Recent content by Faustina

Faustina's features petrified. Then she felt a terrible flush crawling up her neck and heating up her cheeks. Briskly, she turned away. Composed herself. She knew soldiers could be crude, but to this degree? This she had been unprepared for. "N-no, I am no saint. I do not, as you say, throw...

"He does." Her words filled the air in the tent with a perculiarly charged energy. Wind rustled through the flaps, fluting through every crevice and hole. Faustina's declaration lingered like a persistent aroma, such as might be found with the smell of incense lingering long after the candles...

A bell struck her mind. Visions rushed past. She saw Captain Thraah engaged in an act of unbridled lust with a tall, dark gentleman, holding his hand, their foreheads touching in the night. Another of Thraah making a leap for the heavens, arms fanned out, reaching for a disembarking ship. A...

Having followed Thraah with a pensive frown into the tent, Faustina looked positively horrified at the blase drinking. She bit her lower lip and nodded, still with a frown of worry painted on her otherwise smooth face. A flush built up in her cheeks at the comment, anger and humiliation scaling...

Faustina let out a sigh of relief, feeling as if she had held her breath throughout this exchange. Could she truly have done it? It almost seemed too good to be true. And yet, Captain Thraah held such an easy assurance about her, that it would simply be done by her willing it. Faustina allowed...

The monja's head swam with Thraah's instruction. Could it be this enemy captain was . . . helping her? Inconceivable. Unless, of course, she had in fact managed to pull some sway of mercy from Thraah. But a knot in her stomach told her the captain might well be negotiating terms in her own...

Faustina swallowed. In all her young life, she had never engaged in something like this before. By the captain's informal demeanour, it seemed her counterpart rarely engaged in diplomacy either. But when the boulder of a trebuchet had ended the commander's tale as a bloody smear against the...

Faustina del Morevo awaited patiently in camp, draped in the grey and gold robes of a monja: one ungifted in magic, but blessed in other areas. Her braided hair formed a thick halo about her head, the rest spilling down behind her in cresting, dark-brown waves, almost as long as her cloak...