LordLuck
The Wicked Historian
- Joined
- Feb 10, 2011
- Posts
- 2,649
((closed for my darling, zoelikesjam. I really look forward to this one, sweet Zoey!))
Lord Morholt was furious.
It had been three weeks since his wife had let him lay with her. Three weeks. Lady Alana was as attractive as he could hope her to be, and he considered himself lucky that his father, the late Lord Morholt , had made the pact for him. It was another of the old castellan's alliances that now benefited his son in almost every matter. She was smart, but also moody. Too moody for him.
She was diseased. The monks and medics whispered of the plague. Alana, fearing to spread the dreaded pest to her beloved husband, denied him her bedchamber, hoping it would be for the best. And then, she died. The monks had come to him, in most complete despair, fearful of his retribuition. His beloved Alana had passed away, the fever taking her in the last night. He felt such a fury mingled with the madness of pain, of abandon. Morholt had cried the whole night, alone in his quarters, allowing no one to see him under the fine of death.
But still, he had his own urges.
The idea had struck him as he rode about his castle's neighbouring village. The poor hamlets usually hid some precious jewels, sometimes girls that his soldiers laid with, thinking he wasn't aware at all; a place without any palisades, composed of two dozens of decrepit, small houses, where a family of 5 or usually more dwelt, thanking Morholt for his benevolent rule. It was a simple place called Cragford, the settlement protuding from the steep cliffs where his Castle sat upon, ruling the dale with fair, but severe order.
Morholt was tall, his trimmed beard adding to his stern features, his broad shoulders speaking of a more than capable warrior. And there was Lord Morholt, accompanied by three of his armed soldiers, inspecting his lands, when he reached Cragford's Mill.
Lord Morholt was furious.
It had been three weeks since his wife had let him lay with her. Three weeks. Lady Alana was as attractive as he could hope her to be, and he considered himself lucky that his father, the late Lord Morholt , had made the pact for him. It was another of the old castellan's alliances that now benefited his son in almost every matter. She was smart, but also moody. Too moody for him.
She was diseased. The monks and medics whispered of the plague. Alana, fearing to spread the dreaded pest to her beloved husband, denied him her bedchamber, hoping it would be for the best. And then, she died. The monks had come to him, in most complete despair, fearful of his retribuition. His beloved Alana had passed away, the fever taking her in the last night. He felt such a fury mingled with the madness of pain, of abandon. Morholt had cried the whole night, alone in his quarters, allowing no one to see him under the fine of death.
But still, he had his own urges.
The idea had struck him as he rode about his castle's neighbouring village. The poor hamlets usually hid some precious jewels, sometimes girls that his soldiers laid with, thinking he wasn't aware at all; a place without any palisades, composed of two dozens of decrepit, small houses, where a family of 5 or usually more dwelt, thanking Morholt for his benevolent rule. It was a simple place called Cragford, the settlement protuding from the steep cliffs where his Castle sat upon, ruling the dale with fair, but severe order.
Morholt was tall, his trimmed beard adding to his stern features, his broad shoulders speaking of a more than capable warrior. And there was Lord Morholt, accompanied by three of his armed soldiers, inspecting his lands, when he reached Cragford's Mill.
