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🕑 Added 2019-04-13 21:00:01 +0000 UTCCivilization in Petrichor had not towered so high as to forget the lusty roots of bloodshed and fornication in man’s existence—not all of it, at any rate. The bacchanalian celebration of the wedding would be held in the same hall as the stately, dignified ceremony itself. Even now, the entertainment waited, lined up along the walls—waiters armed with food and drink, dancers in white gowns that covered everything to the point of hiding nothing, and most especially Vika, in a gown of long white sequins that covered her body in sparkling silver. Loose and flowing, the slightest breath stirred them, revealing that nothing bound them together, but that they hung from her collar as if her own personal raincloud drained its black coffers to cover her otherwise evident nudity.
All seemed eager for Vika to depart from her appointed station, knowing that with each step, the ribbons covering from her would sway and part around her perfect body as water did before a swimming fish, and offer a chance to glimpse some if not all of her bare flesh. Already, her well-formed breasts and callipygian hips were obvious, just from the deep breaths that filled her body.
Lona was not dressed so salaciously, though she assured herself she still had the curves to pull it off. For her plan to work, Horn could have no idea of her body, and so she wore her most queenly regalia—this dress taking after the thunderbirds that flew through Petrichor’s skies. A headdress formed a patrician raptor’s beak above her face, its wings sweeping down to hide her hair from view and meld into the metallic fibers of a feather mantle that flowed down the rest of her body, hiding her dress under an avian pelt. It, though, was composed of sequins, further giving her a hawkish appearance. In all the layers of pomp, she couldn’t have looked more different from the voluptuously offered Katrine, and that was the whole point.
She watched, fastidiously imperial, as the ceremony concluded. Polite applause broke out from her own people, but it was spurred on to wild shouting and cheers by the rabid presence of Horn’s men. They seemed to go into paroxysms as Horn led Katrine in ascending to the wide table, bathed in an unchanging golden glow, where they would enjoy the wedding reception, and wait out the siege of Horn’s soldiers. Even though they had clearly been instructed to be on their best behavior, there were barely concealed violence in their celebrations, and frequent glances cast at Horn, as of children looking to see if a teacher was watching before they misbehaved.
Horn did not wear his customary armor, but that was the greatest of the concessions he had made to Petrichor’s customs—not being seen as a conqueror. He could not be compelled to make himself out to be anything but a barbarian. A loincloth made from the fur of a black panther, its taxidermied head at mid-roar upon his waist, cinched around his waist. Lona noted that it tapered down the middle in front and back—leaving much of his thighs bare, but concealing what lay between his legs down to his knees. A wise precaution, given what she’d seen of his endowment.
A lion had similarly been skinned, its pelt wrapped about his torso like a bandolier—the magnificent mane and muzzle at his shoulder, while the rest crossed his chest. The animal must have been quite large in life, but Horn was still so brawny that a broad shoulder and beaming pectoral muscle were left bare. And though he did not wear the screaming, bestial helmet he had introduced himself in, woad painted on his face performed the same function, with brutal fangs gnashing down from his scalp and up from his square jawline.
The royal table stretched across all the cathedral’s second transept, its ancient wood as thick as a ship’s hull—appropriate for a piece of furniture dating back to when Petrichor was far less sheltered. Striding over the tabletop, Horn sat down at the middle of the table, his seat beside Lona’s, the prince and princess of Petrichor now her guests of honor. At their back, tapestries shot upward to the belfry of the cathedral, where sweeping gutters carried water around the belltowers. With their passage undammed, that gathered rainwater now stirred the bells to manmade thunder, underscoring the wild music with a reminding trace of profundity.
The dancing girls took up position underneath open skylights, letting the water fall down in pillars to soak their dresses and plaster the white material to their sweetly sculpted bodies, until nearly every detail of their physique could be seen. But those last few facets of their nudity, and the whirling dances that seemed to alternately conceal and reveal, brought far more attention than either nakedness or fashion could gather.
But garnering almost as much lust were the serving girls. For not only were they attired in halter tops, swaths of scarf-like fabric crisscrossing their necks then slinging down to covering either breast, with similar wrappings around each thigh to slink around pubis and buttocks—but they also bore plates of meats, cheeses, fruit, and frothing ale. Their bare feet, adorned only with gleaming bangles, adroitly carried them from leer to grope, sidestepping the most persistent admirers and fawning the more well-behaved (and more generous of coin) with their attentions. They knew, as any good wench did, how to deal with a rowdy crew, though Horn had helped there—promising a bounty on anyone caught misbehaving. As drunk and oversexed as they were, the Juns remained vigilant for any of their number who might embarrass their lord. The chance of a fat pay day did as much as the fear of a grisly death to keep them in line.
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Shendude
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