HomeYou've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
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Re: You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
by Samael Tue Mar 01, 2016 12:37 pm
Even as His captor spoke to Him, He noted that something had subtly shifted about his expression. It was not greatly noticeable, but He was highly attuned to this one who He was meant to attend to. In the manner of a real slave or servant the moods of the one who was called 'Master' were of vital importance, and even the most subtle of cues must be noted. So the way that those golden eyes lowered just slightly, the way that as he walked away one hand rose to cover green lips with care.
His eyes slipped to the incense burning and felt a small tingle of understanding.
If He had not been intimately aware of how the a scent could affect one, change their mood or their behavior He might not have made the connection at all much less so quickly. Yet He was, and observant enough to place the pieces of that knowledge into a whole picture. It was a picture that made His skin tingle and flush; heart beating just a little to quickly until the shopkeeper could draw Him away from those thoughts with a word.
For now that knowledge was not of use to Him. All it served was to fill Him an aching longing for something which He no longer had.
With a smile He returned to the shopkeeper. It was easy to convince the other man that they had been robbed of nearly everything they had. That only quick-thinking on His Master's part had saved their money from being taken along with all that they carried with them; even much of their clothing. Sympathy was given to Him with soft eyes and soft words. Gentle fingers welcoming Him to appreciate wares that would return Him and His Master to the gentlemen that they were.
In this He proved His worth to no small degree though His captor may not with his distance been aware of it. A hundred bolts of fabric, dozens upon dozens of ready-made clothing items passed beneath His blue eyes and His long skilled fingers. He did not in fact try on a single item of clothing. There was absolutely no need to. He knew His form in every way, and knew that the items that He picked would fit Him. Nor did He only choose items only for Himself. No, a whole new wardrobe as befit the king of a small land for His captor.
He surveyed His choices discerningly before falling into pleasant discourse with the owner over the price of the items. In short order He had talked the other man into lowering the price by nearly seventy-five percent by agreeing to tell everyone where the clothes that they had purchased had come from. Both He and the shopkeeper knew that when others saw them in those items that the shopkeepers business would increase exponentially. It was a fair exchange.
The agreement made He turned His eyes toward His captor and waved for the other man to come into the shop. Already all of the purchases were being wrapped up and away so that it was nearly impossible to tell what had been chosen save that there was a great deal of it. "Sire, I have completed what I may here, if you will?" He motioned to the shopkeeper who handed over a long slip of paper for Him to offer to His captor.
The tally at the bottom was enormous, and even with the notation of the agreed upon discount the remainder was enough to have fed and housed them for the better part of a week. It was a small price to pay for their necessities. He offered His captor a smile. "I have also been directed to a lovely bath-house where we may rent a private room to wash away the remnants of the road from our bodies and find rest to recover from our recent travels."
His eyes slipped to the incense burning and felt a small tingle of understanding.
If He had not been intimately aware of how the a scent could affect one, change their mood or their behavior He might not have made the connection at all much less so quickly. Yet He was, and observant enough to place the pieces of that knowledge into a whole picture. It was a picture that made His skin tingle and flush; heart beating just a little to quickly until the shopkeeper could draw Him away from those thoughts with a word.
For now that knowledge was not of use to Him. All it served was to fill Him an aching longing for something which He no longer had.
With a smile He returned to the shopkeeper. It was easy to convince the other man that they had been robbed of nearly everything they had. That only quick-thinking on His Master's part had saved their money from being taken along with all that they carried with them; even much of their clothing. Sympathy was given to Him with soft eyes and soft words. Gentle fingers welcoming Him to appreciate wares that would return Him and His Master to the gentlemen that they were.
In this He proved His worth to no small degree though His captor may not with his distance been aware of it. A hundred bolts of fabric, dozens upon dozens of ready-made clothing items passed beneath His blue eyes and His long skilled fingers. He did not in fact try on a single item of clothing. There was absolutely no need to. He knew His form in every way, and knew that the items that He picked would fit Him. Nor did He only choose items only for Himself. No, a whole new wardrobe as befit the king of a small land for His captor.
He surveyed His choices discerningly before falling into pleasant discourse with the owner over the price of the items. In short order He had talked the other man into lowering the price by nearly seventy-five percent by agreeing to tell everyone where the clothes that they had purchased had come from. Both He and the shopkeeper knew that when others saw them in those items that the shopkeepers business would increase exponentially. It was a fair exchange.
The agreement made He turned His eyes toward His captor and waved for the other man to come into the shop. Already all of the purchases were being wrapped up and away so that it was nearly impossible to tell what had been chosen save that there was a great deal of it. "Sire, I have completed what I may here, if you will?" He motioned to the shopkeeper who handed over a long slip of paper for Him to offer to His captor.
The tally at the bottom was enormous, and even with the notation of the agreed upon discount the remainder was enough to have fed and housed them for the better part of a week. It was a small price to pay for their necessities. He offered His captor a smile. "I have also been directed to a lovely bath-house where we may rent a private room to wash away the remnants of the road from our bodies and find rest to recover from our recent travels."
Samael- Posts : 63
Join date : 2015-11-15
Re: You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
by Mogwart Wed Mar 09, 2016 2:54 pm
Even as he measured a safe distance from the stall, Master Smol the Atrociously Mognificient couldn’t- or wouldn't -go far. He had learned his lesson after upsetting the flower the first time, and in a way, was steadily becoming a prisoner himself to the beauty that bound him so gently. ‘Hmph. No sense in letting the fellow worry uselessly,’ he thought as he shuffled further out of the incense’s hazy grasp, casting several glances behind him all the while, just to watch those glistening curls work their charms on the shopkeep. Already the man looked absolutely heartbroken for both of them over an imaginary sob story sold by that truest-bluest eye.
‘Talented, that one.’ Only when the Mog was very sure Samael wasn’t watching did he risk an honest grin. It was a strange feeling- taking indirect pride in his servant’s skillfulness. But then, he was very slowly coming to accept that many things about the man were simply unfathomable. ‘All the more reason to keep a close eye on him. Hm... Perhaps it'll enlighten me.’ Thus, having found an old roofed well perfectly within view of the designated stall, Mogwart climbed up to stand on the stony ledge where it would be easier for Samael to spot him should he need anything.
The clansman leaned his right shoulder against one of the posts there, habitually flicking his crooked tail like a snake and trying to look both as relaxed and intimidating as he could manage. Because. No matter whether the merchant seemed friendly, He didn’t want the gent getting any funny ideas that he’d be able to swindle them. Or that he’d could to run off with another man’s rightfully stolen treasure. Samael wasn’t after all anyone else’s captive. No. Nope. Not today! And, as much as the gob was preparing himself for the inevitable forfeit of his servant, truthfully he had so few things that he could even pretend to call his own, that once he got a hold of them? He wasn’t the best at sharing.
‘Mine,’ he growled under his breath at what to another person’s may seem a perfectly harmless hand place on Samael’s shoulder. ‘Found it first. Go get your own.’ For most of time that Mog watched, he entertained himself by musing over the many devious things he could do to the shopkeep to punish him. Chew the supports to his shop so that it would collapse on him? Cause his favorite dishes to disappear, then fill his socks with unpleasant surprises that wouldn't wash out for weeks on end? It was only the fact that Samael seemed so at ease and sure of himself in his venture that prevented the jester from creeping over to, in spite of the scents, to take his petty vengeance.
The long fingers running over countless fabrics were mesmerizing. Odd, because Mogwart never had taken so much interest in clothing in his life. And while he likely wouldn't develop an eye for high fashion any time soon, he was at least capable of imagining how someone might touch him differently if did try covering himself in such disgracefully clean and soft items for a change. That attentive touch through the fabric against him-- exactly how would that feel? ‘Ah,’ he caught himself and shook his head at the absurdity. No matter what fluff or feathers a buzzard decked itself with, it was still the same rotten bird on the inside, wasn’t it? He couldn’t put the mission in jeopardy by letting his fancies get the better of him just yet.
The more Mogwart watched of course, the less he really understood the process that he was witnessing. Though Samael tried nothing on, he seemed to be picking out more pieces than necessary. Not that Mog could study the objects in detail if they were supposed to be special or look different from one another? 'It all looks the same to me from here.' Every now and then the pair would be obscured within the hanging fabric’s rows and veil as well. But for every mysterious item the shopkeep ferreted away, the tight Mog clenched his jaw. By the end of it, the glowing look on that fellow’s face when Samael beckoned for his master made the bartering spirit in Mog very suspicious.
Doubly when, despite the flower’s claims, he wasn’t wearing any of the pieces he just negotiated. Exactly what part of this was he missing? “You have, have you?” He took a final deep breath of untainted air before sliding off his perch and sauntering over the two of them in a manner he hoped befitted the master Samael claimed him to be. By the time he arrived, two or so parcels sat waiting for him on the counter. He had intended to inspect them immediately, but was cut off by a long slip of paper that the merchant flapped in front of him with a familiar obsequious flourish.
“My greatest condolences for the difficult times you’ve had. But I must say, you’ve quite the able assistant! He scouted my finest pieces forthwith, and I assure you you’ll have no regrets.”
“Aye, you’ve done me great service through him yourself.” Mogwart answered, taking hold of the slip with an air of authority that was difficult not to exaggerate for the mockery of it all, "I'll refer you to my high associates. We've been looking for a fresh supplier. Though tell me... why isn’t he wearing any of what he touched?” He gestured to the flower with the slightest nod.
Somehow that must have been a strange question, Mog sensed, as the merchant made a piteous sound and clasped his hands together in front of himself congenially, “Whatever continued hardships you may have expected, sir, most of us here in Samos have a heart. I, for one, wouldn’t dream of sending you back off onto the road just as dusty as your misfortunes bid you come.”
Mogwart maintained an unaffected bearing as he listened to the merchants pandering and glanced over the bits on nonsensical squiggles mixed in with what he at least recognized as numbers. Big numbers. Very very big. Mog repressed a choke. What in the blazes did the flower buy that he could spend this much in such a short amount of time? Back in Vida, he knew he could probably feed an entire village for a day on this amount alone. ‘Did I even collect enough on that last haul to cover any of this?’
Shocked mildly, Mogwart flicked a look at his servant, who naturally stood there looking every bit as sparkling and innocent as ever. That usual halo around his face and even that blessing of a smile made it as impossible as ever to be bitter at the fellow for his inconveniences. ‘…Blast him.’ Yet Mog nodded to the merchant in careless acceptance of the sum, as if it wasn’t nearly as much trouble as it really was, balanced on one leg briefly to hold up and begin untying the bottom of his opposite pant leg. It bulged with coin only slightly more than the other, and if he remembered, this was where he put more of the valuable items.
He had been hoping to save the pouch of sapphires, the string of pearls, and the silver pieces for later, but it looked like he would be out of that lot already. Believe it or not, just as Mog withdrew them, Samael had the sweetly sprinkled gall to suggest that that they wash themselves. At a bath-HOUSE, of all things? Gasp, the actual horror! Despite his unaltered expression, Mogwart’s ears drew back tightly against his head. ‘A whole building dedicated to bathing... h-have the people here gone mad? It isn’t natural!’ As far as Mog was concerned, it was hard enough keeping up scary appearances without someone constantly coming up with new ways to scrub away all of his hard work.
Then, of course, his first instinct was to reject the offer with every dust coated fiber of his being. Fortunately for the flower however, with the merchant beaming at the both of them in renewed exuberance for the glittering pieces in that green palm, Mog was more willing to play along a little further, at least until they had gotten away from their present company. It didn’t help that the longer it took for him to seal the deal, the more muddled his head was going to feel for his efforts. For instance? He already felt himself hovering hopelessly on the edge of another- albeit more mellow- sort of grin as he placed piece after piece of payment on the counter. Peagrems Spice wasn't noxious, only soothing. The kind of thing you'd burn in the rookery when you wanted to pacify a fresh and dangerously playful litter of goblins long enough for you to get some sleep.
Further still? Even if Mog told himself he had no intention of splashing around today, it was hard not to imagine was Samael would look like doing so in his stead. As always, the gob saw no harm in watching, and that picture him all the strength he needed to feign some sort of enthusiasm as he pat his servant’s arm approvingly, “Ahh, there’s an idea. Feels it’s been ages since I’ve had a good soak; it'd be just the thing to shake off this stroke of bad luck that’s been haunting us! Come then, good merchant. Let’s settle this.”
If the man had any lingering doubts, only the tiniest bit more silver wording persuaded him that his generosity was well spent. Ordinary sapphires became stones of a purest quality. Pearls and silver suddenly seemed to possess restorative properties after being consecrated by Samael personally before their journey. It seemed this tailor was just as willing as the master to believe the servant was filled with all sorts of wondrous abilities. Out of relaxed habit, Mogwart may have spent an extra minute or three longer on the affair, rattling off a quick antidote for the gent to draw out his hearty laughter like music. But by the by, Samael and himself were headed off in the direction of the bathhouse at last, leaving their merchant in high spirits.
Mogwart too somewhat, not that he acknowledged it. Thanks to the success of their encounter, he moved with a confident posture that he was steadily settling into, and there was extra pep in his step. Odd though it seemed for the master to carry the parcels after the fact, he had stubbornly hefted them on his own, insisting there were other things in the marked he would need Samael’s careful hands free to attend to. That was an excuse however. In truth, he preferred to the sight of his servant tagging along unburdened. All purchases Mog now weighed evenly on each shoulder with ease (they were to bulky to carry otherwise), and he constantly adjusted his pace as needed so that he couldn't lose sight of the taller man.
“Many pardons, midove. Seems I’ve underestimated you,” he began on a complimentary tone once the merchant was out of earshot, and though the words perhaps weren’t entirely polite depending on who was asking, he meant it as sincerely as he could muster. “You’ve got some spark in you after all! In what court, stage, or back alley did you learn to sell a story like that? Your friends must be proud.” As for how much that acting really saved them? He'd wait to see what sort of magic enhancing mumbo-jumbo cloth items Samael had chosen.
“Which way did you say your baths were again?” They had turned a few corners simple before he asked cautiously, and he hastened to add, “There’s nothing- absolutely nothing- you could do or say to convince me to half-drown myself trying to scrub off my priceless layers grime. I look best this way, understand? Best! But if an over-grown puddle is what my servant needs to aid me better, I’ll take you. Just point us there.”
‘Talented, that one.’ Only when the Mog was very sure Samael wasn’t watching did he risk an honest grin. It was a strange feeling- taking indirect pride in his servant’s skillfulness. But then, he was very slowly coming to accept that many things about the man were simply unfathomable. ‘All the more reason to keep a close eye on him. Hm... Perhaps it'll enlighten me.’ Thus, having found an old roofed well perfectly within view of the designated stall, Mogwart climbed up to stand on the stony ledge where it would be easier for Samael to spot him should he need anything.
The clansman leaned his right shoulder against one of the posts there, habitually flicking his crooked tail like a snake and trying to look both as relaxed and intimidating as he could manage. Because. No matter whether the merchant seemed friendly, He didn’t want the gent getting any funny ideas that he’d be able to swindle them. Or that he’d could to run off with another man’s rightfully stolen treasure. Samael wasn’t after all anyone else’s captive. No. Nope. Not today! And, as much as the gob was preparing himself for the inevitable forfeit of his servant, truthfully he had so few things that he could even pretend to call his own, that once he got a hold of them? He wasn’t the best at sharing.
‘Mine,’ he growled under his breath at what to another person’s may seem a perfectly harmless hand place on Samael’s shoulder. ‘Found it first. Go get your own.’ For most of time that Mog watched, he entertained himself by musing over the many devious things he could do to the shopkeep to punish him. Chew the supports to his shop so that it would collapse on him? Cause his favorite dishes to disappear, then fill his socks with unpleasant surprises that wouldn't wash out for weeks on end? It was only the fact that Samael seemed so at ease and sure of himself in his venture that prevented the jester from creeping over to, in spite of the scents, to take his petty vengeance.
The long fingers running over countless fabrics were mesmerizing. Odd, because Mogwart never had taken so much interest in clothing in his life. And while he likely wouldn't develop an eye for high fashion any time soon, he was at least capable of imagining how someone might touch him differently if did try covering himself in such disgracefully clean and soft items for a change. That attentive touch through the fabric against him-- exactly how would that feel? ‘Ah,’ he caught himself and shook his head at the absurdity. No matter what fluff or feathers a buzzard decked itself with, it was still the same rotten bird on the inside, wasn’t it? He couldn’t put the mission in jeopardy by letting his fancies get the better of him just yet.
The more Mogwart watched of course, the less he really understood the process that he was witnessing. Though Samael tried nothing on, he seemed to be picking out more pieces than necessary. Not that Mog could study the objects in detail if they were supposed to be special or look different from one another? 'It all looks the same to me from here.' Every now and then the pair would be obscured within the hanging fabric’s rows and veil as well. But for every mysterious item the shopkeep ferreted away, the tight Mog clenched his jaw. By the end of it, the glowing look on that fellow’s face when Samael beckoned for his master made the bartering spirit in Mog very suspicious.
Doubly when, despite the flower’s claims, he wasn’t wearing any of the pieces he just negotiated. Exactly what part of this was he missing? “You have, have you?” He took a final deep breath of untainted air before sliding off his perch and sauntering over the two of them in a manner he hoped befitted the master Samael claimed him to be. By the time he arrived, two or so parcels sat waiting for him on the counter. He had intended to inspect them immediately, but was cut off by a long slip of paper that the merchant flapped in front of him with a familiar obsequious flourish.
“My greatest condolences for the difficult times you’ve had. But I must say, you’ve quite the able assistant! He scouted my finest pieces forthwith, and I assure you you’ll have no regrets.”
“Aye, you’ve done me great service through him yourself.” Mogwart answered, taking hold of the slip with an air of authority that was difficult not to exaggerate for the mockery of it all, "I'll refer you to my high associates. We've been looking for a fresh supplier. Though tell me... why isn’t he wearing any of what he touched?” He gestured to the flower with the slightest nod.
Somehow that must have been a strange question, Mog sensed, as the merchant made a piteous sound and clasped his hands together in front of himself congenially, “Whatever continued hardships you may have expected, sir, most of us here in Samos have a heart. I, for one, wouldn’t dream of sending you back off onto the road just as dusty as your misfortunes bid you come.”
Mogwart maintained an unaffected bearing as he listened to the merchants pandering and glanced over the bits on nonsensical squiggles mixed in with what he at least recognized as numbers. Big numbers. Very very big. Mog repressed a choke. What in the blazes did the flower buy that he could spend this much in such a short amount of time? Back in Vida, he knew he could probably feed an entire village for a day on this amount alone. ‘Did I even collect enough on that last haul to cover any of this?’
Shocked mildly, Mogwart flicked a look at his servant, who naturally stood there looking every bit as sparkling and innocent as ever. That usual halo around his face and even that blessing of a smile made it as impossible as ever to be bitter at the fellow for his inconveniences. ‘…Blast him.’ Yet Mog nodded to the merchant in careless acceptance of the sum, as if it wasn’t nearly as much trouble as it really was, balanced on one leg briefly to hold up and begin untying the bottom of his opposite pant leg. It bulged with coin only slightly more than the other, and if he remembered, this was where he put more of the valuable items.
He had been hoping to save the pouch of sapphires, the string of pearls, and the silver pieces for later, but it looked like he would be out of that lot already. Believe it or not, just as Mog withdrew them, Samael had the sweetly sprinkled gall to suggest that that they wash themselves. At a bath-HOUSE, of all things? Gasp, the actual horror! Despite his unaltered expression, Mogwart’s ears drew back tightly against his head. ‘A whole building dedicated to bathing... h-have the people here gone mad? It isn’t natural!’ As far as Mog was concerned, it was hard enough keeping up scary appearances without someone constantly coming up with new ways to scrub away all of his hard work.
Then, of course, his first instinct was to reject the offer with every dust coated fiber of his being. Fortunately for the flower however, with the merchant beaming at the both of them in renewed exuberance for the glittering pieces in that green palm, Mog was more willing to play along a little further, at least until they had gotten away from their present company. It didn’t help that the longer it took for him to seal the deal, the more muddled his head was going to feel for his efforts. For instance? He already felt himself hovering hopelessly on the edge of another- albeit more mellow- sort of grin as he placed piece after piece of payment on the counter. Peagrems Spice wasn't noxious, only soothing. The kind of thing you'd burn in the rookery when you wanted to pacify a fresh and dangerously playful litter of goblins long enough for you to get some sleep.
Further still? Even if Mog told himself he had no intention of splashing around today, it was hard not to imagine was Samael would look like doing so in his stead. As always, the gob saw no harm in watching, and that picture him all the strength he needed to feign some sort of enthusiasm as he pat his servant’s arm approvingly, “Ahh, there’s an idea. Feels it’s been ages since I’ve had a good soak; it'd be just the thing to shake off this stroke of bad luck that’s been haunting us! Come then, good merchant. Let’s settle this.”
If the man had any lingering doubts, only the tiniest bit more silver wording persuaded him that his generosity was well spent. Ordinary sapphires became stones of a purest quality. Pearls and silver suddenly seemed to possess restorative properties after being consecrated by Samael personally before their journey. It seemed this tailor was just as willing as the master to believe the servant was filled with all sorts of wondrous abilities. Out of relaxed habit, Mogwart may have spent an extra minute or three longer on the affair, rattling off a quick antidote for the gent to draw out his hearty laughter like music. But by the by, Samael and himself were headed off in the direction of the bathhouse at last, leaving their merchant in high spirits.
Mogwart too somewhat, not that he acknowledged it. Thanks to the success of their encounter, he moved with a confident posture that he was steadily settling into, and there was extra pep in his step. Odd though it seemed for the master to carry the parcels after the fact, he had stubbornly hefted them on his own, insisting there were other things in the marked he would need Samael’s careful hands free to attend to. That was an excuse however. In truth, he preferred to the sight of his servant tagging along unburdened. All purchases Mog now weighed evenly on each shoulder with ease (they were to bulky to carry otherwise), and he constantly adjusted his pace as needed so that he couldn't lose sight of the taller man.
“Many pardons, midove. Seems I’ve underestimated you,” he began on a complimentary tone once the merchant was out of earshot, and though the words perhaps weren’t entirely polite depending on who was asking, he meant it as sincerely as he could muster. “You’ve got some spark in you after all! In what court, stage, or back alley did you learn to sell a story like that? Your friends must be proud.” As for how much that acting really saved them? He'd wait to see what sort of magic enhancing mumbo-jumbo cloth items Samael had chosen.
“Which way did you say your baths were again?” They had turned a few corners simple before he asked cautiously, and he hastened to add, “There’s nothing- absolutely nothing- you could do or say to convince me to half-drown myself trying to scrub off my priceless layers grime. I look best this way, understand? Best! But if an over-grown puddle is what my servant needs to aid me better, I’ll take you. Just point us there.”
Mogwart- Posts : 99
Join date : 2016-02-15
Location : United States, Eastcoast
Re: You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
by Samael Thu Mar 10, 2016 12:04 am
In due time the tab was paid in sparkling jewels and rather than His own arms being burdened with the purchases His captor took up the items instead. Then He could quietly do His best to direct the other man toward their destination. Even the thought of getting them both clean made Him feel somewhat better, and that thought was reinforced by the complement which His captor offered to Him.
He did not even try to hide the blush that rose up on His cheeks at the words. "I learned in none of those places Sire." He offered a small smile and demurely lowered His head for a moment. "I learned most of what I know in the room I grew up in. The only stages I have ever known have been mine for only a brief moment, the stage of anothers eyes, or that soft rest upon which most dream."
Gently His eyes slid away. "I have no friends to be proud of me Sire." He did not sound regretful, only speaking the truth as he knew it. "Come, the bath is this way."
Without hesitation He led the way in that direction, always moving with that easy grace even as His captor continued to speak. Blue eyes fell on the man He was leading, surprise flickering there for a moment and then fading. "If you are concerned, I can promise that you will not drown. I will even hold you above the water with my own hands if it pleases you." His eyes blinked languidly only to lower somewhat coyly. "It would be my honor to wash your back, and if you do not join me..."
His blue eyes resolved even as they met golden ones. "Would you ruin the fine clothes which I bartered for us? Please..." He looked at His captor entreatingly. "I promise that you will find the bath to be a most enjoyable experience, if only you allow me to show you."
They had reached the bath house but he did not go within it, choosing instead to look at the other man with wide eyes and hopeful longing. "I simply can not bathe if you are not with me, it would not be right."
He did not even try to hide the blush that rose up on His cheeks at the words. "I learned in none of those places Sire." He offered a small smile and demurely lowered His head for a moment. "I learned most of what I know in the room I grew up in. The only stages I have ever known have been mine for only a brief moment, the stage of anothers eyes, or that soft rest upon which most dream."
Gently His eyes slid away. "I have no friends to be proud of me Sire." He did not sound regretful, only speaking the truth as he knew it. "Come, the bath is this way."
Without hesitation He led the way in that direction, always moving with that easy grace even as His captor continued to speak. Blue eyes fell on the man He was leading, surprise flickering there for a moment and then fading. "If you are concerned, I can promise that you will not drown. I will even hold you above the water with my own hands if it pleases you." His eyes blinked languidly only to lower somewhat coyly. "It would be my honor to wash your back, and if you do not join me..."
His blue eyes resolved even as they met golden ones. "Would you ruin the fine clothes which I bartered for us? Please..." He looked at His captor entreatingly. "I promise that you will find the bath to be a most enjoyable experience, if only you allow me to show you."
They had reached the bath house but he did not go within it, choosing instead to look at the other man with wide eyes and hopeful longing. "I simply can not bathe if you are not with me, it would not be right."
Samael- Posts : 63
Join date : 2015-11-15
Re: You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
by Mogwart Mon Mar 14, 2016 10:07 pm
Needless to say, Samael’s displays of bashfulness at some of his most innocent questions didn't make the situation any easier on the twisted jester. He told himself he did didn’t need a servant such as this one bound to him forever, that he didn't want to see the fellow cry, and yet Mog took terrible sort of pleasure in the thought of teasing such a seemingly tender being, if only he knew how. The swampy lights of his eyes wavered through the stray thought of licking one of the the flower’s rosy cheeks that his expression might be marked with some manner of horror. And how pretty Samael's screams must be, Mog thought, if the fellow was even capable of such.
A number of minor fantasies would come to the gob about what sorts of surprises it would take to coax new sounds out of his prisoner. Considering some of the techniques he had watched his clansmen test of their own prisoners first hand, yes. Perhaps a few of his own ideas did err on the darker side of things. But, just as Mog had mentioned, it was very fortunate that he was an uncommonly respectful miscreant. Mostly. And not that he thought he deserved the odd level of dependence- this pseudo of trust -his captive was placing on him, but he refused to betray that innocent gaze.
Most of his mischief, Mog managed to keep in check behind his varying degrees of a mask and- here?- his tickled curiosity as the flower offered answers as surprising as ever. The poetic nature of the words was not lost on the filthy traveler, though he hummed vaguely over for some of what the man implied. Without the details, he couldnt be sure, but it sounded as if the golden beauty had been a caged bird well before Mog came along to kidnap him personally. For that matter? ‘Out of one captors hands and into another. Doesn’t sound like much of a life.’ His ears drooped vaguely, even more so when he heard the fellow had no friends.
Being the highly social creature that Mog was, he couldn’t even imagine what it would have been like to grow up in his clan without at least one reliably violent accomplice to color his days with an assortment of blue and purple pains that bestowed on him his earliest sense of self worth. Though, was there peace to being alone instead, he wondered? Or would loneliness really eventually crush people, the way he felt it ache in him would in the middle of his most restless nights? What was it that sustained this flower for all its years? In this, Mogwart continued to regard his victim like a puzzle.
Having no answers for now, he readjusted the packages on his shoulders and let the fellow direct them to wherever this very special soggy hell hole was supposed to be. His servant tried to reassure him of what a safe, magical, happy place the baths could be. But hah. HAH. No. Mog’s expression hardened on impulse. He still wasn’t having any of it, especially not if it meant letting his prisoner hold him up in the deep water while Mog clung and shivered at his mercy. His defiance was only kept in check by how softly the words were persistently offered and how dangerously tempting the promise of Samael’s tender care was.
While the gob wasn’t the sort to blush by any measure, he did -somewhat secretly- find his difficulty with water and the idea of needing to be watched over in such environments largely embarrassing. Twice over if he was expect to make himself so vulnerable by shedding his filth. What good was a Deep clansman that could scare anyone? Thinking on these many things, he was scuffed his feet on the street. His tone lowered further, and he had begun to growl his usual sign of displeasure when the new level of plea in the fellow’s tone drew his eyes up to snare on the befuddling blue once more. “Clothing for--- ah? Me too?”
His jaw hung partially open for another a dumbfounded instance as he wasn’t sure what was more confusing. That Samael seemed to think his master was in need of new things to wear, or the fact that someone had actually gone to the trouble to pick out something good for him. Usually? Mogwart would argue his life position didn’t warrant him this sort of special treatment. He had always been told he wasn’t important enough to get real presents. No, a jester wasn’t given anything. He was instead expected to take whatever he needed or wanted, to survive, and either not get caught in the act or publicly punished for it at the court's great pleasure.
So while this latest act of kindness too could only serve to add to the goblin’s debt, when he remembered was supposed to be pretending to be something else today, he faltered. It was too much. Too difficult to turn the offer away completely. Even as he sputtered, “You... mean to tell me I wasted donations on more than just your necessities? I’ve already got clothes for myself, see! Pants. Good ones. Don’t need a new and nice anything. Can’t ruin what I don’t’ have. Even if… Rrrrrr. It would be another shame to let them go to waste.” He was turning his grumbling thoughts around in his mind, about to elaborate that he didn’t need to be wet to have an enjoyable experience either, when Samael’s stop prompted him to pause as well.
There it loomed: the tranquil and sinister building called Bathhouse. Grand but not gaudy in the ornate subtly of its woodwork, the entrance seemed harmless enough? Potted trees and other sorts of natural touches were attentively placed about the premise as if to bring a bit of the forest to this urban bathing haven. In the least, Mogwart didn’t cringe as much as he thought he might in the face of this physical manifestation of all that was unwholesomely clean.
Not that he could help himself, but he almost didn’t want to look at Samael for a change, because he suspected the moment he did, whatever hopeful look that face wore was going to whittle away at his will like termites until he had no choice but to subject himself to some degree of cold, drippy, droppy torture. Finally, the words that came with the flowers endearing insistence were the final lance to Mogwart’s guilt-ridden hide, and he expressively rocked his head back in defeat. “Alright-alright! I will get my hands and feet wet… and let you wash my back if the water isn’t too cold. Maybe. But stop looking at me like that, will you?”
Then, without further ado and a bit more bravado to propel him, he marched ahead into the bathhouse. The idea was to get in and get out fast. He didn’t intend to let his bath last longer than a minute, tops. Or so he thought. But from the moment he stepped onto the oddly smooth wooden floors, they pair of them were greeted warmly by a small swarm of staff who not only pawed at and relieved Mogwart of most of their package for safe keeping, but already bustled to usher him somewhere so that he could disrobe.
He had no idea where these evil, soapy smelling beings meant to take him, but one of them even started prattling about all the nice bathing products and other pampering services they could offer. What WAS shampoo, anyhow? That didn’t sound safe either. ‘Erg.’ In a feisty sort of determination, Mog wrapped himself around one of his servants legs and bared his fangs at the workers. “THIS is the one that needs the bath most, get it? This one. And this one is all I require to attend me in whatever giant puddle you’ve got prepared for your guests. So if you need something to keep you busy, prepare a room for him to rest after the bathing.”
He thought his gruffness might deter some of them, but somehow it did just the opposite? One of a lasses in the back even muffled a giggle, and had to be nudged by one of her co-workers to mind her manners. “Of course, darling. We’ll take your belongings there instead. And…” The most composed of them turned to Samael with a mildly quirked brow. Clearly, of their two guests, he was the one more accustomed to what their facility might have to offer. “For you? What will you be having today?”
A number of minor fantasies would come to the gob about what sorts of surprises it would take to coax new sounds out of his prisoner. Considering some of the techniques he had watched his clansmen test of their own prisoners first hand, yes. Perhaps a few of his own ideas did err on the darker side of things. But, just as Mog had mentioned, it was very fortunate that he was an uncommonly respectful miscreant. Mostly. And not that he thought he deserved the odd level of dependence- this pseudo of trust -his captive was placing on him, but he refused to betray that innocent gaze.
Most of his mischief, Mog managed to keep in check behind his varying degrees of a mask and- here?- his tickled curiosity as the flower offered answers as surprising as ever. The poetic nature of the words was not lost on the filthy traveler, though he hummed vaguely over for some of what the man implied. Without the details, he couldnt be sure, but it sounded as if the golden beauty had been a caged bird well before Mog came along to kidnap him personally. For that matter? ‘Out of one captors hands and into another. Doesn’t sound like much of a life.’ His ears drooped vaguely, even more so when he heard the fellow had no friends.
Being the highly social creature that Mog was, he couldn’t even imagine what it would have been like to grow up in his clan without at least one reliably violent accomplice to color his days with an assortment of blue and purple pains that bestowed on him his earliest sense of self worth. Though, was there peace to being alone instead, he wondered? Or would loneliness really eventually crush people, the way he felt it ache in him would in the middle of his most restless nights? What was it that sustained this flower for all its years? In this, Mogwart continued to regard his victim like a puzzle.
Having no answers for now, he readjusted the packages on his shoulders and let the fellow direct them to wherever this very special soggy hell hole was supposed to be. His servant tried to reassure him of what a safe, magical, happy place the baths could be. But hah. HAH. No. Mog’s expression hardened on impulse. He still wasn’t having any of it, especially not if it meant letting his prisoner hold him up in the deep water while Mog clung and shivered at his mercy. His defiance was only kept in check by how softly the words were persistently offered and how dangerously tempting the promise of Samael’s tender care was.
While the gob wasn’t the sort to blush by any measure, he did -somewhat secretly- find his difficulty with water and the idea of needing to be watched over in such environments largely embarrassing. Twice over if he was expect to make himself so vulnerable by shedding his filth. What good was a Deep clansman that could scare anyone? Thinking on these many things, he was scuffed his feet on the street. His tone lowered further, and he had begun to growl his usual sign of displeasure when the new level of plea in the fellow’s tone drew his eyes up to snare on the befuddling blue once more. “Clothing for--- ah? Me too?”
His jaw hung partially open for another a dumbfounded instance as he wasn’t sure what was more confusing. That Samael seemed to think his master was in need of new things to wear, or the fact that someone had actually gone to the trouble to pick out something good for him. Usually? Mogwart would argue his life position didn’t warrant him this sort of special treatment. He had always been told he wasn’t important enough to get real presents. No, a jester wasn’t given anything. He was instead expected to take whatever he needed or wanted, to survive, and either not get caught in the act or publicly punished for it at the court's great pleasure.
So while this latest act of kindness too could only serve to add to the goblin’s debt, when he remembered was supposed to be pretending to be something else today, he faltered. It was too much. Too difficult to turn the offer away completely. Even as he sputtered, “You... mean to tell me I wasted donations on more than just your necessities? I’ve already got clothes for myself, see! Pants. Good ones. Don’t need a new and nice anything. Can’t ruin what I don’t’ have. Even if… Rrrrrr. It would be another shame to let them go to waste.” He was turning his grumbling thoughts around in his mind, about to elaborate that he didn’t need to be wet to have an enjoyable experience either, when Samael’s stop prompted him to pause as well.
There it loomed: the tranquil and sinister building called Bathhouse. Grand but not gaudy in the ornate subtly of its woodwork, the entrance seemed harmless enough? Potted trees and other sorts of natural touches were attentively placed about the premise as if to bring a bit of the forest to this urban bathing haven. In the least, Mogwart didn’t cringe as much as he thought he might in the face of this physical manifestation of all that was unwholesomely clean.
Not that he could help himself, but he almost didn’t want to look at Samael for a change, because he suspected the moment he did, whatever hopeful look that face wore was going to whittle away at his will like termites until he had no choice but to subject himself to some degree of cold, drippy, droppy torture. Finally, the words that came with the flowers endearing insistence were the final lance to Mogwart’s guilt-ridden hide, and he expressively rocked his head back in defeat. “Alright-alright! I will get my hands and feet wet… and let you wash my back if the water isn’t too cold. Maybe. But stop looking at me like that, will you?”
Then, without further ado and a bit more bravado to propel him, he marched ahead into the bathhouse. The idea was to get in and get out fast. He didn’t intend to let his bath last longer than a minute, tops. Or so he thought. But from the moment he stepped onto the oddly smooth wooden floors, they pair of them were greeted warmly by a small swarm of staff who not only pawed at and relieved Mogwart of most of their package for safe keeping, but already bustled to usher him somewhere so that he could disrobe.
He had no idea where these evil, soapy smelling beings meant to take him, but one of them even started prattling about all the nice bathing products and other pampering services they could offer. What WAS shampoo, anyhow? That didn’t sound safe either. ‘Erg.’ In a feisty sort of determination, Mog wrapped himself around one of his servants legs and bared his fangs at the workers. “THIS is the one that needs the bath most, get it? This one. And this one is all I require to attend me in whatever giant puddle you’ve got prepared for your guests. So if you need something to keep you busy, prepare a room for him to rest after the bathing.”
He thought his gruffness might deter some of them, but somehow it did just the opposite? One of a lasses in the back even muffled a giggle, and had to be nudged by one of her co-workers to mind her manners. “Of course, darling. We’ll take your belongings there instead. And…” The most composed of them turned to Samael with a mildly quirked brow. Clearly, of their two guests, he was the one more accustomed to what their facility might have to offer. “For you? What will you be having today?”
Mogwart- Posts : 99
Join date : 2016-02-15
Location : United States, Eastcoast
Re: You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
by Samael Tue Mar 15, 2016 3:06 am
It was never a question whether or not to buy clothing for His captor or not, He had never even considered it. If He was to be finely attired, then the one who was His 'sire' could not be less finely appointed. Though the goblins reaction to it did not go unnoticed either. The surprise. The smallest tinge of embarrassed pleasure and uncertain... was that almost guilt? All of it there for the space of an instant before the words spilled out in confusion trying to be hidden by gruff denial and finally grudging acceptance.
This was someone who did not indulge. Who was not indulged upon. It made Him realize that perhaps in some way His kidnapping might have been something of a true necessity for the man before Him. His captor was starved. Of attention, of touch, of care. It was His duty now to sate that hunger.
He knew His place.
Every grumble of near-complaint was allowed to wash over Him. It seemed unlikely that His captor knew the true pleasure and luxury of a bath which it seemed that the other man knew only in cold rather than soothing warmth, so He would simply have to show what this experience could truly be. All of the packages were spirited away, taken to the room that would be theirs shortly enough. That knowledge too was a constant thought in the back of His mind. His time was growing ever shorter.
With care the attendants escorted them toward the back rooms, helpfully divesting them of their travel-worn remnants and offering soft robes in their place. If every stitch was burned once out of sight He would not mourn the loss of it in the least. "Listen to my Sire, only I will attend him." He smoothly grabbed a reaching hand before it could touch and smiled at the one who had nearly managed to lay a finger upon His captor who was so obviously disinclined to allow it. "If you please, it is my place and pleasure to serve my Sire, all you need do is ready the bath and our room as he requested."
His voice was smooth with just the barest edge of commanding. These people would serve Him because it served His captor and that was simply that. There was no lack of kindness in His demeanor or His requests, but rather a simple surety that what they required would be given. "Make sure that everything we will need for the evening is waiting for us. We will not wish to be disturbed. Mint, sage, and sandalwood to scent the bath gently my sire has sensitive tastes. Shampoos and soaps in the same gentle scents. Thank you."
They moved for Him, becoming a concert of movement with purpose. All of them moving away from Him and the goblin attached to His leg. Once their attention was turned elsewhere, His was upon that most important person once again. His fingers fell upon dark hair, until golden eyes looked upwards. "Sire..." There was something in His tone which was shy and brought a gentle color to His cheeks. The moment that the tense hold upon His leg gave way slightly He moved gently, fingers sliding down His captor's back, bowing as though to embrace and He did.
However the embrace did not end at the ground, instead He gathered the much smaller man into His arms and carried Him resolutely into the room that was waiting for them. There was not even the slightest hesitation in His movements to suggest that the weight He carried was to much for Him. Though He did not look terribly strong, He was muscular, and well practiced in carrying other bodies. Holding them in any number of ways for great lengths of time.
So practiced was He that as they entered the space of the hot springs which smelled of the scents that He had told them to set out and the subtler scent of heated rocks that it was easy to unbelt his robe and let it fall onto the floor before He stepped neatly into the heat. There was near adoration in His eyes as He looked down to the green-skinned form in His arms. The other man was soft wrapped as he was in his robe. "I know that you do not want to be in this water, and I thank you for indulging me. Truly. It means a great deal to me that you do this, and I ask that you allow me to do what I can to make it pleasant for you before you judge this experience too harshly. I swear I will not let you drown."
Even as He spoke He moved to the other edge of the water where there were stones to sit upon. In no place did the water rise deeper than two inches above His hips, but for the man in His arms that was no small depth. Gently He set His captor on one of the stones where he could allow his feet to touch the water or curl himself above it while He sank to His knees in it. Placing Himself close enough to the goblin that if by some accident he fell, there was nowhere to fall but against His own body.
The steaming water came to His shoulders now and He let His one blue eye meet those golden ones. "Please, let me hold you Sire. If you feel yourself in danger at any time, I will bring you again to this same spot so that you can remain in safety, but I beg you to let me try."
This was someone who did not indulge. Who was not indulged upon. It made Him realize that perhaps in some way His kidnapping might have been something of a true necessity for the man before Him. His captor was starved. Of attention, of touch, of care. It was His duty now to sate that hunger.
He knew His place.
Every grumble of near-complaint was allowed to wash over Him. It seemed unlikely that His captor knew the true pleasure and luxury of a bath which it seemed that the other man knew only in cold rather than soothing warmth, so He would simply have to show what this experience could truly be. All of the packages were spirited away, taken to the room that would be theirs shortly enough. That knowledge too was a constant thought in the back of His mind. His time was growing ever shorter.
With care the attendants escorted them toward the back rooms, helpfully divesting them of their travel-worn remnants and offering soft robes in their place. If every stitch was burned once out of sight He would not mourn the loss of it in the least. "Listen to my Sire, only I will attend him." He smoothly grabbed a reaching hand before it could touch and smiled at the one who had nearly managed to lay a finger upon His captor who was so obviously disinclined to allow it. "If you please, it is my place and pleasure to serve my Sire, all you need do is ready the bath and our room as he requested."
His voice was smooth with just the barest edge of commanding. These people would serve Him because it served His captor and that was simply that. There was no lack of kindness in His demeanor or His requests, but rather a simple surety that what they required would be given. "Make sure that everything we will need for the evening is waiting for us. We will not wish to be disturbed. Mint, sage, and sandalwood to scent the bath gently my sire has sensitive tastes. Shampoos and soaps in the same gentle scents. Thank you."
They moved for Him, becoming a concert of movement with purpose. All of them moving away from Him and the goblin attached to His leg. Once their attention was turned elsewhere, His was upon that most important person once again. His fingers fell upon dark hair, until golden eyes looked upwards. "Sire..." There was something in His tone which was shy and brought a gentle color to His cheeks. The moment that the tense hold upon His leg gave way slightly He moved gently, fingers sliding down His captor's back, bowing as though to embrace and He did.
However the embrace did not end at the ground, instead He gathered the much smaller man into His arms and carried Him resolutely into the room that was waiting for them. There was not even the slightest hesitation in His movements to suggest that the weight He carried was to much for Him. Though He did not look terribly strong, He was muscular, and well practiced in carrying other bodies. Holding them in any number of ways for great lengths of time.
So practiced was He that as they entered the space of the hot springs which smelled of the scents that He had told them to set out and the subtler scent of heated rocks that it was easy to unbelt his robe and let it fall onto the floor before He stepped neatly into the heat. There was near adoration in His eyes as He looked down to the green-skinned form in His arms. The other man was soft wrapped as he was in his robe. "I know that you do not want to be in this water, and I thank you for indulging me. Truly. It means a great deal to me that you do this, and I ask that you allow me to do what I can to make it pleasant for you before you judge this experience too harshly. I swear I will not let you drown."
Even as He spoke He moved to the other edge of the water where there were stones to sit upon. In no place did the water rise deeper than two inches above His hips, but for the man in His arms that was no small depth. Gently He set His captor on one of the stones where he could allow his feet to touch the water or curl himself above it while He sank to His knees in it. Placing Himself close enough to the goblin that if by some accident he fell, there was nowhere to fall but against His own body.
The steaming water came to His shoulders now and He let His one blue eye meet those golden ones. "Please, let me hold you Sire. If you feel yourself in danger at any time, I will bring you again to this same spot so that you can remain in safety, but I beg you to let me try."
Samael- Posts : 63
Join date : 2015-11-15
Re: You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
by Mogwart Mon Mar 21, 2016 3:49 pm
Although Mogwart didn’t say as much, Samael may have sensed the relief a little through the steady relax of the grip on his leg when the bath workers began to withdraw. It was just as well that the servant prevented the others’ hands from reaching for his master, because at that very moment, the goblin had every intention of biting the next set of very clean fingers that thought to tug at him further. They smelled too much of water; moreover there was no telling where they had been! Only his captive, whom he felt strongly inclined to pacify so long as his mission was incomplete, would be an exception.
Mog had already risked making contact with the man beyond the usual business or necessity, and received such disproportionate indulgence in return. For the most part however, the jester knew better than to trust those so enthusiastic to touch him without clearly expressed intention. Because if their objective wasn’t something overtly painful, he could usually count on it being something he wouldn’t like anyway. Heck. He half suspected the workers would to try to hold him under the water to drown him. It wouldn’t be his first encounter of the kind.
But no. Peace. Once more, there was no need for panic, so long as his lovely personal assistant was the only one near enough to torment him here. If the man did turn around and try to harm him after all? Mogwart gave a single tactile shudder at the thought and slowly detached from the fellow without prompting. ‘Possible. Very possible. And yet...’ Although, this illusion he walked couldn’t last forever, he would hold on to it for a while longer if he could. It was easy to content himself with simple things, such as the room to lingering less than an ear-length from Samael’s side, if only to try to memorize that gentle warmth.
‘Mint, sage, sandalwood…’ His nose twitched, already imagining an herbal combination that altogether didn’t sound terrible or unfamiliar. Something of a natural medicine. ‘But in bath water?’ By the time the workers were sufficiently preoccupied elsewhere, Mog had folded his arms inside the oversized sleeves of his robe. Never mind that it fit him poorly. This was the single softest bit of clothing he had ever worn in his entire life. Secretly awe-stricken and fidgety-tailed for it, he was already having trouble staying on guard.
In an effort to maintain his gruffness, he was about to ask Samael if all of the fuss was really necessary over a miserable thing like bathing. When suddenly the voice reached him; Mog felt he felt those rare fingers alight on his head in a meaningful gesture. Knowing that moving his head further would startle the fingers into flight too soon however, Mogwart remained still, choosing only looking up at his flower through the tar-like pitch of messy bangs. “Aye, midove?” He couldn't keep taking, but he entirely couldn't help it.
The bashful color of this flower didn’t persuade him to step away out of polite deference so much as his intrinsic hunger to get a clearer look at such an inviting expression. But then, when Mogwart did at last move, he was surprised anew by the care that followed. Again he would prickle at the motion of someone moving forward to embrace him. Pale eyes shut as he willed himself to allow whatever harm may come next, only to flicker open when he found himself not only kindly rewarded for his patience, but also--- airborne? 'What-what-what?'
With a horse-like grunt, Mog looked all around at the smoothly passing walls, confirming that his prisoner was now abducting HIM. Resolutely at that. ‘The ballsy brazen dastard.’ Of course, if it wasn’t for the fact that Mog knew where they were headed, he wouldn’t have been so bothered about it. On the plus side, the irony of it all was enough to coax another sort of smirk out of the disgruntled goblin who realized in minor defeat that, no matter how it soured him, he was NOT going to be able to escape this bath entirely. No turning back. Not unless he wanted to force Samael to drop him. And, on that note, the throne the man made for Mog in his arms was too cozy for the gob to abandon so quickly.
“ ‘Don’t suppose you’d reconsider this whole bath deal, ey? Drop me off somewhere drier? ...No? Erg.” If he had to be carried anyhow, he would grumpily burry his hands further into his sleeves, plop his cheek against his servant’s chest, and distract himself from his impending doom with the sound of another’s heartbeat.
Another thing taken selfishly from the flower.
Another thing to add to a tab he’d never be able to pay off at this rate.
Too soon, the scented and slightly strange seeming water approached, at which the cringing gob buried himself against the flower’s chest somewhat further like a creature seeking refuge from bad weather. ‘No water. NO water. No no no no no…’ Then when Samael stepped down INTO the pool, the jester’s tail recoiled upwards. He gave another customary growly-hiss at the rippled, and the look he flashed up at his servant was reproachful, a final attempt to persuade the fellow how unnecessary this was. Very very VERY unnecessary!
But no luck. The blasted fondness in Samael’s gaze was not to be defied just then. Undeserved words of gratitude were offered. Pretty assurances that it would mean so much to the man if his master would only give the experience a chance sprinkled over the sour gob like purification salt. Oh how it stung on the surface! Oh how Mogwart wanted to kick up a fuss! But somewhere deep down, he was entirely too dazzled and eager to please to deny the man this. “Five minutes,” he muttered after struggling within, and allowed himself to be placed on the stones treacherously near the waters. “I’ll bear it for five minutes. Then you’ll have to be satisfied on your own.”
He began by sitting on his haunches. Slowly, cautiously, he stuck out a hand to touch the water from which he oddly sensed heat rising. Not the least to say that the way it rippled and folded around the water angel was a devastating lure. The man asked for Mogwart to allow him to hold him within the water, but even then, Mog didn’t open his mouth to answer right away. He needed another moment to adjust to this environment. More faint growling noises rumbled in the back of his throat at the unexpected warmth tempted him further to pat the waters twice. Thrice. Five times even. He splashed some of it on his face to be sure.
Then finally, enticed by pleasant sensation, Mogwart unfastened his sash and shrugged the robe off behind him. He turned his striped back to the flower and even more carefully used the rocks to lower himself down to approximately where the fellow’s bare legs ought to be. If he couldn't confess his swimming woes, he would at least acknowledge he had no desire of puttering around at the bottom of this pool on his rear, like a shellfish. “No need to hold me. I’m competent enough that I won’t drown. …Mostly. Though I will borrow midove’s luscious legs as a pedestal. Easy does it. Easy.” That was his pride speaking honestly. His body-language screamed otherwise as he stepped his first foot down experimentally in a few places.
Probably not entirely appropriate he’d realize, before he found sure footing on a thigh and preceded the rest of the way into the warmth. He would rest and hand on Samael’s shoulder for further balance as he sank, until eventually he sat on a bundle of his tail across his the prisoner’s perfect lap. The bath lapped warmly just beneath Mog’s sideburns and chin. “There now! Not drowning at all, am I?” At which point he sneered up victoriously.
“Even if this has to be the worlds largest, meltiest, most meddlesome puddle. Speaking of which, it won’t, ah… really dissolve us, will it?” Mog waved his arm through the water in mistrust. Curious though he was, he wasn’t keen on soaking long enough to get rid of the dirt rings around his neck, the soot behind his ears, or the streaks of mud across his torso. His hair felt sticky against his shoulders as the bath elements tugged at its layers of filth. But if it was just this much, Mog thought he might be able to suffer a little longer. “On second thought, aye. I will stay 10… perhaps 20 minutes more. Only since you asked. And you’ve much to show me for how anyone could ever need this much water for bathing. Go ahead. Get on with your personal watery tortures.”
Fiendish with open curiosity now, he glanced Samael over appreciatively for another round before adding with emphasis. “I, on the other claw, am already clean.”
Mog had already risked making contact with the man beyond the usual business or necessity, and received such disproportionate indulgence in return. For the most part however, the jester knew better than to trust those so enthusiastic to touch him without clearly expressed intention. Because if their objective wasn’t something overtly painful, he could usually count on it being something he wouldn’t like anyway. Heck. He half suspected the workers would to try to hold him under the water to drown him. It wouldn’t be his first encounter of the kind.
But no. Peace. Once more, there was no need for panic, so long as his lovely personal assistant was the only one near enough to torment him here. If the man did turn around and try to harm him after all? Mogwart gave a single tactile shudder at the thought and slowly detached from the fellow without prompting. ‘Possible. Very possible. And yet...’ Although, this illusion he walked couldn’t last forever, he would hold on to it for a while longer if he could. It was easy to content himself with simple things, such as the room to lingering less than an ear-length from Samael’s side, if only to try to memorize that gentle warmth.
‘Mint, sage, sandalwood…’ His nose twitched, already imagining an herbal combination that altogether didn’t sound terrible or unfamiliar. Something of a natural medicine. ‘But in bath water?’ By the time the workers were sufficiently preoccupied elsewhere, Mog had folded his arms inside the oversized sleeves of his robe. Never mind that it fit him poorly. This was the single softest bit of clothing he had ever worn in his entire life. Secretly awe-stricken and fidgety-tailed for it, he was already having trouble staying on guard.
In an effort to maintain his gruffness, he was about to ask Samael if all of the fuss was really necessary over a miserable thing like bathing. When suddenly the voice reached him; Mog felt he felt those rare fingers alight on his head in a meaningful gesture. Knowing that moving his head further would startle the fingers into flight too soon however, Mogwart remained still, choosing only looking up at his flower through the tar-like pitch of messy bangs. “Aye, midove?” He couldn't keep taking, but he entirely couldn't help it.
The bashful color of this flower didn’t persuade him to step away out of polite deference so much as his intrinsic hunger to get a clearer look at such an inviting expression. But then, when Mogwart did at last move, he was surprised anew by the care that followed. Again he would prickle at the motion of someone moving forward to embrace him. Pale eyes shut as he willed himself to allow whatever harm may come next, only to flicker open when he found himself not only kindly rewarded for his patience, but also--- airborne? 'What-what-what?'
With a horse-like grunt, Mog looked all around at the smoothly passing walls, confirming that his prisoner was now abducting HIM. Resolutely at that. ‘The ballsy brazen dastard.’ Of course, if it wasn’t for the fact that Mog knew where they were headed, he wouldn’t have been so bothered about it. On the plus side, the irony of it all was enough to coax another sort of smirk out of the disgruntled goblin who realized in minor defeat that, no matter how it soured him, he was NOT going to be able to escape this bath entirely. No turning back. Not unless he wanted to force Samael to drop him. And, on that note, the throne the man made for Mog in his arms was too cozy for the gob to abandon so quickly.
“ ‘Don’t suppose you’d reconsider this whole bath deal, ey? Drop me off somewhere drier? ...No? Erg.” If he had to be carried anyhow, he would grumpily burry his hands further into his sleeves, plop his cheek against his servant’s chest, and distract himself from his impending doom with the sound of another’s heartbeat.
Another thing taken selfishly from the flower.
Another thing to add to a tab he’d never be able to pay off at this rate.
Too soon, the scented and slightly strange seeming water approached, at which the cringing gob buried himself against the flower’s chest somewhat further like a creature seeking refuge from bad weather. ‘No water. NO water. No no no no no…’ Then when Samael stepped down INTO the pool, the jester’s tail recoiled upwards. He gave another customary growly-hiss at the rippled, and the look he flashed up at his servant was reproachful, a final attempt to persuade the fellow how unnecessary this was. Very very VERY unnecessary!
But no luck. The blasted fondness in Samael’s gaze was not to be defied just then. Undeserved words of gratitude were offered. Pretty assurances that it would mean so much to the man if his master would only give the experience a chance sprinkled over the sour gob like purification salt. Oh how it stung on the surface! Oh how Mogwart wanted to kick up a fuss! But somewhere deep down, he was entirely too dazzled and eager to please to deny the man this. “Five minutes,” he muttered after struggling within, and allowed himself to be placed on the stones treacherously near the waters. “I’ll bear it for five minutes. Then you’ll have to be satisfied on your own.”
He began by sitting on his haunches. Slowly, cautiously, he stuck out a hand to touch the water from which he oddly sensed heat rising. Not the least to say that the way it rippled and folded around the water angel was a devastating lure. The man asked for Mogwart to allow him to hold him within the water, but even then, Mog didn’t open his mouth to answer right away. He needed another moment to adjust to this environment. More faint growling noises rumbled in the back of his throat at the unexpected warmth tempted him further to pat the waters twice. Thrice. Five times even. He splashed some of it on his face to be sure.
Then finally, enticed by pleasant sensation, Mogwart unfastened his sash and shrugged the robe off behind him. He turned his striped back to the flower and even more carefully used the rocks to lower himself down to approximately where the fellow’s bare legs ought to be. If he couldn't confess his swimming woes, he would at least acknowledge he had no desire of puttering around at the bottom of this pool on his rear, like a shellfish. “No need to hold me. I’m competent enough that I won’t drown. …Mostly. Though I will borrow midove’s luscious legs as a pedestal. Easy does it. Easy.” That was his pride speaking honestly. His body-language screamed otherwise as he stepped his first foot down experimentally in a few places.
Probably not entirely appropriate he’d realize, before he found sure footing on a thigh and preceded the rest of the way into the warmth. He would rest and hand on Samael’s shoulder for further balance as he sank, until eventually he sat on a bundle of his tail across his the prisoner’s perfect lap. The bath lapped warmly just beneath Mog’s sideburns and chin. “There now! Not drowning at all, am I?” At which point he sneered up victoriously.
“Even if this has to be the worlds largest, meltiest, most meddlesome puddle. Speaking of which, it won’t, ah… really dissolve us, will it?” Mog waved his arm through the water in mistrust. Curious though he was, he wasn’t keen on soaking long enough to get rid of the dirt rings around his neck, the soot behind his ears, or the streaks of mud across his torso. His hair felt sticky against his shoulders as the bath elements tugged at its layers of filth. But if it was just this much, Mog thought he might be able to suffer a little longer. “On second thought, aye. I will stay 10… perhaps 20 minutes more. Only since you asked. And you’ve much to show me for how anyone could ever need this much water for bathing. Go ahead. Get on with your personal watery tortures.”
Fiendish with open curiosity now, he glanced Samael over appreciatively for another round before adding with emphasis. “I, on the other claw, am already clean.”
Last edited by Mogwart on Mon Mar 21, 2016 9:48 pm; edited 1 time in total
Mogwart- Posts : 99
Join date : 2016-02-15
Location : United States, Eastcoast
Re: You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
by Samael Mon Mar 21, 2016 4:58 pm
“No need to hold me. I’m competent enough that I won’t drown. …Mostly. Though I will borrow midove’s luscious legs as a pedestal. Easy does it. Easy.”
He hid a small amused smile wisely. "Of course Sire." That was of course half of what His intention had been from the beginning so it was no hardship to Him. With the much smaller goblin so close to Him, their disproportionate size was that much more obvious, but it was a detail which mattered not at all to Him. It only made holding the other man a simpler task.
"You seem to be handling the water quite well Sire, and no. It will not dissolve us. If we remain very long our skin will pale a little, and wrinkles will form on fingers and toes, but nothing more." It was almost as though the other man was actively afraid of the water, as if it was something new and unusual. Perhaps it was. Already the water had begun to do its work however. Lulling the goblin into a sense of peace and security which He amplified with His presence. "You are endlessly generous with me, to remain here and keep me company. To allow me to show you what a pleasure a bath can be."
"However I must insist that you allow me to bathe you first. It would not be right to cleanse my own body before that of my lord, and it is my desire for you to experience it in full. Not merely from the perspective of watching." Even if observing was something that the other man enjoyed, in this instance it was an unacceptable alternative to participation. He did not allow for argument. He began gently to palm water into the goblin's hair as if there could be no question of this happening.
He was exceedingly careful that the water not slide over the other man's face, and the hair was so dirty that He had to work through it in layers to wet it all properly. Then He poured a subtly scented shampoo into His palm, rubbing His hands together and working them slowly but surely into the other man's hair. It was a slow process to be gentle. To work His fingers to the scalp without pulling on tangles which had not been properly brushed. Once He reached it however He could massage His fingers into the goblin's scalp, further relaxing the tension from the body He held in His lap.
The water darkened with mud that sank to the bottom or which was carried away by the subtle gentle current that kept the water circulating and clean. It was mixed with suds from the shampoo. Twice more He added shampoo to the hair, slowly but surely working every scrap of dirt and every kink free which His sensitive fingers could find. Whenever the hair might pull He was careful to hold it so that the other man would not feel the gentle tugs required to pull the knots free. He worked more water into the hair, then conditioner allowing His fingers to slide over the tense muscles of the goblin's neck to relax these also.
It was necessary to keep Himself aware of how relaxed that other body became. It would not do after all for the other man to doze off and fall into the water that he obviously feared so much. Once the hair was clean enough to no longer require His attention there was soap in His hands, slid over shoulders which He massaged in the same attentive way. Here He proved His skill. Every knot, every tension, every muscle was coaxed into lassitude. There was not a single inch which was not thoroughly massaged and cleaned with the soap. Over arms and even fingers, working clean nails and palms. Where the other man was sensitive He paid particular attention, determining if it was pain and if so coaxing it away. If it was pleasure... Well sending small thrills of pleasure through His captor while he relaxed was perfect.
"We are quite alone here." Even His tone was soft and comforting, fingers sliding lower over the other man's chest. "Would you like to talk to me now? Perhaps about what brought you to me?"
He hid a small amused smile wisely. "Of course Sire." That was of course half of what His intention had been from the beginning so it was no hardship to Him. With the much smaller goblin so close to Him, their disproportionate size was that much more obvious, but it was a detail which mattered not at all to Him. It only made holding the other man a simpler task.
"You seem to be handling the water quite well Sire, and no. It will not dissolve us. If we remain very long our skin will pale a little, and wrinkles will form on fingers and toes, but nothing more." It was almost as though the other man was actively afraid of the water, as if it was something new and unusual. Perhaps it was. Already the water had begun to do its work however. Lulling the goblin into a sense of peace and security which He amplified with His presence. "You are endlessly generous with me, to remain here and keep me company. To allow me to show you what a pleasure a bath can be."
"However I must insist that you allow me to bathe you first. It would not be right to cleanse my own body before that of my lord, and it is my desire for you to experience it in full. Not merely from the perspective of watching." Even if observing was something that the other man enjoyed, in this instance it was an unacceptable alternative to participation. He did not allow for argument. He began gently to palm water into the goblin's hair as if there could be no question of this happening.
He was exceedingly careful that the water not slide over the other man's face, and the hair was so dirty that He had to work through it in layers to wet it all properly. Then He poured a subtly scented shampoo into His palm, rubbing His hands together and working them slowly but surely into the other man's hair. It was a slow process to be gentle. To work His fingers to the scalp without pulling on tangles which had not been properly brushed. Once He reached it however He could massage His fingers into the goblin's scalp, further relaxing the tension from the body He held in His lap.
The water darkened with mud that sank to the bottom or which was carried away by the subtle gentle current that kept the water circulating and clean. It was mixed with suds from the shampoo. Twice more He added shampoo to the hair, slowly but surely working every scrap of dirt and every kink free which His sensitive fingers could find. Whenever the hair might pull He was careful to hold it so that the other man would not feel the gentle tugs required to pull the knots free. He worked more water into the hair, then conditioner allowing His fingers to slide over the tense muscles of the goblin's neck to relax these also.
It was necessary to keep Himself aware of how relaxed that other body became. It would not do after all for the other man to doze off and fall into the water that he obviously feared so much. Once the hair was clean enough to no longer require His attention there was soap in His hands, slid over shoulders which He massaged in the same attentive way. Here He proved His skill. Every knot, every tension, every muscle was coaxed into lassitude. There was not a single inch which was not thoroughly massaged and cleaned with the soap. Over arms and even fingers, working clean nails and palms. Where the other man was sensitive He paid particular attention, determining if it was pain and if so coaxing it away. If it was pleasure... Well sending small thrills of pleasure through His captor while he relaxed was perfect.
"We are quite alone here." Even His tone was soft and comforting, fingers sliding lower over the other man's chest. "Would you like to talk to me now? Perhaps about what brought you to me?"
Samael- Posts : 63
Join date : 2015-11-15
Re: You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
by Mogwart Tue Mar 22, 2016 7:26 pm
Water that makes wrinkles on fingers and toes? Preposterous! ‘…Or is it?’ Mogwart hummed. Though he wouldn’t be so quick to believe anything that required him to be cleaner than he usually was, the transformation would be welcome. One could never look too much like a raisin, or so his mum said. Fan-like ears raised to the golden man’s voice as Samael spoke once more. But after all of the nervous pre-testing, Mog wasn’t in the mood to move around much more than this. After all, the warmth of the puddle could only do so much on its own soothe a tense and feisty goblin.
Submerged though he was, from very the beginning he sat with his back as rigid and his legs taut, as if he was prepared to spring from the spring water at the slightest sign of danger. And in fact, as soon as Samael began insisting that he be allowed to bathe his green captor, the Mog nearly did jump. Further yet, the first harmless palmed-scoop of drippy-droppy’ness on his head spurred him to splash around in a sudden attempted to stand. “Great toadstools, man. I told you, I’m fine as I am---!”
But then? He was struck with minor terror as his foot slipped. He scrambled to grab onto Samael again to avoid going under, and that was all the persuasion the dirt-devil needed to sit back down with his heart pounding in his bird-like chest. ‘Why? …WHY?’ As more of those first cups of water ran gently down his back and shoulders, he kept his sights trained downwards on his murky reflection. None of it physically hurt of course. He had a tough and thick little noggin. Moreover he could have purred the way Samael worked the spaces between his spikes.
For all of that though, Mog knew. He simply KNEW that if his prisoner didn’t find him too hideous for company before, the man surely would after seeing and feeling the truth beneath his protective layers of earth. Not a wart, a scar, a blemish, or a single wrinkle to his name. Nor extra growths, crooked bones, or deformities to boast. Indeed. Save for the usual healing states of minor woulds, he was a pointlessly smooth and angular-faced, hence perfectly ugly, goblin. The kind that, without extra help and maximum ever, probably couldn’t intimidate his way out of a paper box.
That being the mindset so heavily ingrained in him, he didn’t want anyone to see him like that. Especially not his fairest prisoner. Feeling tangled and tempted by varying degrees however, and refusing to strike someone who had treated him so well, the jester didn’t see what else he could do. At last he resigned to his seemingly bleak fate. More debris floated free from his hair as he sank himself lower until his mouth nearly aligned with the water. “I hate you right now, milord,” he bubbled miserably, ”Just so you're aware.”
Fortunately, one could only wallow in self-pity so much in such skillfully grooming and massaging hands. Mog did his best to clench his teeth and keep his aches and thrills to himself as he gradually melted in another sense. He couldn’t imagine what price there would be to pay for revealing secrets he never intended to his temporary servant. Even so, his every muscles betray him. A muffled groan or animalist sound escaped him here and there, masked poorly in his further attempts to submerge his mouth underwater.
At one point, for he did reach back and try to deter the fellow from finding a favored spot on the underside of the base of his tail. “Tail s’fine now,” he muttered and rolled his shoulders in a silent plea for the fellow to shift his focus back there a bit longer. At least granted that mercy, he thought he might be able to hang on to some of his wits. But ultimately none of his resistance was to any avail as only minutes later, Mog was an oddly (lizard-like) purring, pitiful puddle of a man. He turned his head or raised a limb to Samael’s convenience. Twitched his left foot in glee to a stroke of his chest or chin.
And so it goes that, despite the mixed blessing, the goblin got exactly what he secretly hoped for with the way the fingers worked carefully against his head and more. Every layer shed, every lock loosened, and every kink relaxed brought him closer to the temporarily acceptance of his affliction and a profound sort of contentment in the moment. Especially when he realized Samael remained calm and didn’t shudder despite everything.
Apart from making him hideous, the horrors of the bath really weren’t turning out that horrible at all, were they? If every bath was like this, he began to think he wouldn't mind them as much. Well. Save for the evils of shampoo. While the foaming concoction didn’t feel half bad, because it returned his hair to its natural state of fine silk (something he’d have to go to great lengths to alter later), it was something he decided he could do without. By the time Samael was in the mood to talk, Mog’s legs were half-floating in his lazy recline back against his servant.
Eyes blinked at the quiet currents in a half-closed daze and, though it wasn’t so easy to think, he considered the other man’s suggestion seriously. “Nothing you will like,” he began groggily, his accent slipping slightly into less common rhythms. After a strange pause, he continued, “Murder. And theft. I stole… somethings? From a dead man that I didn’t mean to. Here-- ‘is trapped on the inside.” Slowly, he tapped his ribs. “And I needs--- need you to take it out without the killing … before it roots in me permanently and I can not be myself any more… This is too big… Too heavy… Golden flower of night is ‘one hope. That is what wise-traveling fellows said.”
“But a Smol does not want to talk about things of hurt yet. Instead, you will tell me…” He rolled his head back to look Samael’s chin, making a lazy effort to frown, though it held no true anger or malice. “Will forgive you for the cleaning and explain for more questions ifs… if you tell me a good story. Aye.”
Submerged though he was, from very the beginning he sat with his back as rigid and his legs taut, as if he was prepared to spring from the spring water at the slightest sign of danger. And in fact, as soon as Samael began insisting that he be allowed to bathe his green captor, the Mog nearly did jump. Further yet, the first harmless palmed-scoop of drippy-droppy’ness on his head spurred him to splash around in a sudden attempted to stand. “Great toadstools, man. I told you, I’m fine as I am---!”
But then? He was struck with minor terror as his foot slipped. He scrambled to grab onto Samael again to avoid going under, and that was all the persuasion the dirt-devil needed to sit back down with his heart pounding in his bird-like chest. ‘Why? …WHY?’ As more of those first cups of water ran gently down his back and shoulders, he kept his sights trained downwards on his murky reflection. None of it physically hurt of course. He had a tough and thick little noggin. Moreover he could have purred the way Samael worked the spaces between his spikes.
For all of that though, Mog knew. He simply KNEW that if his prisoner didn’t find him too hideous for company before, the man surely would after seeing and feeling the truth beneath his protective layers of earth. Not a wart, a scar, a blemish, or a single wrinkle to his name. Nor extra growths, crooked bones, or deformities to boast. Indeed. Save for the usual healing states of minor woulds, he was a pointlessly smooth and angular-faced, hence perfectly ugly, goblin. The kind that, without extra help and maximum ever, probably couldn’t intimidate his way out of a paper box.
That being the mindset so heavily ingrained in him, he didn’t want anyone to see him like that. Especially not his fairest prisoner. Feeling tangled and tempted by varying degrees however, and refusing to strike someone who had treated him so well, the jester didn’t see what else he could do. At last he resigned to his seemingly bleak fate. More debris floated free from his hair as he sank himself lower until his mouth nearly aligned with the water. “I hate you right now, milord,” he bubbled miserably, ”Just so you're aware.”
Fortunately, one could only wallow in self-pity so much in such skillfully grooming and massaging hands. Mog did his best to clench his teeth and keep his aches and thrills to himself as he gradually melted in another sense. He couldn’t imagine what price there would be to pay for revealing secrets he never intended to his temporary servant. Even so, his every muscles betray him. A muffled groan or animalist sound escaped him here and there, masked poorly in his further attempts to submerge his mouth underwater.
At one point, for he did reach back and try to deter the fellow from finding a favored spot on the underside of the base of his tail. “Tail s’fine now,” he muttered and rolled his shoulders in a silent plea for the fellow to shift his focus back there a bit longer. At least granted that mercy, he thought he might be able to hang on to some of his wits. But ultimately none of his resistance was to any avail as only minutes later, Mog was an oddly (lizard-like) purring, pitiful puddle of a man. He turned his head or raised a limb to Samael’s convenience. Twitched his left foot in glee to a stroke of his chest or chin.
And so it goes that, despite the mixed blessing, the goblin got exactly what he secretly hoped for with the way the fingers worked carefully against his head and more. Every layer shed, every lock loosened, and every kink relaxed brought him closer to the temporarily acceptance of his affliction and a profound sort of contentment in the moment. Especially when he realized Samael remained calm and didn’t shudder despite everything.
Apart from making him hideous, the horrors of the bath really weren’t turning out that horrible at all, were they? If every bath was like this, he began to think he wouldn't mind them as much. Well. Save for the evils of shampoo. While the foaming concoction didn’t feel half bad, because it returned his hair to its natural state of fine silk (something he’d have to go to great lengths to alter later), it was something he decided he could do without. By the time Samael was in the mood to talk, Mog’s legs were half-floating in his lazy recline back against his servant.
Eyes blinked at the quiet currents in a half-closed daze and, though it wasn’t so easy to think, he considered the other man’s suggestion seriously. “Nothing you will like,” he began groggily, his accent slipping slightly into less common rhythms. After a strange pause, he continued, “Murder. And theft. I stole… somethings? From a dead man that I didn’t mean to. Here-- ‘is trapped on the inside.” Slowly, he tapped his ribs. “And I needs--- need you to take it out without the killing … before it roots in me permanently and I can not be myself any more… This is too big… Too heavy… Golden flower of night is ‘one hope. That is what wise-traveling fellows said.”
“But a Smol does not want to talk about things of hurt yet. Instead, you will tell me…” He rolled his head back to look Samael’s chin, making a lazy effort to frown, though it held no true anger or malice. “Will forgive you for the cleaning and explain for more questions ifs… if you tell me a good story. Aye.”
Mogwart- Posts : 99
Join date : 2016-02-15
Location : United States, Eastcoast
Re: You've Lost Me [Samael; Mog]
by Samael Wed Mar 23, 2016 6:20 pm
Even the words asserting hatred were small and He could tell that they lacked any fire behind them. His captor tried very hard to appear gruff and tough. To be more than what he was. Yet there was truth in the claim as well. It was difficult to seem strong and powerful when one was this small, but there were ways, and they began with much of what He had already shown the other man. Confidence, believing that one was powerful. Wearing the attire of those who were given respect without question. He more than most knew how much such subtle things could change how one was treated. A change of clothes or a shift in behavior could change everything.
For now however it was enough to turn the goblin into a puddle of relaxed muscles purring low and giving away that there were far more sensitive locations to be found. He left the base of the other man's tail for now though He would surely be back to it eventually. For now He leaned forward, almost hugging the man in His arms to carefully wash toes and short legs.
Murder and theft. Now the goblin wanted Him to remove... something? Something from within his body. He focused on the muscles beneath His fingers. Until He knew what it was, what was needed of Him... Somehow He would have to find a way to do what was required of Him. Regardless of if it hurt, or if He would find it pleasant.
“But a Smol does not want to talk about things of hurt yet. Instead, you will tell me… Will forgive you for the cleaning and explain for more questions ifs… if you tell me a good story. Aye.”
One blue eye met those golden ones and He nodded, holding the other man closer as His fingers finished their work. "Then I will tell you the story of Scheherazade who was a most clever woman. She knew that wisdom was a greater power than power itself and hers is the story of how she outwitted and won the heart of a man who meant to kill her.
"The story begins with Shahryar, the king of all kings. He was betrayed by his wife, and it hurt his heart so that he felt that he could never again trust a woman. However the king of kings could not be without a wife, so he took a new one each evening and when the sun rose he had her executed so that she could not betray him." His voice was gentle as He spoke, always continuing to do the work of keeping His own captor at ease. "One day Shahryar decided that he would wed the daughter of his vizior who was Scheherazade. She knew that though being queen to the king of kings was an honor that it was one that would mean her death with the rising of the sun. That night when Shahryar came to his wife, as they lay in bed she began to tell him a story.
"Scheherazade was wise, beautiful, but even more she was a great storyteller, and she told a story so interesting that when the sun rose and it was time for them to part Shahryar could not bear to kill her least he never know how it end. So he let her live, vowing to kill her the next morning once she had told him how the story ended. Scheherazade knew this however. So she spent the whole of the day locked in that room coming up with her story so that when the king of kings came to her again she told him another story so spellbinding that Shahryar was again consumed with a need to know how it ended.
"He begged her to tell him how it ended, but she only smiled and promised that if he came to her tomorrow she would continue it. In this way Scheherazade entertained her husband for one thousand and one nights with tales of deeds each more magnificent then the last. Her stories became a thing of legend. The tales of one thousand and one Arabian nights. When her last story was told she bowed her head to the king of kings and said that she had no more tales to tell.
"What do you think happened?" He was silent for just a moment, just long enough for a response to bloom but not for it to form on the other man's lips. "Scheherazade had taught the king of kings so much in those nights that her wisdom became his own and he knew that he could not kill someone so valuable to him. That it was no longer her stories that kept him coming to her each night but the presence of the woman he had married. So in this way did Scheherazade win the mind and heart of the king of kings and though he was the most powerful man in all the world it was naught before the wisdom that Scheherazade displayed."
Long ago He had worked the last vestiges of dirt away. Instead He had begun plaiting the other man's hair to keep it neat and orderly. Particularly with it clean and so easy to manipulate this was the best time for it. He worked His way around the horns that rose from the goblin's head so that they were put on display and formed a crown with them of ebony hair. "Perhaps sometime you will let me tell you those stories Sire, so that I can impart upon you the same wisdom that Scheherazade imparted upon her lord; the wisdom of kings."
For now however it was enough to turn the goblin into a puddle of relaxed muscles purring low and giving away that there were far more sensitive locations to be found. He left the base of the other man's tail for now though He would surely be back to it eventually. For now He leaned forward, almost hugging the man in His arms to carefully wash toes and short legs.
Murder and theft. Now the goblin wanted Him to remove... something? Something from within his body. He focused on the muscles beneath His fingers. Until He knew what it was, what was needed of Him... Somehow He would have to find a way to do what was required of Him. Regardless of if it hurt, or if He would find it pleasant.
“But a Smol does not want to talk about things of hurt yet. Instead, you will tell me… Will forgive you for the cleaning and explain for more questions ifs… if you tell me a good story. Aye.”
One blue eye met those golden ones and He nodded, holding the other man closer as His fingers finished their work. "Then I will tell you the story of Scheherazade who was a most clever woman. She knew that wisdom was a greater power than power itself and hers is the story of how she outwitted and won the heart of a man who meant to kill her.
"The story begins with Shahryar, the king of all kings. He was betrayed by his wife, and it hurt his heart so that he felt that he could never again trust a woman. However the king of kings could not be without a wife, so he took a new one each evening and when the sun rose he had her executed so that she could not betray him." His voice was gentle as He spoke, always continuing to do the work of keeping His own captor at ease. "One day Shahryar decided that he would wed the daughter of his vizior who was Scheherazade. She knew that though being queen to the king of kings was an honor that it was one that would mean her death with the rising of the sun. That night when Shahryar came to his wife, as they lay in bed she began to tell him a story.
"Scheherazade was wise, beautiful, but even more she was a great storyteller, and she told a story so interesting that when the sun rose and it was time for them to part Shahryar could not bear to kill her least he never know how it end. So he let her live, vowing to kill her the next morning once she had told him how the story ended. Scheherazade knew this however. So she spent the whole of the day locked in that room coming up with her story so that when the king of kings came to her again she told him another story so spellbinding that Shahryar was again consumed with a need to know how it ended.
"He begged her to tell him how it ended, but she only smiled and promised that if he came to her tomorrow she would continue it. In this way Scheherazade entertained her husband for one thousand and one nights with tales of deeds each more magnificent then the last. Her stories became a thing of legend. The tales of one thousand and one Arabian nights. When her last story was told she bowed her head to the king of kings and said that she had no more tales to tell.
"What do you think happened?" He was silent for just a moment, just long enough for a response to bloom but not for it to form on the other man's lips. "Scheherazade had taught the king of kings so much in those nights that her wisdom became his own and he knew that he could not kill someone so valuable to him. That it was no longer her stories that kept him coming to her each night but the presence of the woman he had married. So in this way did Scheherazade win the mind and heart of the king of kings and though he was the most powerful man in all the world it was naught before the wisdom that Scheherazade displayed."
Long ago He had worked the last vestiges of dirt away. Instead He had begun plaiting the other man's hair to keep it neat and orderly. Particularly with it clean and so easy to manipulate this was the best time for it. He worked His way around the horns that rose from the goblin's head so that they were put on display and formed a crown with them of ebony hair. "Perhaps sometime you will let me tell you those stories Sire, so that I can impart upon you the same wisdom that Scheherazade imparted upon her lord; the wisdom of kings."
Samael- Posts : 63
Join date : 2015-11-15
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Similar topics» A Run For Your Money [Xylander + Samael]
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» OK WRONG ROOM LET ME OUT PLEASE (Samael + Nocme)
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