Sunblade

** SUNBLADE OVERVIEW **

Sunblade is a free erotic fantasy novel that is written in instalments and posted to Literotica. It is an adventure that spans many timelines, dimensions and themes and is currently an ongoing work in progress. If you enjoyed this chapter, I implore you to check out the rest of the Sunblade story.

** CHAPTER OVERVIEW **

In this first instalment, we are introduced to Ashlyn Armonde, who finds her mind often wandering due to the solitude of her life on the silk farm.

** GET INVOLVED **

I'd love to hear any thoughts or feedback you have on this story, so please feel free to leave a comment at the bottom of the page.

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** THE STORY SO FAR **

CHAPTER ONE - SILKFARMER

Ashlyn struck the package with the wide front of the customs stamper, but it left only a frail outline of the mark that was intended. Sighing nasally in a sharp, personal annoyance with the task at hand, she gripped the varnished knob of the stamper harder between her delicate fingers and mashed it into the red ink pad on the rough surface of the work bench. To be completely sure that the device was covered in ink, she repeated this task several times in quick succession.

She struck the package again, square on the document attached to its top-most face, this time with more purpose, and she held the stamper down firmly onto the surface for longer. When she slowly pulled the device away, the customs stamp bearing the crest of Armonde Silks shone proudly in brilliant red ink. Tossing the wretched stamping device aside, she wiped excess ink off her fingers on a green cloth before also casting that aside scornfully. A curl of mousy brown hair had fallen in her face, and she brushed it aside out of annoyance.

"You're not made fae this, are ye, love?" joked the courier on the other side of the desk, pulling the crate towards him.

"Hey, wait!" Ashlyn puffed, reaching out for the escaping crate, "Chase, give it back! I haven't signed the declaration yet."

"Don't you worry about that, Miss," he laughed, "I've waited long enough already, and the Postmaster is gettin' antsy these days; he's really crackin' the whip. Naw, I ain't sayin' that I'm into forgin' signatures, m'lady, but I expect the amount o' times we've taken consignments fae the Armondes where Phil or Gabe have, how should I say - neglected, to err, properly complete the customs declarations, it's given me the opportunity tae get the art of forgery down to a tee. Somethin' to fall back on, Miss, once I retire."

Chase McHail's sarcastic yet upbeat look at life usually filled Ashlyn Armonde with jest. He was quick to remind her of her youth, her luck in life, and his jovial attitude was far more pleasant than many of the others who came from the Postmaster to collect the shipments. Today however, Chase's visit just wasn't cutting it. She wished the old man would just leave the office, especially before he noticed that something wasn't right. Chase could read her like a book, and he had too good a habit of weaselling information out of her.

Chase cut a peculiar visage; his tree-like arms - formed from years of lugging crates for a host of different couriers in the Kingdom - did not seem like they belonged to the same body as his head, which was crowned with a receding grey fuzz and fronted by a mottled yet friendly mug. It was as if he was made from spare parts. This was an observation Ashlyn had made before on common people. It had got her into a lot of trouble once, when she had tried to make a joke of it after too many dinner party gins.

"The best to your husband, Miss," Chase bellowed courteously, giving a little wave before bowing out of the room with the crate stuffed effortlessly under one arm.

Atop the desk was a ledger of outgoings for the day. It was not difficult to complete, with the majority of consignment details already coming over on a slip from the workshop, along with the package itself. The consignment reference was taken from the Postmaster and entered into the ledger, along with the package number from the workshop. This was then signed and dated by whoever handled the dispatches, which was usually Ashlyn or her twelve year old son, Gabriel. At the end of the day, the slips from the workshop went onto a spike on the corner of the bench, and the ledger went into a heavy drawer under the worktop, which always stuck on opening.

Today, Ashlyn didn't even bother to try and close the drawer; she just flung in the ledger and left it hanging open in resignation. With her arms crossed before her, she made purposefully across the tatty office to the window overlooking the farm. It tickled her how Mr. McHail still called her "Miss", even though she had been married for nearly a decade and a half. It made her feel young again, even if only for a few moments. Then the dread returned to her. The dread of growing old. The dread of being trapped for the rest of her life, here on this farm, in the middle of nowhere.

Ashlyn missed the city. She missed her contemporaries, the opulence of the city elite, and of rubbing shoulders with the Kingdom's aristocracy. Her family's lineage itself was not aristocratic, but they had built themselves a small empire of wealth through spice trading across the Wyrld. Her father, Alforth Montgomery, and her uncle, Len Montgomery, were among the first men to ever broker a trade deal with the mysterious continent of The Spine. Her uncle Len, as head of the business, had legislated the contract, while her father had captained the ship that made the first official round-trip to the Spineal port of Garrh'Daak.

It meant that Ashlyn, as a teenager, was catapulted into the higher classes; into the safest and most prestige Southstonian neighbourhoods and schools. She received the greatest education money could buy. Her friends were daughters of politicians, lecturers and high-ranking soldiers, and as she grew into a woman, the boys she fucked were the sons of noblemen, affluent merchants or men of the church. She had lived the fairy tale life, or at least, how she saw the fairy tale life unfolding - she was the child of privilege.

Despite her decadent, carefree youth, she had married her first true love - Phillip Armonde, the son of Cyril Armonde, and heir to the massively wealthy Armonde Silks estate. She still loved him dearly, to this day, but she had not anticipated the move. After she had became unexpectedly pregnant with her son, Phillip had received the news that his father had become gravely ill. Her husband usually oversaw the client-side of the Armonde Silk business, which allowed the couple to stay based in Southstone City and enjoy the highlife. They had even met this way; the young Armonde heir had brokered a deal with Montgomery shipping to have their silks exported to Bumi-Major on an annual contract. Alforth Montgomery had been so impressed with Phillip's conduct that he had him introduced to his beautiful daughter.

Shortly after being taken ill, Cyril Armonde passed away, leaving Phillip to control the entire business. Phillip's sister, Andrea, had married into the Morgan family, who ran a series of orange plantations in the arid region of Endfjord. So, heavily pregnant with her son Gabriel, and ever so in love with her strong-headed Phillip, Ashlyn had moved out to the farm with him to begin her new life.

The farm was in a glorious location, in the perhaps typically-named Silkwood forest, and was the perfect home to start a new family. The grounds swallowed up many acres, and whilst the workshop was something of an eyesore, the manor house was beautiful and grandiose, with many rooms and copious balconies, which were a delight in the summer evenings. They even had their own brook, which was a pleasure to hear; always relaxing and calming, especially at night, when the forest could get a little lonely and foreboding.

Ashlyn stood in the window of the Dispatch Office, gazing down across the land, listening for that very brook. It was faint, but it could be heard over the workers wrapping up for the day. The sun was setting, and the weather was glorious and hazy, and yes - the Dispatch Office did have a balcony - but Ashlyn did not feel like relaxing away the evening. She was on edge. The thoughts of escape dominated her.

She usually escaped the farm via the means of literature, or gin, or both. Recently she had developed a taste for the beer brewed by the men in the workshop. Phillip had allowed them to convert an old barn into a small brewery, and provided the materials to do such. It kept morale incredibly high, and Phillip actively encouraged the activity as long as it did not impose on the daily workings of the silk trade. So far, give or take the odd nasty hangover, everything had gone to plan, and everyone was happy with the arrangement, from peon to upper management. The beer itself was delicious, crafted in casks from local ingredients, and Phillip had considered ways of taking it commercial, but he had yet to do so.

Ashlyn had been to the brewery once. Ajamu had taken her there, on that first night, many moons ago. She marvelled at the craftsmanship of the Armonde workforce, having viewed them as avoidable brutes up until that point. She had been taken aback how such a crude bunch could have created something so sweet and delicate. The men often drank long into the night, either at the brewery or in their quarters at the workshop. The one time she had joined them, she had been reminded of the parties back in Southstone City. Sure, the workers on the farm were a lot rougher around the edges, but it was the sheer thrill of the social gathering that Ashlyn missed so much.

Ashlyn shook her head to clear her thoughts; reminding herself of Ajamu had put a fire in her abdomen and a iron weight around her heart. She glanced up. The lights were on in the brewery now; the first men to finish their shift had gone over to check on the development of the latest batch, no doubt. Ashlyn came away from the window. Giving the open drawer and the ledger one last disdainful look, she exited the Dispatch office and walked purposefully towards the kitchens.

The corridors on the "business" side of the house, and those leading to the kitchen were narrow and steamy, but there was an access staircase from one of the storage rooms to the Armonde's quarters, which was used by the staff to bring them their meals. This would be the quickest way to her bedroom from the Dispatch office.

The corridors were designed for the servants and workers to move about without disturbing the inhabitants above and therefore were quite low, pokey and dirty, clad with pale warping wood, capped with heavy beams and with heavy black flagstones underfoot. Mr. Armonde, and indeed any visitors or guests to the mansion, would never set foot in these parts of the house. Ashlyn was not so picky in choosing her route through the building. She used them to navigate the estate whilst remaining unseen to most prying eyes. Her son Gabriel too, was often found exploring the entire estate, but in a different capacity.

When the corridor met the kitchen, it opened wide, almost like a mouth, becoming the room itself, before the ceiling rose ever so slightly higher. Two great big stone fireplaces stood against the furthest wall, both occupied with a variety of pots and bubbling cauldrons. In one lay a miniature spit in rotation, impaled on which was some sort of large bird, most probably a wild turkey.

Mrs. Flitt was at the workbench in the centre of the stifling room, cutting vegetables on an inch-thick wood chopping board. Her two assistants - two young and nameless (to Ashlyn, at least) Bumi immigrants - busied themselves elsewhere in the kitchen. They were almost identical in their frocks; their small, brown faces bowed in concentration with the tasks at hand. One stirred the many pots at the fireplaces. The other, stood across the workbench from Mrs. Flitt, dicing red meat into cubes.

Mrs. Flitt had worked with the Armonde family for decades. She had originally been on the payroll of Phillip's grandfather, Emyr Armonde, and she - as well as her husband Jeremy - had been on the farm ever since. Ashlyn doubted that they had ever left the premises since coming here. The couple were, to some extend, the beating heart of the estate, in particular the mansion; Mrs. Flitt had been the cook for nigh on five decades, and Mr. Flitt was still head caretaker for the estate and farm, despite his old age.

"Good eve to you, Mrs. Armonde," Mrs. Flitt said politely, but without turning away from her veg cutting, "how have you been this fine day?"

"Most excellent, Delorys, thank you for asking," Ashlyn replied, coming to a rest at the workstation, "another day at the Dispatch Office for me, Gabe is being tutored today."

"Ohhhhh, yes," Mrs. Flitt exhaled, with a comically rising intonation, "such a fine man, is that tutor, Mr. Grensham. Such a fine, fine man. My Jeremy came up with him in the same village, m'lady. They are very old friends, since being babes in arms, on account of their mothers being cousins - annnnnd he is ever so clever, is that Mr. Grensham, ever so clever, not like my Jeremy - he couldn't tell a parsnip from a carrot, m'lady! Love him, aye, our Jeremy. Bless! But, that Mr. Grensham..."

"Oh, come now, Delorys, your Jeremy is an asset to this estate, and a fine man himself," explained Ashlyn, eyeing up a ginormous bowl of fruit in the middle of the workbench. She considered reaching for an apple.

"Between you and I, m'lady..." She leaned in over the fruit bowl, making her crude, aged features much more prominent. Despite her ripe age, strands of jet black hair poked out of her bonnet. "...I think his mind has gone soft. Our Jeremy. He's always been as dull as a brush, m'lady, but nowadays he's worse than ever. Since last week, he keeps calling Prisha here "Aishu". We've not had an Aishu on the estate for nearly a ten year, m'lady. Do you remember her? One o' the lads from the field put a baby in her, so we had to send her back to the city. Mr. Amonde was most displeased, as she had only been here a month."

Ashlyn, had to admit, with a brief shake of her head, that she did not remember the impregnated housemaid.

"And Friday last, he lost his best rake," Mrs. Flitt plowed on, waving the cutting knife carelessly, "hours we looked for it, m'lady, hours! It was in the tool shed all along - it had fallen behind the door when he locked it up the night before, the poor fool! And it is surely only a matter of time before he forgets completely how to please his wife, if you know what I mean, m'lady?"

Ashlyn allowed herself a small chuckle.

"Come now," she said, reaching for the apple she had been eyeing, before repeating: "Jeremy Flitt is a fine man-"

"I wouldn't change him for the Wyrld, m'lady, if I may speak," Mrs. Flitt interrupted, going back to mercilessly murdering a turnip, "but Mr. Grensham is a very, verrry clever man; your Gabriel will do good to stick with him, and to pay close attention!"

"Oh, he will, you mark my words," Ashlyn clarified, wiping the apple on her dress, "or I'll tan his bottom. I fear the spoils of this life are making the boy lazy, Delorys."

Mrs. Flitt tossed the knife down onto the board with a clatter, which caused the maid Prisha to look up from the pots in fright. Her big brown eyes met Ashlyn's, and she tore away her gaze immediately, as if making eye contact with her boss was terrible bad luck, or somehow strictly forbidden. Mrs. Flitt teetered around the workbench, her large behind wobbling comically in her black frock. Side by side to Ashlyn Armonde, she was pronouncedly more short and dumpy, where the lady of the house was tall, thin and stately. Mrs. Flitt took Mrs. Armonde by the arm.

"Prey tell if I am speaking too freely, m'lady," she said, in hushed tones so that the maids could not hear, "but a little brother or sister would do the young master wonders. Being out here in the woods with nobody to to play with... its not right, nobody should have no-body to play with..."

The deliberate tone in which Mrs. Flitt finished her sentence made Ashlyn think that she wasn't just referring to the children with her remark. Regardless of this, Mrs. Flitt was right; asides visits from Mr. Grensham's own son David, or the Flitts' granddaughter Alice, Gabriel was very much the only child his age in the area. But, another child with Phillip? Ashlyn almost shuddered at the thought of being pregnant again.

"You speak too freely, Mrs. Flitt," Ashlyn replied curtly, after a few moments had passed, "you forget yourself."

Ashlyn Armonde knew, of course, that Delorys Flitt was absolutely right. For many years after the birth of Gabriel, Ashlyn had wanted another child, perhaps a little girl too, she had thought, but Phillip was far too busy with the business, or so he had said, to father enough child. The couple were still sometimes intimate, although less often so these days, but so far the lovemaking had not resulted in another pregnancy. Besides, all of this had become a flight of fancy many, many moons ago. Ashlyn had moved on passed the stage of being willingly impregnated. Deep down, she still wanted another child, but Gabriel was of twelve years now. The timing would be all wrong.

"I seek not to offend, Mrs. Armonde," Delorys Flitt informed, still gripping her arm, "I say it as I sees' it, and that, well that is how I sees it, m'lady. I shall not apologise for it."

With that, she made for the workbench to continue her preparation. It was coming to that time where it would be best to feed the men; before they got too drunk. Ashlyn considered pressing Mrs. Flitt, but decided against it. If any other member of the house had spoken to her that way, they would have gotten a public ribbing, but there was something about Mrs. Flitt that stopped Ashlyn from reacting. Mayhaps it were due to her stature in the household; maid yes, but she had been within these walls for many years, and was more a friend of the family than a mere servant. Besides, the entire family trusted her, confided in her, and dreaded the day the light would come to take her, which grew closer and closer with her silvering age.

Ashlyn curtseyed and took her leave, alighting via the archway into the pantry and store, where a small concealed staircase wound sneakily upwards into the Armonde's quarters.

She skipped directly across the spacious bedroom and into the en suite bathroom, where she washed her face and hands in the marble sink. She applied Cream of Sapling to the evermore present bags under her eyes, and to her crows feet.

Regarding herself in the small, rectangular mirror above the heavy sink, Ashlyn tried to recall the last time she considered herself a young woman. At the age of thirty five, she was still a shockingly beautiful creature; delicate and tall, with mousy brown hair, deep olive skin, bottomless brown eyes and high, cutting cheekbones. Even as the beginnings of ageing began to creep on her, she was still fantastically beautiful. Gazing at herself in the mirror, even she had to admit that she was still gorgeous.

No, it was the solitude that made her feel old; the repetitive daily tasks of dispatching shipment after shipment of silk, raw or otherwise, to merchants, tailors and markets around the continent, and even the world. Ashlyn was acutely aware that this put food on their table, kept the pearls around her neck, kept them in the house that they loved, and kept their family in high regard on Southstone. But, this did not stop her becoming bored with the work, the lifestyle, and her surroundings.

She often chastised herself for feeling this way. Coming from a family that was not born into affluence, Ashlyn was struck with the duality of constantly appreciating the hand that she had been dealt, whilst also loathing it. She had it all, and that perhaps, was the problem. Her thrill, her lust for adventure, and most importantly, her youth, seemed to be sapping away from her by the day.