Legends of Belariath


Gentle Snow - Aila's Story

Aila was the daughter of a songstress, whose long black hair was so full of luster, one could see a shaded mirror of themselves against it, her mother had deep, dark pools of which many had lost themselves in, and a voice, that turned took the will out of the legs and forced them to sit until it was finished. She loved none of them, though her heart was poured into the performances, she loved a single person, a high elf, a man of whom she had left the stage for, never to appear again before the public eye.

They were often tangled, and their sweat drenched bodies fit so perfectly, it was far too clear to them that there was no better match, not that they need such reassurance. He loved her voice, it called to him each moment, each day, and he seemed endlessly virile because of it.  He could not be satisfied, until his body could take no more, until she could take no more. After many collapses, the mattress had found a home on the floor, and it was stained with the couplings, and would always carry their mutual scent, it was impossible, at least very nearly, for them to be near it, and not find themselves in throws of passion.

Nothing slowed as she became pregnant, perhaps even increased as tapered off his life's work in order to devote more time to caring for her during this crucial stage. Idle hands had damned him though, without his distractions from her, he drew more perverted in his desires, and she, cowed by this new side of him, submitted beneath the endless hours of ties, of whips, of uses that he devised for her swelling form.

He became a fool though, though the love and passion was still him, it became clouded by lust, and far greater perversion. He thrilled at the idea of silencing her beautiful mouth, gags that would part her teeth and allow him to plunge his potent length into her throat, to sate his momentary desire.  He left her in the cold, enjoyed her shivering form and those full rounded breasts that drew tips so hard that they were nearly tiny pebbles in his grasp. 

He soon knew no limits, and provided her no reprieve, and while she loved him, her trust was ill founded. He had left her to shiver the entire day with snow, with bone chilling cold, while he had slumbered before a crackling fire. He slept far too long, paid too little attention to her erotically trembles, as they slowly filled with danger rattling shake.  He was lulled form pleasant dream with his lustful length nudging toward his stomach, he rose slow, and moved to the window to view his devious tie, but the night had come, and chill ran through his spine and stole away his lust.

She had become sick, and was so for many months, and once again their relationship had changed, she was a wilting flower now, and he, toiled endlessly to see her bloom as she had been.  She passed away during the birth of the child, a child of which possessed a icy, incriminating stare about her, and the that same voice that haunted him with her every little desire.   For a while, for what seemed an eternity, because of guilt, because of a broken heart of his own device, he obeyed her.  Yet, to hear her voice slowly developing voice was a damning thing.

It was a cold day, and huddled her close to his chest as his feet punched the icy surface, and sunk downward into a snowy core. He had left the village, but was assured of his return. It was a days trek, and they camped, huddled together for warmth, the glass bottles the contained milk from other mothers served to feed the child that he could not.  He walked with a purpose during day, as wrung his interiors, his intentions fully known to him. “Silence her”

He’d beg the woman, the decrepitly aged face, the humans got after only a small handful of years, yet, they lived like exploding stars.   A long shaft of willow bark, with teeth upon a single edge slipped passed wailing child's lips. They were the last cries that would halt his ears, as the further sounds were nothing more then helpless mewls, as blood pooled into her stomach. She would never know a world where she could speak, never enjoy a conversation, and never torment her father, with a voice that drew back memories of his foolish lust.

They returned home with little affair, under instruction, he laced all milk that passed her lips with the slightest hint of potion, enough so that she cease to bleed, and never enough that the vocals that damned him would heal.  The years slipped through his fingers, and he could find himself only drawing further and further inward by the passing month. He had silenced her voice, yet, it remained within his mind, she as he had discovered, was a distraction from the loss, and the consequence of his actions.

Spring came many times, and that little girl he had name Aila blossomed, yet damning so. She seemed spinning image of her mother, frozen, bound naked to three. Her hair was like snow, avalanche of white the cascaded over her shoulders. Her eyes, frosted dark pools that sent shivers of chill down his spine.  She need him, everyday she needed his warmth, his arms, and everyday his fingers would explore further, dare more to touch that budding flesh. She was a pale wintry thing, and he had forgotten himself, and with it, the once little girl.

In the wake of the defeat of his mind,  the perversion took root, and it was like no time had passed at all, and for him, of such long life, it was such a little span. His work begun to slip again, in a place where his sanity had already left.  He devoured that pale flesh in every way,  he rutted her endless, and she, whom knew no better, crooned close to that perversion, and begun to form that hidden thing inside of her. That seemingly hopeless desire for romance.

There were years like this, her white flesh drew much attention, and he tried his best shade it in a manner he deemed fitting. He drew long angry welts against it, coloured it pink from firmer and firmer slaps the crackled at all times of the day.  His entire imagination was spent devising ways to coax those pathetic sounds from her lips, and he indeed let her know how pathetic they were.  All the while, he could never conceive that he was destroying himself.

It was a morning, as he rolled over to slide his thickened length into her twitching folds when it tumbled over him. He could not hide forever from his own acts, as he slid inside and moaned from tightness. He stared down at her, but, could no longer see that toy, that little slut he bent to his will.  White hair had become black in his mind, the luster shone back his reflection and he shrank because of it. His stomach heaved, and he stumbled away from that bed, the belly of sin.  He wretched, and stormed from the home.

He would never returned.

The community was small, he hardly left without notice, stumbling naked through the shared pathways that wand across the forest floor. They took no pity on the girl, for she, a of sensual curves, rendered her own fathers mind to rot win perversion.  They cast her out, and gave her very little for her trouble, they need not be shouldered with such a vile thing as she. She was left to wander, and no beautiful thing can wander long without daring capture.

Aila held within her that hopeless desire for affection, for crooning touch of a lover, though found herself mostly beneath sweat covered forms that sought only to empty their vile seed within her clenching sex.  Many of these encounters were so brief, that those that bent the girl to their momentarily will would have never known that she rendered mute. A shy girl, a blush, soft frosted dark eyes sought through snowy white hair, whose purpose became little more then a handle to drag her delicate mouth onto.

Some took her for a time, with her slender legs coiled around them from behind, as her bare bottom clapped gently against the leather saddle of horse or mule.  Interesting times were those individuals who rode bareback, and often her sex would be angled downward into that rough, coarse hair.  It is expensive though, for many of those vagabonds to carry with them a slave whose purpose was merely to satisfy desire as it perked and tented their pants. Some had taken to selling service, though in a place where sex was a increasingly free thing, it was hard sell.

Few of them took time to care for her appearance, her hair would become oily, and tangled, her skin marred with dirt, and dried cum of the previous nights encounters. She had begun to look ragged, and thinned as they rarely shared their meals with her, they often could only afford to feed themselves, and she made do with the scraps left behind, should there be any. This made the momentary sale of her flesh even more difficult, because while there was still underlining beauty there, she was, increasingly ratty under their thoughtless care.

During particularly hard times, she was sold to a more permanent owner. The buyer was a mistress of a tavern, that was in need of tantalizing flesh that could keep the regulars coming back, and she could see passed disheveled and tangled locks, the oily shimmer that had settled onto that pale, grimy skin. She made sure to pay little though, yet the seller felt rich from the exchange, having long forgotten the exotic beauty of the creature beneath.

It took time, and a great deal of patience, but that willowy, half starved naked thing was soon transformed. Her pale flesh filled out into gentle curves once more, and showed no more signs of protruding bone, her hair, took back its natural luster, and shone with all the bright of a pale wintry sky cast across a snowy ground. All new girls were favorites, and put through the paces at the end of countless customers, the regulars kept their clients, and none of them were paid, nor did the tavern receive money for their efforts, the coin was spent on the rooms, the food, the drink, and the time was complimentary.

It was slow to become obvious though, but this girl that was taken in, was a dangerous one.  She was innocent, no matter how perverted the act befallen, she would turn herself back into that simple, soft, caring creature as before.  The danger fell in her hidden desires, she could not speak, but her actions spoke volumes, and it was easy to become attached. She caressed, she kissed, she loved each of them, that showed even the slightest kindness like long lost lovers and love was rare thing, in a world where sex was pawned easily.

People became jealous, as the pale girl was led to the stairs by another, tempers fueled the drinking, though it was only a momentary profit, as fights broke out, and many things were damaged in the process.  It only became worse as time passed, as people drew further attached to her, and while she was innocent, seeking an affectionate embrace where ever she could find it, her time within the walls warmed walls of the tavern were numbered.   The mistress, now several years older, could no longer foresee a future for such a dangerous object within her property.

While she felt, somewhat the plight of the girl, she took her first chance to sell her, and emptied with her many of the girls who were passed their prime to a slaver that was headed toward Nanthalion, one of the largest known cities throughout the empire. Her trip was rendered short lived though, as turmoil had struck the land, and rebels taken increasing control of the trade routes. They struck the caravan, killed the drivers, and plundered the saleable goods inside.  It was then she had found herself again, over horseback awaiting a new future amongst the raging chaos.

Even that did not last long as the lone rebel spied soldiers from the empire, and made hasty retreat into the thick forest, jostling his prize off in the process. She landed heavily, and stayed for time, there sprawled across broken branches, and protruding rocks.  The risk was too great for him to return, yet, the fear was all in his mind, as the soldiers from empire continued on the lazy winding path the streaked across the untamed land.

Again, she had been left alone, and again she had wandered across loose soil, and upturned roots.  She little clothing, a simple loin clothe brushed over her slender folds, and the wind seemed to remain dutiful in its attempt to send icy breath against the barest, most tender areas.  When she arrived in town, she was half frozen, and viewed the endless shops and homes, closed by the chaos of a place under grips of a power struggle.  She was lured by that single place, the tall, wide building promised warmth, and the potential for companionship, if only fleeting.

Aila coiled her slender fingers found the handle, and she was slow to push, rushed with the smells, the sounds of sex, as if once more she was invited into her second home. A home in the Lonely Inn.