The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

While no female is allowed to marry in Derven until they have killed a brush tiger either by themselves or in a group, many say that it satisfies the desire for excitement and recklessness and that after the hunt, a young girl is able to see reason and choose her partner sensibly.

While Jackson builds up a fire, Gregory does his best to clean a pheasant he shot with his bow. He knows how to field dress it and he slices it down the belly, removing all of the entrails. After the easy part is done, he has a hard time trying to figure out what to do next. He decides to chop off its head and then starts plucking its feathers, throwing them carelessly everywhere.

Namora gets up and walks over to him. He shifts nervously when she stands in front of him, unsure if he is supposed to take a knee in her presence or if he is just supposed to bow. Gregory resorts to just standing there, waiting for her to initiate conversation.

“Would you like help?” She ignores his confusion, not bothered at all. She can tell that the stubbornness of Derven is stronger in him than most; even though he doesn’t know what to do, he definitely doesn’t want to ask for help and especially not from the Princess.

“Tamera usually does this…” he says quietly while he continues to pull feathers out of the bird.

Namora holds out her hand to him, waiting for the pheasant. He looks at her clean, soft hand, no doubt thinking that putting a dead animal against her skin would be like rubbing horse dung into the carpets of the castle. It takes a few moments for him to come to terms with her request and reluctantly he hands over the pheasant.

She quickly puts her small hands into the opening on its belly, sliding her fingers between the meat and the bird’s skin, pulling it away from its body. Within a few minutes, she has the whole skin, feathers and all, removed from the bird. After inspecting her work for flaws, she hands it back to the Officer.

“The only way to make sure you get all of the feathers off of the bird is to dunk it in scalding water first. Even though you can get out all of the big ones, without the hot water there will still be hundreds of tiny ones that don’t pull out very well. Since we aren’t in a position to do so, the next best thing is to skin it before roasting,” when his odd look makes her shift uncomfortably, she busies herself by looking for something to clean her hands with, “Since pheasants are so fatty, it shouldn’t dry out too much…” She uses a water canteen to wash them before rubbing her hands dry with the fabric from hem of her skirt.

He continues to look at her odd, trying to suppress his surprise at her knowledge “I wouldn’t have thought the Princess has skinned a pheasant before…”

Franklin wanders back into camp and dumps an armful of wood next to the fire by Jackson. He stands straight, rubbing the small of his back and chuckles at Gregory, “Princess Namora cannot only skin a pheasant, she can kill one too. In fact, she might be able to skin you before you realize what is happening. The Princess is the Head Huntress, after all. That isn’t a title that the women of Derven give up freely to anyone-it is a title that has to be earned the hard way.”

Gregory looks at Franklin, his surprise now showing in the open, “No, I didn’t know that. The women in my life don’t openly talk about what happens in the Festival…” he looks back at Namora.This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org.

She smiles back at him, “Of course they don’t. If they did, you would know we only hunt at night. That leaves all day long to talk about politics, fighting, men… love… By the way, congratulations on your engagement, Officer. Tamera will make you a good wife.” She winks at him, smiling at the stunned look on his face before taking a seat on the ground next to the laughing Franklin. His voice warms her more than the fire, offering familiarity and comfort despite the odd situation. Never, under normal circumstances, would she be sitting on the ground, alone in the woods with three men. She imagines that maybe her and Franklin are married, traveling to Geofen to negotiate the price of fish. Even if he were King, his normal up bringing would no doubt encourage some informal chatter like this.

Over supper and around the campfire, Gregory and Jackson begin to warm up to Namora. Without her crown or the oppression of duty weighing her down, they find her easy to be around. Each of them begins to act like a man should around an attractive woman, trying to impress her with a story of their cunning intelligence or how they avoided a fight, both trying to out to the other. She listens earnestly, reacting with shock or laughter or fear when it is called for, pretending that she is just a normal woman. But it is Namora who manages to impress them with a few tales of the Huntress Festival and how she was finally elected Head Huntress five seasons back.

They eat, laugh and talk into the late stages of night. When the moon is high and Namora is finally so tired she can barely keep her eyes open, Franklin forces her to part their company and return to the carriage. She doesn’t want to, however; she wants to lay by the fire where the heat warms her cold heart. She wants to lie next to Franklin, wondering what it would be like to be held by a man who could possibly see her as a companion instead of a possession. But as soon as she stands, the coldness of the night creeps through her skin and deep into her heart, shutting down all of its irrational wants. She drags herself back to the carriage and bidding her friends a quiet ‘good night’ she shuts the door behind her, knocking her heart down again. The dainty smells of flowers and herbs that accompany almost all royal things is soon over took by the hearty scent of roasting pheasant and burning cedar that emanates from her hunting dress.

She lays back on one of the cushioned benches, not only physically tired but mentally and emotionally tired from the constant fight she has with herself. She rubs her eyes and almost scratches herself with her engagement ring. Looking at it in disgust, Namora wraps her fingers around her hunting knife so that she can’t see the band any more. She wishes that she could live a few more simple nights of roasted meat and campfires and hopes despite the impossibility of it all, that the burwood tree blocking the road never gets removed.

CHAPTER 11: CAPTURE

Namora sits up so suddenly the blood rushes to her head. Still half asleep she feels confused about where she is or how long she has been out. Her heart pounds in her chest, unsure about what woke her up so quickly. Smelling the campfire on her clothes she remembers that she is in the carriage, in the forest just off of the public road. She sits very still, straining to hear the silence outside. Though her pounding heart rocks her body, she forces herself to discount her worry when she hears nothing more. Just as she is about to lay back and try to fall asleep again a loud shout, some ways off, reaches her ears.

Despite her better judgment to remain inside, she hastily pushes open the carriage door with her free hand, the other still wrapped tightly over her knife. She steps out into the cool night. Franklin’s shirtless body glows in the dying firelight, Jackson just behind him. Both stand tensely, hands wrapped around the hilts of drawn swords. Namora comes up behind the Captain, her fingertips touching his bare skin; he is warm despite the crisp air. She whispers softly, worried, “Where is Officer Gregory?”

He looks at her when she touches him; a faint longing in his eyes. “He went into the woods to keep watch over the camp,” he says after he moves closer to her. She isn’t sure if he does it so she can hear him better or out of a desire to be nearer.

Namora’s eyes wander off into the dark night, straining to see any sign of Gregory; the three of them stand still, listening keenly for another sign of trouble. Just as the Captain relaxes a little and lowers his sword, an unmistakable, blood curdling scream pierces through the trees. The hair rises on the back of her neck; she knows it is the last sound that Officer Gregory will make. Their horses scatter in a panic, breaking easily out of the rope corral when the desperate howls of dogs ring out. Namora hears the shouting of unfamiliar voices begin to draw near them.

Franklin steps in front of her, raising his sword. He harshly whispers an order over his shoulder to Jackson, “Take her!”

Jackson doesn’t need to hear any more. Without apology, he roughly grabs Namora’s wrist and begins to run, dragging the Princess behind him. The awkwardness of it takes her several steps to retain her balance. She isn’t used to anyone touching her roughly, let alone holding so tightly to her wrist. While she is capable of running in a dress and of running at night she has never done both at the same time; the combination of all three makes it difficult for her to keep up with Jackson. Behind her, she can hear metal screeching against metal. Two voices respond to the Captain’s angry shouts; he is outnumbered. Namora feels sick, thinking that she won’t ever see Franklin again. She wishes for his death to be quick.

Even though they got a head start and are running fast, the dogs close in on them. Namora stumbles over an unseen branch and falls to the ground; because of his tight grasp on her wrist, she drags Jackson down with her. There isn’t time to get up before the first dog reaches them. It leaps viciously towards Namora and latches onto her left calf, near her knee. She screams in pain through her clenched teeth and wrenches her hand free of Jackson to pull the sheath off of her knife. With one swift swing she slices the throat of the mutt. Jackson gets to his feet quickly. He slides his hands under Namora’s arms and pulls her up to a standing position; she growls with pain as he flings her left arm over his shoulder. Even though she is not heavy, she is shorter than him; as best as he can, he hunches over, trying to support her weight while continuing towards the road. He forces her to move fast.