Noblesse Oblige:

Wine and Warfighting 

~

Tugging your sleeve with childlike eagerness, Aria pulls you forward as she dashes through the wide rows of the market. The princess’s petite form moves swiftly and gracefully, short blue and white streaked hair bobbing and ruffling in the breeze, her ears perked up and pointed forward behind her bejeweled tiara. The fine hem of her dress trails just above the dirt path, while her rather generous chest wobbles in its confines, bouncing in turn with her steps

By comparison, you’re a clanking, jingling heap of steel and leather. The trailing scent of perfumes drifting behind the princess who is leading you on is a far cry from your own smell of sweat and the polishing oil coating the sword and dagger whose hilts bang against your legs. The inexorable, unreasonable pull of the canine girl is not only forward but down, as the royal stands several heads shorter than your own human frame. You focus almost more on not stepping on her swishing bright tail as you do watching your surroundings.

And this has been your lot all of the morning, in which young princess Aria of the ruling House Voyaire, monarchs of the Esserith Kingdom, had been free to leave the palace in quite some time. Esserith, not a large country, but one whose rulers were made exquisitely wealthy by fertile lands and control of important trade routes and junctions, was for those reasons long at risk-and finally facing the depredations of its neighbors. Rival kingdom Osthber, addressing long nursed jealousy, had launched vicious campaign on Esserith. The conflict immediately turned to a grim prospect for the affluent kingdom, whose insufficient armies were no equitable match for the ferocity of Osthber’s fearsome cavalry forces. And the Voyaires found no salvation in their next nearest ally, as the royals of Juler shrank back from facing Osthber’s wrath in defense of their allies.

It was Esserith’s desperate search beyond their near borders, a pleading contract with a human power, one well supplied with warriors and hungry for wealth the Voyaire’s could offer in enormous quantity, that lead to your warchief to send yours and three other lesser chieftains of the Mahalaraoth to fight in this far off war. Your people made good on the price of your services, and with equal ferocity-and many more numbers besides-the clan armies crushed Osthber, driving the proud wolf-folk back to their own lands and father beyond.   

Now, after peace was signed, and-at the war-chief’s suggestion-lands were ceded from Osthber to their smaller neighbor, it was deemed safe enough to lift the confinement of the royal heirs to their quarters. Aria had seemed to have taken it upon herself in light of this new freedom, to partake in the highest possible way the sights and happenings of the capital, Dennerset. She had wound her way through the ways of the center market, fawning over trinkets and colorful weavings. Esserith’s condition was altogether whole, but not unhurt after the war, and where she saw signs of it-a short stocked merchant or visibly more ragged farmer, she doled out coins from her purse. Noon was still well off, but the princess had already purchased piles of crafts, baubles, and even vegetables, which now burdened the retinue of handmaidens and palace guards that now struggled to keep up with Aria’s inexhaustible energy.

Each stop, you had begun to politely urge the girl to return to the palace (as peace was ostensibly upon the kingdom, but certainty was not) or at the very least slow her pace to allow her other guards to keep up. But each time, she looked at you and her glittering blue eyes shone with such glee, and her speckled cheeks were flushed with joyous red through her green fur, and something in you, despite your own hardy disposition, gave way to that happy gaze and you dismissed your concerns before she handed off her latest acquisition to an attendant and seized your now stretched sleeve and pulled you off and onward again.

Seeking to make use of the goodwill his assistance in their war fostered, the warchief of Mahalaraoth had offered the services of some of his chieftains’ promising lieutenants to the royal family. With Esserith’s own warriors heavily depleted, and seeking to also forge closer ties with their saviors, the Voyaire’s had made provision for warriors to remain in their lands, and you to serve as a special part of the princess Aria’s guard complement on outings like these. 

Just after midday, her frantic rush had subsided just enough that you are able to extract an agreement from the princess to pause for a moment. You stand with her under the shade of an awning over a wine merchant’s stall. Benches and rough wooden tables offer a rest for the princess to sit, joined by her now thoroughly winded attendants. You and the palace guards stand around, keeping an eye on the surrounding stalls and passing citizenry.

Aria beckons you forward and she waves away the handmaiden that was fanning her side as she panted quietly, tongue lolling just the slightest from her lips. She stretches out a leg and yawns, and the lifting of the limb causes the hem of her dress to fall back just the slightest, exposing a glimpse of taut, shapely calf. Heat burns under your collar and an awkward cough escapes your lips as your try to pretend you were looking in another direction. You bend down and she leans in close, almost conspiratorially, but her pretty face now wears worry.

“Oh, the poor maids, I think I’ve gotten carried away. Do you think I ran them too hard?” 

Your first instinct for a response is blunt and altogether rather rude, but despite the naiveté of the question, you see real remorse for her earlier lack of control. You nod just a little and her ears droop slightly, “No one can blame your for getting excited in a time like this, your grace. And, if you ask me, I think they’d agree that it’s better to be out and about than locked up inside all day.”

You haven’t the smallest scrap of evidence to back that assertion up, but Aria regains her smile and she throws up a hand, waving to the wine merchant and calling for a round of wine for her companions. The short man bows deeply and offers a sloshing skin to her eager hands. A handmaid quickly steps in, reminding the princess that she ought not throw off her stomach before a proper meal at the palace, and speaking of which that it was time to return. Churlishly and slowly she nods and stands and the guards make formation. Aria insists on leaving money for the merchant’s hospitality as well as the wine.

“I wouldn’t say you’re missing out on much, your grace,” you say as Aria scowls and hands the skin to you “tent seller wine isn’t good for much but causing trouble and then trying to forget it after.”

She gives you a look and purses her lips, coming dangerously to a pout as you start to walk back towards the castle. “A taste couldn’t hurt” she muttered

You chuckle, “As you say, your grace. Maybe you can have your taste another day.” 
~
Marching with the retinue back through the gates of Dennerset Palace, you silently remark upon the state of Esserith’s defenses. Well and truly, this was a palace of beauty and pleasure, but its delicately styled walls and low surrounding walls were far from up to Mahalaraoth standards. Such deference to the eye rather than strength was almost an affront to your people’s sensibilities. In your country, use of its plentiful quarries and natural hill fortifications allowed even a poor chieftain to defend his Hold against a much larger foe. It is not pleasant images that come forth when you imagine what would have transpired if the fury of Osthber’s armies had fallen upon this place.

Rows of low hide tents marred the tender scenery of the palace’s expansive gardens. One of the chieftains and his army had already returned to their Hold, payments of gold and silver, plus gifts of local make, and plunder taken from the defeated wolf-men in battle claimed for tribute to the great warchief in Tavok. The army of Ot-Kalar hunted the countryside, combing for straggling remains of the enemy, and Ot-Boro’s stood on the new borderland, vigilant for a betrayal and renewed incursion from Osthber. Only your own chieftain, Ot-Thezek remained in the capital. 

From the looks of things, they were preparing to leave.

The doorway into the palace yawned wide and the collection of soldiers and attendants filed in. Pausing at the door you bid the princess pause. 

“Your grace, with your leave I would return to my chieftain’s camp and speak with him.” Aria craned her neck and shielded her eyes against the sun, looking out at the activity among the tents.

“Is his lordship Ot-Thezek preparing to depart the city?” she paused for a moment “and are you?”

You had received no orders or other communications indicating such. “I know not. I would speak with him and ask as much.”

She nods “You may go. And tell him that he is welcome to be a guest at my family’s table should he wish to honor us with his company,” You bow and turn away from the group, moving on towards the Mahalaraoth camp.

It is indeed a great commotion in the camp. All around the work of decampment buzzes. Tents are collapsed and folded, barrels and sacks loaded into carts, horses and oxen fixed with reins and yokes. You dodge the bunches of laboring warriors, greeting some as you pass, as you make your way to the wide, low tent of the chieftain. The chief’s guardians thump their spears against the dirt in salute and you clap a fist to your hip in reply before walking past and inside.
Ot-Thezek is crouched low on the ground where a spike of sunlight fell through the smoke gap of the tent, picking at a tray of roasted dove with one hand while shuffling through a pile of parchments with the other. He glances up quickly, pointed black beard swaying with the jerk of his head, and then back at the parchment before him.

“That was quick,” he says through a full mouth “Didn’t even get a chance to finish a damn bite of my food.”

You bow. “What was, Iduk?” you ask, using the proper term for addressing one’s chief.

Ot-Thezek swallows and rises to his full, formidable height, the tangles of polished brass and dyed thread woven into his hauberk rustling against one another. “I sent Bandas to bring you here, did he not?”

“Haven’t seen him Iduk, I noticed the commotion around the camp and came to find you.”

Ot-Thezek blinked and then smiled, chuckling. “Ach, now I’ll have to send a messenger to make sure my other messenger isn’t out combing the outskirts of the kingdom to find my captain.” You laugh as well, and take the wineskin from your belt, bowing slightly and offering it to the chieftain

“Have we been ordered back to Mahalaraoth then, or joining the others in the countryside?”

Ot-Thezek looks at the skin and his brow furrows. “Better keep that drink, lad; you won’t be going anywhere.”

You blink. “But the army’s packing up, aren’t we leaving?”

“WE are leaving. The warchief is recalling my clan warriors back to Tavok, and the other armies away from the Osthber border, they’ll probably be sent home as well soon enough. Probably wants us to pack up before the Esserith royals have to ask us to get out of their garden,” Ot-Thezek walks to the table standing in the tent and leans against the wooden surface “but he wants you to stay in Dennerset. 

“The royal family has agreed to keep you as the princess’ protector, as a continued show of friendship between theirs and ours.”

Your stomach roils in a way completely unrelated to its emptiness. You’ve found no particular quarrel with your time Esserith, but it had been a time of warfighting and a few months keeping an eye on the princess, familiar enough. To remain here though, with such vague notions of time and purpose, this was beyond his comfort…

Your dismay was evident, and Ot-Thezek gave a sympathetic grimace, stepping over to where you stand and collecting the parchments from the ground. “It’s a hefty honor on the Voyaire’s part.”

“Hang the Voyaire’s honors,” you mutter sourly before you can stop yourself. Ot-Thezek’s fist slams hard and fast into the soft spot of your stomach, and even with your armor the wind is torn from your lungs. You half crouch and cough, drawing in ragged breaths. A strong hand clamps your shoulder and jerks you back up.

“Mouth off like that in front of the Voyaire’s and you’ll face worse than getting beaten like a fresh recruit!” your chieftain hisses, giving you a half-hearted shove. You stumble and bow your head deep.

“Forgive me, Iduk,” you croak.

Ot-Thezek sighs and squeezes your shoulder again, this time firm but gently. “It’s a kick in the teeth, I know. But it is a handsome position to get. All that land we beat out of Osthber? Word is good that the Esserith royals will parcel out some to the clans’ best. A noble’s title, and clay to build something good and strong on, that’s what you’re looking at, if you don’t cock it up for yourself.”

You cough and wipe your mouth. You imagine it. As a high officer under Ot-Thezek you enjoy many privileges, but to receive clay of one’s own in exchange for fighting in another land? It was what many clan warriors dreamed of. “Yes…” you manage, dazed a little from the blow mostly from this news.

The squeeze is replaced with an encouraging thump on your back. “I know you’ll manage fine, lad, that’s why I picked you for the spot when the warchief asked.”

At the moment you may not have thought much of Voyaire honors, but the praise of your chief, and through him the approval of your warchief, sends a fierce wave a pride through you that makes you stand up straighter.

“Now, find an armorer and have him give your blades a look over, and jump in the river if you have to, but do something about that stink on you, the royal family wants you to join them for dinner. If you’re going to stick around, they can’t have the warchief’s best lad eating like a beast in a tent on the gardens.”

“Like ‘his lordship’ Ot-Thezek?” even the remaining dull ache in your side can’t keep your mouth shut. The chieftain laughs raucously and walks with you to the entrance of the tent.

“Get along then, the palace servants should have a quarters prepared for you where you can wash. Clean up and show their majesties proper manners!”

“I’ll charm my way right into the family,” you chuckle.
~
	
In your land it was accepted, and even common-often by necessity-to take one’s meals as they came, whether that meant in full armor or arms drawn and in hand. Among the people of Esserith, it was neither common nor particularly necessary. So after washing your face in the basin provided in the chamber you had been led to by the palace servants and rubbing oil infused with strong herbs into your hair and beard, and changing clothes, you were escorted through the winding palace halls with your sword belt adorned with a single short sword, and no more armor than your woolen tunic.

You had met the royal family before, after a fashion, when after the Osthber forces had been fought to submission he and other clan officers had been presented into the service of the family. King Erren dominated the dining hall, if not by stature then by opulence. He and the queen Rivela wore a trove of gold and jewels; in their tall, heavy crowns and thick rings on the digits of their clawed paws, in glittering necklaces and threads of silver woven into their luxurious clothing. The queen even bore several intricate casts of gold in place of pointed teeth.

The crown princess Odette was similarly radiant, but claimed your attention not by the wealth adorning her person or the full figure she possessed beneath it, but the intensity of her lidded green gaze, which you had felt burning on your skin then entire time you bowed and went through the entire Mahalaraoth customary obeisance to royalty, and on after you were seated until the meals were presented.

You dined next to a buffer of several senior members of the royal household, and spent much of the time relaying what knowledge you possessed on the goings on of the clan warriors and remnants of the war. Aria in particular had asked almost insatiably about your homeland, the other campaigns with which you had fought in different countries, until the queen had bid her cease her pestering.

All of the canine royals had seemed to immediately notice the pungent character of the oils you had applied, as were traditional formal accompaniment, and the frequent pulsing of their dark noses was fortunately never paired with signs of displeasure.

It was not over-late when the king declared that you would be accompany princess Aria with the royal family and other representatives of Esserith tomorrow to receive the arriving retinue of prince Gaven of Juler. You were able to hide your disdain, but noticed Aria’s lip rise in a quick snarl of disgust. Well after the intervention of the clan-armies began to turn back the tide of Osthber’s assault, Juler’s royals had found enough spines between them to send their army forth to join the fight. 

Your people had never let their dislike of the gutless felines air publically, but in the few months of the war that Juler had been a part of, they had managed to prove little more than as irksome as they were unnecessary. You could remember Ot-Boro frequently opine that a single clan-army would fight better than all of Juler’s lollygagging legions.

Still, they had joined the fight, however little fighting they managed, and thus could not be officially derided or censured.

After that, you were dismissed to the dining hall’s antechamber allow the family to finish in private. And you waited, feeling out of place from your usual routine of rejoining your clan-mates after leaving the princess in the care of her other guards.

In time, the dining hall door opened and Aria stepped out into the chamber. Compared to the distracting gaudiness of her senior family’s trappings, the flowing maroon gown and comparatively small tiara crowning her seemed like peasant’s garb. But the warm light from the chamber hearth rippling on her soft fur made her seem a hundred times more real. The ruddy glow of the firelight made her round, friendly eyes shimmer like sapphires, yet more entrancing than the large gem set into her tiara.

You realize what you just thought and your face erupts with heat, and you pray the light disguises the color in your cheeks.

The princess smiles her usual wide grin and yawns. “I’ve had just about enough talk of Juler, much less the thought of receiving their prince tomorrow,” she makes an exaggerated face of dread “come, I should like to find refuge in my dreams while I still may.”

She sets off down the halls with you following. As you walk, you talk of the day, of the elation she felt being free to roam after the long harrowing time of the war, and chatted excitedly about plans for future excursions, speaking of beautiful places and ancient retreats in the countryside she wished to visit.

All too soon you reached her chamber doors. As usual, you give a deep bow to the princess. Aria smirks at your formality and makes an exaggerated mimicry of your movement. As she does, the tiara slips forward from its mooring and tumbles forward. Aria makes a halted squeal of panic and ducks quickly, just as you dart forward and snatch up the golden piece just before it hits the stone floor.

Aria clutches at thin air, and looks up, and for perhaps the first time her face is level with yours, and but inches away. You find yourself transfixed for but a moment in her wide, searching eyes, when suddenly she closes the gap. Silky strands of fur brush your face and you feel hot, rapid breath on your skin and feel the slightly moist twitching flesh nudge against the hollow of your throat where you had smeared scented oil and belatedly you realize the princess is sniffing you. 

The intrusion lasts less than a moment, less than you had spent gazing into Aria’s eyes before she jerks back and up, covering her mouth with her hands, eyes wide as saucers. You rise suddenly and stiffly as well, bewildered and feeling too many other things to think properly. You wordlessly hand the tiara forward. Aria, green cheeks burning red like hot coals, snatches the tiara and scuttles forward, swiftly throwing open the chamber door and slamming it shut.

You stand in the now silent hall, heart pounding. You wipe your damp palms on your tunic and shakily begin walking down and to your quarters. Feeling something like sick with something like exhilaration, you cannot dispel the sight of Aria’s luminous eyes, so close to yours. You realize, heart fluttering, that during that moment of unspeakable closeness, her fur brushing your skin, you had smelled her too.

This profound instant of connection racing through your soul, you had but one coherent thought.

Your cock has never been so hard in all of your life.