Pt 01 Sabriyah 03 Revelation

[[

Pronunciation guide

: Tima (Tee' mah), Ronak (Rahn' ahk), Yessol (Yes ōl'), and Zidanan's father's name, Arrakiin (Ar' Rah

keen'

). The people of the Fhalad Datu'ul tribe are called Fhalad Data (Fah lahd' Dah Tah') and the Jordii (Jor' dee

ee'

) are members of the Jord'Arwn (Jor' dar

oon'

), the oldest known tribe of Srad. The 'oo' pronunciation of the 'w' is drawn from ancient dwarvish, former (by all assumptions, extinct) occupants of the Wdwn (Ood oon') mountain range that borders the western to southern reaches of the desert. "Wdwn" is believed to translate to "stone-world." Finally, Akirma'a (Ah

keer'

muh' ah) is an endearment for Sabriyah in the Yalyidi dialect meaning "Littlest Wisdom." All sexual participants are 18+]]

3

Revelation

The emissary sat at large, square stone table across from the Baron beneath the weathered canopy of the Shaath-Geti pavilion. He wore similar garb to the man on her right, an older, proud gentleman with eyes as gray as the hair on his head and face, and whose features often evoked comparisons to birds. The man's name was Salekh-Thul. On her left, another older man, wispier than the first and paler of hair, was her father, Zidanan vin-Arrakiin.

The wooden chair she sat upon was unusually uncomfortable, colder and rougher than she would have expected. As Lord Sahvorin began to speak, Sabriyah looked down and her face flushed in horror as she realized, in her hurry to arrive at the delegation, she had not fully dressed. She wore nothing below her belly, the tangle of pubic hair between her legs contrasting the light-toned grain of the wood, her thighs slick with sweat. Green eyes darted between each of the men, only to discover that each was also surrounded by an entourage of others.

Sabriyah gulped loudly, recognizing that the Baron had stopped speaking. Everyone was staring at her, expecting a reply to a question she had not heard.

How could I be so foolish? I'm going to get myself executed!

She tried to think quickly, whether to ask him to reiterate his request, or to give an expected answer. No one showed concern or offered to clarify.

"I ...," she stumbled out, but was out of breath. One by one she saw their gaze drop to the table's edge that hovered just below her covered breasts, as if they suspected the reason for her distress. The emissary squeezed her legs closed, her hands dropping to cover the dark patch of fur in her lap, and silently prayed for Zet to will her trousers into existence. If she did not respond, they would surely get more curious. "That seems acceptable," she said. Taking a wild guess at the nature of the question.

Everyone returned their eyes to her face and cheerful smiles grew all around.

"Agreed," Lord Garin said enthusiastically, that boyish smile of his warming her. He stood from his chair, then, stretching a hand toward her, palm up. "Then step across the table and join me."

Sabriyah's heart nearly burst. She felt as though she was breathing water, so difficult it was to inhale.

"Go on, then," she heard her father's voice as she stared helplessly at the offered hand that did not reach even halfway across the table. She was expected to stand, climb atop and walk across the table with every man in Srad present to witness her heresy. Frozen, Sabriyah could only whimper as she felt herself sliding further down in her seat.

When finally she glanced at her father, her eyes pleading for help, he appeared disappointed. A darkly clothed individual stood behind him. When it turned its hand, the thin blade of his sword appeared at her father's neck. "We were counting on you," Zidanan said, sadly.

"No, please," she managed, throwing her gaze back to Sahvorin in desperate hope for some assistance. He sat upon his throne now, just outside the massive gates to the fortress. He was also accompanied by Rheianna, still topless, standing on his left. The lord was intermittently pushing a flat hand lightly against one of her breasts, watching how it flattened, then returned to form, again and again.

After a moment, his attention returned to the diplomat. "Your turn," he said casually. Holding his other hand, palm out, in front of him.

Sabriyah approached slowly, resignedly, until her bare right breast pressed firmly against the open palm. She watched him flatten and release her own just as he was continuing the action on the soldier. She was not embarrassed, nor irritated. She accepted the action as necessary. For the good of her people.

After a moment, he stopped and stood, towering over her. "One more," he stated flatly.

Sabriyah parted her legs as was expected and watched his hand approach. When it passed between her thighs, she felt heat. His arm began sawing back and forth and pressure was building within her, she felt water running down her legs and pooling around her bare feet. The sensation was both frightening, and alluring.

Suddenly a hand gripped her shoulder and spun her around. Her father was glaring at her angrily from just inside the door of their small home. "What are you doing, 'Briyah?"

Sabriyah was startled to be looking up into the weathered face of Yessol. His features expressed as much concern as his voice. "Are you alright, Akirma'a?"

It took a moment to recognize her surroundings, the tent and bedding she had chosen as her own to nap in, and another second or two to comprehend why her hand was inside her linen breeches and nestled between her thighs. Her face was hot as she jerked it free and sat up. "Apologies," she said, calmly as she could. "Strange dream. How long did I sleep?"

"The sun has a quarter-day travel left," the elderly man straightened and offered a clay carafe. "I suggest we confer soon, so you have time to finish your task here before nightfall."

"Gather Tima and Ronak," she replied after taking a much needed drink of water and handing the jug back to him. "I will meet you in the pavilion momentarily."

Yessol bowed his head, set down the container and took his leave. Sabriyah watched him go. When the tentflap fell still, her fingers sank between her thighs atop the fabric again as she closed her eyes. The linen was damp, and the sensitive flesh beneath begged for more attention. She swallowed hard, her thoughts sweeping back to Sahvorin's words and deeds, the bulge and definition of muscle he displayed. She hoped to see it all again, even as she wished merely to be done and homeward bound. She wanted to feel the sensations again, even as she dreaded the consequences.

With a long sigh, the emissary rose and removed her garments. She wet the shirt from the carafe and used it to clean up as best she was able, taking a moment each to savor the cool relief on her tortured nipples, and as well her own touch against her sex. Finally, she withdrew some simpler silk garments from her pack to dress herself, a light blue trimmed with silver, and a more opaque and enveloping veil. All but her hands, feet, and eyes were fully covered. The final touch was added, the sword belt which housed her father's scimitar, before setting out to the pavilion.

Upon her arrival, the three of them awaited in the center of the space, in front of a pile of pillows, standing near shoulder-to-shoulder with Yessol on the far right. "To some regards," she started immediately, interrupting their hushed conversation, "the Baron's offer is much better than father and I expected."

"But there is a hitch," Yessol followed without a beat, "otherwise you would not have sought counsel."

"Yes," she said, ending her steps before the three of them. "He does not wish to increase the prior terms at all, though insists the addition of what we would normally provide the Caliph each cycle until either the Baron High returns or is replaced. He claims no desire to assert himself."

"Easy enough," said Tima. "That's all?"

"He also agrees to a marriage pact. One soldier per two hundred of our people. Half the couples to live with us, the other half to this fortress. In addition, he will provide a twenty man garrison to protect tribal grounds."

"Great!" exclaimed Ronak roughly clapped both other men on the shoulder.

Yessol rocked, then glanced at him with mild irritation. "So where is the hitch?"

Sabriyah sucked in a deep breath. "One female slave per year, in addition to the other terms."

The men glanced between each other. They knew as well as she the implications of the proposal.

"Did you tell--," Ronak started.

"Shut up, boy," Yessol interjected. "Of course, she did. She's no fool." The old man slowly, gently lowered himself atop a pair of pillows, robes pooling around him, and rested his hands atop his knees. "If not conquered or bought, then common stock, yes?"

"Yes," the emissary said shakily. She remained standing, even as Tima and Ronak joined the man on the hardpan, comforting themselves with plush cushions. "It started at two, but with the marriage agreement, he lessened the score to one."

"I imagine this particular term, as with the additional supplies we normally provide the Caliph, is but a temporary measure. When Salekh-Thul returns, or should another arise to his place, then the provision would be contested. I imagine it not significant enough a matter the foreign lord would readily die for, agreement or no."

Sabriyah had reasoned similarly, but there was much left to chance on that basis. "There is much to doubt even in the confines of those possibilities."

If

Salekh-Thul returned, and when. Or

if

another took his place, whether or not there was bloodshed to decide

whom

, and however long it may take to ultimately conclude ... all of that was another matter altogether. Until any of those came to pass, the weight of this decision was on her head.

"And even should it be resolved quickly, you must condemn at least one," Yessol nodded solemnly. "That is an entire lifetime of guilt on your head. I understand your hesitation." He took a deep breath of his own before interrupting her straying thoughts. "Yet it must be done. For the good of the many, we sacrifice the few. The Fhalad Data will not be held forever. Even now they may have already convinced the 'Tani to allow them passage."

Sabriyah released a breathy sigh, dropping to a crouch, one elbow on a knee, the other on the sword hilt. "So how do we choose which of us to sacrifice?" After just a couple seconds of silence, she ventured, "as it will be by my word, perhaps it only fitting I should volunteer myself."

Tima and Ronak glanced sidelong at each other, then both turned their stares to Yessol, whom dropped his gaze to the ground before her. "I will not attempt to sway you otherwise, and I cannot speak for your father and what he may judge of such an action. Noble, surely."

"What?! Of course you can attempt to sway!" Tima burst aloud.

Yessol shot a glare toward the young man, just a year older than the emissary, herself. Ronak dropped his eyes to the ground. Sabriyah just gave him a pained smile of appreciation.

"Would you rather it be your younger sister chosen, boy? Or your wife?" the old man scolded.

"Please," she said firmly. "I speak for all of our people," she stared insistently at Tima as she finished, "I can surely speak for myself should I decide to do so."

"In that, I believe I can speak your father's agreement," Yessol muttered, chuckling with the barest hint of levity.

The rest of the troupe laughed uneasily.

"I will agree to the provision, and I will think on my role in it," Sabriyah said after a few moments had passed. "We do what we must."

"We do," each agreed, in turn.

"Thank you all for your counsel." Sabriyah pushed to her feet. She was followed by Tima and Ronak, while Yessol just waved them away, not eager to exert himself just yet. The emissary made her way directly to the horses, tethered in the shade of a nearby jutting pillar of wide stone.

"You never told us why you were carrying your clothes before," Ronak said as they mounted, apparently reminded by the horses.

"Lord Sahvorin has suffered previous attempts on his life," she said truthfully as they began to canter back toward the fortress. "I agreed to shed my outer layers to the guard to provide confidence in my lack of weaponry."

"He wouldn't let you put them back on?"

"It would have taken too long by myself," also truth. "Besides, I did not see the point, considering there was a half-nude slave hovering about." That seemed to distract, if not satisfy, Ronak. They rode the remainder of the half-league in silence.

**********

"You are a very intelligent, well-informed, and perceptive person,"

he had said.

"I respect you greatly for retaining your position as long as you have, in a place where you are more likely to be a bargaining tool, rather than one doing the bargaining. Were I not wed, I might vie for your hand, myself, if only to ensure you could continue pursuing what you see fit for yourself, rather than what your father and culture demand of you."

Sabriyah kept going back to those words as the distance to the gates dwindled. The fantasy scenario she had imagined before her nap was volunteering, not as a slave, but as a wife, where he was unwed and his words rang true, and she was able to retain her identity in marriage. For the one man, she might be willing to volunteer. However, that was not the fate of a slave, she knew.

She did not want to even consider the possibility of being passed around for the use of the entirety of his army any more than she wanted to consider running nude through the streets as a soldier. She wondered the difference in his service as opposed to others, if any, but inevitably slipped back to the words he had spoken again and the associated fantasy.

The dream had been both horrid yet fascinating, in its weird caricature of what she knew (though never experienced) the wifely duty to be. Despite being far from grounded in reality, she had found the thrill of it, obviously, and hazily remembered the sensation of release that came when he had breached her ass. Realizing she had not yet, she quickly dropped her head in prayer, imploring of Zet's forgiveness for her earlier unwitting attempt at self-pleasure while sleeping, as well as her loss of innocence, and the intent that she will never speak of the incident to another soul so long as she lived.

"Should we await as before?" Timo's question interrupted her.

The soldiers were emerging from their enclosure when she opened her eyes and Sabriyah shook her head. "If I must, I will ask for escort. I'm certain the Baron would not be so callous."

"Just... don't be too hasty, eh?" Ronak said quickly. "Even with an agreement, we'll have time to find a fair method of selection, or inquire the price of a slave from other tribes. It doesn't have to fall on you. You will still be needed as emissary."

"I know." She smiled reluctantly behind the veil. "I will see you back at camp," she assured before dismounting, removing the sword belt and hanging it again from the saddle horn. As before, she was led through the gate. Her two companions turned and galloped away.

**********

"Should you decide, in the near future, that you would rather be a soldier than a mother, you would be welcomed,"

came his words again, as creaking accompanied the opening thick wooden doors.

"And you would retain your status as a diplomat."

Sabriyah glanced back before entering the keep, no longer urged along by the guide, and noted the sun sat just above the crenellations. If they were swift in completing the treaty, returning to camp before nightfall would be simple.

When she stepped through the outer doors, she was struck by the pleasant foreign scents again. As well, she had an unobstructed view through the rear foyer doors into the meeting hall. The lord Sahvorin sat upon the edge of the dais, propped back on his palms. The female soldier was also present, still bare from the waist up. She was on her knees on the first of the trio of steep steps in front of him, hands gripping his thighs while her head bobbed slowly into his lap.

The emissary flushed, unsure whether to continue her approach. She swallowed hard as she edged forward.

"You may enter," the right-hand guard stated absently.

Mildly startled, Sabriyah's breath caught, but she stepped forward slowly. She had witnessed similar acts at Shaath-Geti, but never as it occurred to whom she was speaking. It had formerly always been easy to avoid or ignore. The chamber doors sealed behind her with a whine and a reverberating thud. She ambled to a halt about halfway to the dais, watching the woman's effort for much longer than she wanted to admit. When she, at last, returned her green gaze to the Baron's face, she met his sky-blue one, half-lidded and relaxed. "Approach," he said. Not quite a command, but insistent.

The soldier never paused, her ministration slow and rhythmic. Sabriyah hesitantly did as she was bade, halting mere feet behind the woman and roughly a step to the right. With the short-cropped hair swaying back and forth with her movements, she could see the deep red blush of heat in her cheeks, as well as the thick, veiny length of flesh to which she was half-swallowing with each descent. She had not, as yet, completely overcome her sense of embarrassment.

"You may disrobe," Sahvorin stated past a throaty moan.

The emissary flicked her eyes between his gaze and the woman's face with uncertainty. "I ... can wait until my lord has ... finished," came her timid reply.

"Nonsense," he raised and rolled a hand in the air, "I can concentrate on both."

She closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath, steeled her resolve, then began peeling away the fabric and placing it neatly aside on the stone floor. Too short a moment later, she was standing completely bare again in front of him, but for the blue veil that left only her eyes visible, hands balled to fists in an effort to keep from trembling. Her nipples ached, her thighs were damp, her knees shaking while her heart pounded in her chest and ears.

"Stand before me."

Green eyes popped open and she gulped. After a brief hesitation, the emissary took an awkward step forward, then one, then a second step up each of the tall steps, just below the dais landing beside him. After a moment, she finally mounted the final step. Her knee bent again, but paused as she wobbled. She was light-headed. Beneath the veil, she tasted blood as she bit a little too hard into her bottom lip.

Rheianna was breathing heavily. Slurping sounds sifted into Sabriyah's ears, just barely audible above the thudding pulse of her heart.

This is wrong! This is wrong! This is wrong!

her mind screamed.

"It's alright, step across," his voice was calm, soothing, almost hypnotic.

Do it! Do it! Do it!

the heat inside her screamed back. Carefully, she raised her smooth left leg and swung it over the soldier's head. She wobbled again as she set her foot down, toes first on the other side of the warlord's hip. Her thighs were spread wider than before, and she trembled as she felt the lips peel apart and open to the sky-blue gaze just in front of the unkempt mass of pubic fuzz. Directly below her, all she could see was the movement of dark hair, and a steadily disappearing and reappearing length of solid meat.

"You seem unsteady," he said after another soft moan. Then he calmly laid back on the dais. "Come and crouch down so you won't fall."

"Lord Garin, I..."

"Time is wasting," he suggested.

Another gulp and Sabriyah shimmied as much as stepped her way up his torso until she stood directly above his head. Her eyes clinched closed. She knew it was coming. The release her body begged for. What was she doing? Why was she submitting to this perverse situation? She drew a shaky breath and lowered slowly to a crouch. Her palms found the floor, both elbows and knees threatening to abandon her control. She felt his breath on the damp skin below, cool and refreshing. She felt his hand grip the left cheek of her ass, squeezing and providing needed stability for her knees.