Author's Notes:
Howdy all! This is my first story I've ever published... ever! In all my years of writing privately, this will be the first thing I have ever posted to a public website. I hope you all enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it! If it is recieved well, I may write the full story.
Disclaimer: All characters are above 18, and there is some dubious consent in this one, along with a mild dose of sadism and other fuckery. Have fun!
edit: clarified some details of continuity
PS. if it helps to think of it this way, Relleon is classic English dialect and Salvoron is kinda French
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Captain Horace Gullstand had just pulled off the biggest raid of his lifetime, which was certainly saying something.
Horace had been a criminal for almost all of his forty years of life. It had started small when he was younger, like pickpocketing and other kinds of petty theft. However, over his decades long crime spree, he had grown to be one of Relleon's most notorious bandits. He now had a crew of battle hardened criminals under his command. They respected and feared him in equal measures.
Captain Gullstand was impressive indeed. Not just anyone could rob a caravan traveling under the banner of King Ethan Evernore. Yet here he was, in his fortress, surrounded by the king's treasures.
His 'fortress' was actually an abandoned castle within the Faetossed Forest. The large walls and many roomed interior was perfect for him and his group of vicious criminals. It was rumored that the old inhabitants were whisked away by a band of disrespected fairies, though Horace wasn't sure if he believed that.
No ghost story was going to scare him out of his fortress.
At the current moment, he found himself situated in the treasury of his castle, admiring thier most recent prize. A veritable hill of gold and jewels were laid out in front of him in this cold stone room, glittering in the torch light that sputtered from the six sconces. There were even some stranger treasures, like dresses and what looked like an old wooden amulet.
The hill of gold was about as high as his shoulders, which meant it was nearly six feet tall at its highest point. Gullstand was a full head taller than the gold pile. His scarred, black bearded face looking at it with a broken grin of satisfaction. Atop his head was a jagged dark gray crown, fashioned from the breastplate of the last bandit leader he had killed for his followers. He had a fur cape made from the pelt of a wolf he had killed with his bare hands, and a newly acquired, ruby hilted sword sat on his hip.
He looked at the gold pile with a look of accomplishment on his face. He was about to start looking through the less obvious treasures to ascertain their value, when a knock erupted from the large doors behind him.
He sneered and turned back, looking every ounce of the terrifying bandit that he was. He strode towards the door, his heavy leather boots making a thunderous noise as he wrentched the doors open.
Standing behind it was one of his bandits, Owen Felton. If there was such a thing as a second in command in Horace's force, it was this man. An older, balding human man that could take orders well, but was too weak willed to oppose or challenge him.
Just the way he liked his captains.
Horace glared at Owen with every bit of terrifying spite he casually carried in his deep brown eyes, "What da yew want, Felton? I was jus' about to start countin' up the value o' this hoard."
"I'm very sorry sir," Owen bowed and had already began to sweat slightly at this briefest of interactions, "But, yer men have found someone at da edge ah de camp, mi lord..."
That got Horace's attention. He narrowed his eyes, "Is it one of tha king's men?"
"I don't think so, mi lord," Owen continued, barely raising his head, "He ain't spoke a word of the King's Common."
Horace set his jaw, "Yew'd better take me too him. I'd like to interrogate him myself."
"As you wish, mi lord," and with that, Owen turned and quickly shuffled through the recently cleaned halls of this once abandoned keep.
Horace easily kept up with the comparatively weaker and slower pace of his captain. As he did, he considered what this might possibly mean. If the man wasn't speaking the King's Common, then it was possible that it wasn't a scout of King Ethan. But then again, it could be a spy. He resolved to not let his guard down.
As they arrived in the courtyard of the keep, it was easy to see where the new prisoner was. He had almost two hundred men in his force. At this time, they should be manning the walls or practicing thier martial skills on the dummies set up at his barracks. And while some were still doing that, at least fifty of them were gathered in the center of the courtyard, yelling and laughing like a collection of rowdy attendants at a city theater.
Horace sneered and then took in a deep breath.
"Git back to yer fuckin' posts!" He bellowed at the gathered crowd, "Every last one ah yah!"
The vast majority of the crowd scurried off in different directions like a gang of roaches that had suddenly had a lantern shine on them. Only three men remained. Two were holding the prisoner and one more was simply watching.
Horace was about to tell the lingering bandit to shove off when he got his first serious look at the prisoner.
Owen had claimed they had caught a man, and for a ridiculous instant, Horace thought he'd been lied to. The individual in front of him couldn't be older than twenty, was much shorter than all but his shortest of men, and a half elf to boot. At a quick glance, they couldn't be more than five and a half feet tall. Long silver hair ran to just beyond their shoulder blades and a set a ridiculously pretty blue eyes shone with a slight look of panic, but mainly of defiance.
Hells, even their clothing would suggest they were a woman. They were wearing what looked like practical (if expensive) clothing of leather pants and a vest, but that was under a fancy dress of blues and silvers. Silver earrings with sapphire studs were in their ears and they even had some simple makeup on their face, black eyeliner and mascara making the blue of their eyes shine even brighter. That being said, the dress was torn and filthy at the hem and the makeup has started to run slightly.
But in Horace's opinion, it was still working for em.
That being said, having been told this was a man, Horace scanned for tell tale signs of it. The only thing he could really notice was the slight protrusion halfway down the neck. It was incredibly subtle, but Horace picked up on it.
Strange.
Still, Horace approached, but decided to address the additional man that was in the group. He was a recent addition to his bandit crew, a young human man by the name of Trav.
"I told yew tah git back to yer post," Horace sneered at Trav, "You hard a hearin' boy?"
Trav glanced between the prisoner and Horace and said in a low tone, "Mi lord... I'm sorry but... we ain't had no womin here or in da last crew fir ages. I was just hopin'..."
"Boy, that ain't a woman there," Horace rolled his eyes, as if he wouldn't have been fooled if Owen hadn't told him.
