The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

“Perhaps you could show me your town,” he suggests, still slightly irritated, “then I have a picnic planned for us for lunch.”

“A picnic?” she says, adding some fake excitement as she leads him down the steps and towards the town center.

“Yes, my dear. It will actually be my first. In Alumenia we do not have such wide, open spaces outside. My sources say that it is a good way to stem a romance.”

She smiles at his attempt to woo her, though her heart remains cold and lifeless. The remainder of their morning is spent wandering through the various shops displaying the Derven wares. All of the owners and citizens bow in awe of the pair, fooled by Irron’s good looks and Namora’s excellent acting. When they finally reach the last shop, a knife shop, Irron is beside himself.

He picks up a beautifully made, dark wooden knife. The one piece construction features a blade of the same wood. He runs a finger along the edge, leaving behind a line of blood as the blade slices through his skin. He examines the finely made, leather sheath.

“You Dervens can make just about anything out of wood, can’t you?” he mumbles to Namora. He turns to her, curious yet skeptical, “What would a wooden knife be used for?”

She smiles, seeing the nervous shop owner hover by them, “Hunting. Mostly small game, but it is strong enough to clean a deer with. The down fall is that the blade can’t be resharpened as much as a metal one, for obvious reasons.” After seeing Irron continue to examine the weapon, she can see that he wants it, if for no other reason than novelty. She turns to the shop owner.

“John, how much would you ask for the knife?”

He shifts awkwardly, smoothing his hair back, “For my Lady, a deer would cover it.”

Irron looks confused, “You don’t use money?”

“There are a few shops that do, those who deal mainly with the peddlers, but as a whole we purchase on the barter system,” she says to him before turning back to the owner, “Now John, don’t be modest on account of us, I know this is worth more. What would you charge your neighbor?”

“Well,” he pauses, as if almost embarrassed to mention it to the Princess, “An elk or at least six tiger pelts, but I would never expect our Princess to pay for anything.”

Namora gives him a look, as if to say she would never take anything from him for free. Irron rustles around in his inside coat pocket and pulls out a silver coin, about the width of an egg. He hands it to the shop owner, “Would this cover it? I know you don’t use money, but it is silver. You could trade it to the jeweler for something you want.”

“Oh no, King Irron, I couldn’t accept that… it is too much and I do not have enough in my shop to pay you the difference,” by now the owner is sweating profusely.

Namora stays out of their discussion, wondering how it will end up. The shop owner is right; while a silver coin in Alumenia might not buy bushel of fresh vegetables, in Derven it is worth six times the owner’s price.

Irron insists and places the coin in the owner’s hand, “It is the smallest I have on me, so I suppose you will just have to keep the rest for yourself. It truly is a fine knife,” he adds and before the owner can object further Irron leaves the shop. Namora bids him farewell and follows Irron. Though his gesture seems generous, she knows that wood is an expensive commodity in Alumenia. As Derven only exports furniture, handmade wood wares are extremely valuable in other countries. A wooden knife like this one could be worth as much as a horse in Geofen.

“Astounding,” Irron says, tying the knife to his belt loop, “I would have never dreamed of a wooden knife. How is it that it says so strong and sharp? What kind of wood is it?” He once again takes Namora’s arm and begins to head south of town, where the small cluster of his troops are camped.

Slightly irritated at his amazement, Namora replies, “There are many types of trees that grow in Derven. Your knife comes from the burwood tree; there aren’t many of them. Instead of seeding, once a burwood tree dies, its roots spring up another in the same place. It is a very tough, impervious and stubborn tree; it takes a lot to kill one and most die of old age.”

“They aren’t cut down while alive?”

“No, not that one. It is a coveted symbol of our nation, almost sacred. No one would dare kill a living burwood. Most knives are carved from branches that the tree sheds. There hasn’t been a dead burwood tree harvested since before I was born. Aside from that, the extremely dense bark makes a living one almost impossible to chop down.”

Despite her distaste of Irron, she is somewhat hopeful for their picnic. Perhaps seeing the man in a very human sort of situation will help add to his character. As they soon leave the town behind, only followed by her chaperone, the pair nears the Alumenian camp. When they are close, the soldiers stand in a line at attention for their King; he simply ignores them and continues walking to an elaborate looking, golden canvas tent. Namora’s hopes are crushed when she realizes that Irron hasn’t the slightest clue as to what a picnic actually entails. With three sides of the tent drawn up, the fourth blocks out the warm sunlight, casting a shadow inside of it. Elegant, plush carpets crushing the grass below, a small table is formally set up in the center with two chairs opposite each other and a smorgasbord of cold meats, cheese, bread and fruit make up the spread.

Irron pulls out Namora’s chair for her-she attempts to smile thankfully. He sits opposite her and tries to make small talk while loading his plate. Holding up a flesh colored, fuzzy fruit, he inquires, “What is this?”

“A peach.”

“A peach?” he says in disbelief, “This is what it looks like fresh?”

Namora gives him a curious look, chewing slowly on a bite of cheese.

He back tracks a little, obviously slightly embarrassed by his astonishment, “We don’t get very many fresh fruits or vegetables in Alumenia, only the ones that are hardy enough to make the trip up the narrow mountain side. Most of what we get is dried,” he bites into the juicy fruit and for a moment Namora is able to see him as a person.

“That sounds… depressing,” she confesses; Irron laughs slightly. “What kind of meat do you have there?”

Wiping the juice off of his chin with a cloth, he speaks freely, “The same as you, though like the fruit, most of it is dried. The only fresh meat we get in abundance is mountain goat. There are several of them that live wild in Alumenia.”

Namora finds the thought of eating goats somewhat disgusting; the goats of Derven are kept not for their meat but for their milk, which is made in to cheese.

While Irron continues praising the taste of the fresh fruit, he nods to Jones who is standing at the edge of the tent. Namora can hear him walk to the small buffet and uncork a wine bottle, no doubt the ‘special wine’ Irron was talking about the night before. While answering a question of his, Namora explains the harvest season, her free hand drifting over her empty wine glass, signaling to Jones that she does not want any. The Advisor hesitates, fills up Irron’s glass before setting the bottle down on the table and leaving.

As she finishes her explanation, she can see anger grow in Irron’s eyes. He takes the bottle and pours her a glass, his voice as thick as the wine itself, “You must try some of this, my love. It is my own personal creation.”

She smiles, trying to diffuse his anger, “Thank you, but I mustn’t.” Not only does she not trust her tongue to stay still while under the influence, she highly suspects that Irron is trying to either poison or drug her.

“Please, I insist,” his voice is frigid.

Looking down at the glass of wine, she is quick to come up with an excuse, “I am sorry, Irron, but I cannot. It is tradition.”

“You do not drink?” he questions, aggravated.

“I do, but… in Derven, when a woman gets engaged it is tradition for her to give up her most favorite food until her wedding day. As most give up bread, before you arrived I chose to give up spirits,” she looks back up at him, her face forming a convincing sincerity, “You see, as a woman’s life could never be complete without the love of a man, so must her meals be lacking as well,” her stomach tumbles in knots as she forces her hand to slide across the table to find his, “As my life will not be complete until I marry you, I shall not enjoy a complete meal until that happens.”NôvelDrama.Org holds this content.

“I see,” he responds coolly, almost convinced but not entirely.

Namora drops her eyes, speaking softly so that her voice comes out timid despite the fierce rage that boils inside of her, “So on our wedding night, I will share a glass of wine with you, as well as other things…”

When he squeezes her hand, she keeps her eyes down; his voice is flush with desire, “Perhaps we shouldn’t wait that long to… share other things…”

She clenches her jaw, “But it is tradition.”

“Then maybe we can start a new tradition,” his free hand finds her chin and tips it up so that she has no choice but to look into his dark, dull eyes.

Letting the rage inside flare up to her cheeks, she can feel them begin to burn. Irron mistakes her blushing for embarrassment, to which he smiles at her. He lingers for a moment before rising. Walking around the table to her chair, he rests his hands on the back of it. He leans forward, his cheek brushing her ear while he plants a small kiss on her bare neck. The idea of any man touching her so, infuriates her. With Irron parading her around on his arm like a pet and making passes at her, she has never had so much contact with a man outside of training with Laren.

“Shall we head back to the castle, my love?”