding place... a laugh. You feel the resistance to your prying stop: Burtrexx finally lifting her face to be flushed red, giggling with a kind of wide-grin.

"Inheritance of rulership... how silly," She shock her head, rejecting the idea outright. "Is Wyrd some hatchling who hides behind his father for protection? If that cave-fish wants me to kneel, he'll have to be the one to **** me to my knees, just like every High-Warlord before him and the Emperors of old. It is our way..." she trails off as her eyes finally meet yours: taking a sharp breath in the moment before she looks away, her giggling picking up with a great deal more breathlessness to it. The reality of this situation finally reveals itself, your eyes widening as you take a moment to clarify.

"So that means..."

She nods. "I've fallen at your hands... by all the customs and the honor of my bloodline, I, Burtrexx, Dread Empress of Arxkesttelgdn, hearby... hearby..." she chokes on the word, crushing the sod in her hand as she forces herself through. " offer to you my fealty and surrender my sovereignty to your superior might, in exchange for your mercy" The good humor she'd just shown was disappearing into a sadness... or somber joy? It was hard to tell with her face. "To love all which you love, to shun all those you shun, with my arms as your sword and body as your shield. Will you stay your hand?" She tries to sound humble, but the fear is impossible to mask as she reveals her shoulders, the scene faintly similar to a knight's dubbing... besides the minor details that it was taking place in a tent, the knight was dragonkin and laying herself out like a catch somebody was preparing to skin, and the upper part of your chest was expose while the rest of your cloths were hardly ceremonial.

Thankfully you already have your sword. That, at least, was normal