Within the shadow bound halls of Ingley Manor, Squire George sat within his great wooden chair, stooped with age before his time. The crackle of the hearth nearby had gone from pleasant white noise in the background to a harsh and unforgiving assault on the silence he so craved. Wearily, he rested his head within one hand, feeling as if all strength had fled his body. Within that grand hall that had seen so many celebrations in ages past, he felt the weight of solitude press down upon him.
He wasn't alone there, though. No, within the shadows there, out of sight, was the woman he at once loathed and longed for. Since the day he first laid eyes upon her, she was a dangerous addiction, one he could not escape. He knew she was there without seeing her, without hearing her. Her very presence was a constant, terrible beacon to his thoughts and desires.
"She approaches." Isolde's voice was soft, alluring, but it was still the sibilant hiss of the serpent he knew her to be. "And she is alone."
George's face twisted into a scowl. He didn't know why the thought that the girl had failed angered him so. True, when his lover had suggested the idea, he thought it was a perfect fit, but now it seemed the little slut couldn't even worm her way into a man's bed.
He caught Isolde's scent long before he heard her gentle footsteps. It was pleasant, a heady mix of something flowery and something spicy that he couldn't quite place. Whatever oils she used to produce that fragrance, they were not local. Soft, slender hands took the back of the great chair he occupied, and slowly turned it, with him still seated within. The legs scraped and scratched along the old stone, but he made no move to assist her.
Soon enough, he faced out over the twisted shadows of the room, lit only by the hearth behind him. It cast his silhouette over the flagstones, and toward the grand doors. Above his was the shadow of Isolde, the stark lines of her stately figure rising like some lurking raptor above his own form.
Those old, oaken doors were flung wide, and through them stumbled Marissa. Tears rolled down her cheeks, and her features bore a mingling of rage and crushing disappointment. Her own generous chest heaved with ragged breaths, straining the dark fabric of that elegant dress.
"Father, I-"
"I see the prince is not with you." He and Isolde spoke the words together, and in the same cadence, providing an odd, dual toned effect. He paused, and glanced up to his lover. A cruel smirk crossed her crimson lips, and she slipped her hand down to pat his shoulder gently. It was remarkable, how they synced up so often. Perhaps they were the soul mates that she had so often suggested.
"I shouldn't have expected you to succeed in such an important task." This time, it was he alone that spoke, and his words were heavy with reproach.
His tone seemed to strike the girl like a heavy hand, and she collapsed to her knees there on the cold stone floor before him. Sobs wracked her form. His own dark eyes drifted over her figure, he could not help but admire her appearance, at least. Those lovely coppery curls, the way her dress clung to her every curve, even when she was in disarray. In truth, some small part of him liked seeing her that way, crushed under his disapproval.
"I'm so sorry, father, but when I got there... When I got there, he was already speaking with Jenrea, you know, the innkeeper's daughter?"
Oh, George knew the girl. She reminded him of Isolde greatly, but without the sheer malice his mistress could possess at times. No, Jenrea had the beauty, but also the innocence that men so craved. He'd desired her himself, at one point, but couldn't risk demanding her. His position was more tenuous than he cared to admit at times, and both the master of the Tepid Toad and the smith Garn were old warriors of some skill, and close allies. If he tried to press either of them, they would no doubt turn against him, and he'd be facing a revolt.
Isolde left him, and though her steps earlier had been silent, now each mincing stride brought the sharp report of a tall heel upon the flagstones. The Squire let his eyes drift toward the woman who so enraptured him, taking the time to admire her from behind as she approached Marissa.
She was a dark haired beauty, her form slender enough where it mattered, but her curves ample in those places that invited a man's gaze. Her breasts were more than a handful, her waist a sinuous dip, then her hips flared and broad. They had a natural look, not the product of some wizard's touch, and she always chose her clothing carefully, to draw the eye.
Tonight, a black silken dress tied behind the slender column of her neck, but left her arms and back free. It was thin enough to show she had nothing beneath, at least until the material gathered at the small of her back. The skirt drifted over her hips, then fell loose to the ankle, continually swinging and swaying at each step she took, each twitch of those succulent hips. From time to time, a slit along the side allowed one stocking clad leg to peek forth, and her feet were shown regardless, sheathed in those deep red stockings and crisscrossed with the straps of those stiletto heels. It was all foreign fashion, but she wore it well.
Isolde advanced from him toward Marissa, then slipped one long nailed hand down to toy with the girl's hair. The younger woman trembled under her touch, face twisted in revulsion.
George simply laughed. It was a hollow, cold sound as he watched the young lady he called daughter so disgusted by his lover's gentle touch. Her eyes lifted, and she shot a dagger's glare across to him.
"Call your bitch off, father. She makes me sick."
If Marissa intended to say anything more, it was lost in a strangled yelp. Isolde's hand fisted in those luxurious red locks, then yanked hard, twisting her head back and lifting her from the ground by her hair. The older woman snarled, her face twisted from a serene kindness to a bestial rage as swiftly as a serpent's strike.
"Watch your tongue, slut, or I'll give you to the servants as a playtoy."
The younger woman was wholly outmatched, but with a cry she struggled against his lover's grasp. George shook his head slowly, amused by the two. He cleared his throat to interrupt them, and though a look of annoyance shot across Isolde's fair face, she said nothing to him.
"Well, it's clear that you failed, Marissa, and likely embarrassed yourself and my name in the process. You will be punished. But this Jenrea, if she has so caught the Prince's attention, then we will simply have to do something about her."
Isolde raised a single brow, but the faint smirk that tugged at her lips told him he had her approval, at least.
"But first," The Squire continued, "We do have to teach my dear daughter a lesson in failure. Secure her."
"What?! No!" Marissa shrieked, and her struggles redoubled, until Isolde hissed something in her ear. Whatever she had been told, the girl's face paled, and she went very still.
George watched as his lover dragged his daughter by the hair. Not toward where he remained seated, but toward the side of the great hall. There, amidst the shadows, a structure of wood rested. He had seen Isolde have it brought up from the dungeons below earlier in the evening, but had thought nothing of it. Apparently, she had anticipated just such an occasion.
