The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

“Well, in Derven, brush tigers run bountifully in the forest,” Mora lets her eyes fall from James down to her hand as she begins to adjust the supple leather around each of her fingers, one at a time, “they earned the name because they bury their bodies deep within the brush thickets, to where they are impossible to get at. There used to be so many of them that they would come out during the day to kill the children playing in the villages. The men of Derven, like all men-with their unloving, cruel solutions,” her eyes flicker briefly to Rick, “thought the best way to solve the problem was to burn down the forest. Three villages were lost to the fires that they started, as were more people than the tigers originally killed.”

She squeezes her left hand into a fist, stretching the leather around her skin, “The women of Derven were not pleased. Collectively, they gathered up weapons and supplies and told the men that they would go into the forests and hunt down the tigers,” her right hand slides slowly into the other glove, “the men laughed. They thought that there was no way a group of small, delicate women could hunt down the brush tigers. You see, a good sized brush tiger is about, oh, about the size of a pony. Their fur is dark brown so they blend into the trees, their ears are tall, their hearing is sharp and they only come out at night, which means that they have extremely good vision. But-being native to Derven-the strong willed women marched off into the forest at sunset, willing to risk their lives to make a point to the men.”

Mora pauses, adjusting each finger of her right glove. She can see that everyone at the table has leaned in, captured by her story-that, her good story telling skills, she owes to Laren. She continues to let the tension grow until Lucas can’t stand the suspense any longer and blurts out, “Well, they all died, right?”

She smiles at him, “No; as a matter of fact, none of them died. Within a week’s time they slaughtered a few hundred of the brush tigers, knocking their population down to a manageable rate. Ever since then, twice a year, all of the women of Derven gather in the woods for the Huntress Festival. While it has become a rite of passage and a way to induct young girls into maturity, it still serves the purpose of keeping the brush tiger numbers under control.”

Having her gloves situated, Mora pulls the dagger out of the table. She examines it carefully, testing its weight in her hands. It is much lighter than her hunting knife and the blade is straight but she knows that won’t be an issue. “The Festival is led by a single woman, the Head Huntress. In order to obtain that title, she must have successfully killed five brush tigers by herself, with only a knife and her bare hands.”This content is © NôvelDrama.Org.

Mora looks up at Rick. His face is no longer cold; she can see remnants of his flirty attitude from the night before. She doesn’t care what she did to offend him. Her body, her soul, even her heart are stone: they are solid, strong and cold. When her heart does not race but instead remains steady, Mora knows that she will be able to make it through this week just fine.

Her fingers grasp the dagger by the tip. She continues her stare at Rick. She lifts her left arm over her head so swiftly that no one has time to react. By the time her arm jerks straight, fully extended to her side the dagger releases from her finger tips before anyone at the table has moved. In their delayed reaction they all jump from their chairs, ready to attack Mora to protect Rick-whom they think is her target. When they finally realize she doesn’t have the dagger anymore, they turn their heads swiftly when Todd screams in surprise. Rick’s eyes never leave hers.

The dagger flies so dangerously close to Todd’s face that he drops an armful of mugs out of shock. As her five companions realize she wasn’t trying to kill him either, the dagger slams into the wall behind the bar with a nice, solid sound, tucked neatly between two bottles of liquor.

The group stares at the knife, some thirty feet away. Todd scrambles to his feet, walking swiftly over to the bar. He has to pull out a stool and stand on it to reach the dagger. When he begins to make his way back to the table, Mora lets her eyes leave Rick’s and drop down to look at her empty glass. She carefully folds her hands in front of her, offering up a shy smile that captures everyone’s attention, “I have been the Head Huntress for five years now.”

Todd drops the knife down in the center of the table. On the end of it, a mouse twitches before it dies. He wipes his forehead off on his sleeve and fills up Mora’s glass, “I’d rather we leave the mice to the cats, Mora. I don’t think I could survive your quest to rid this place of vermin.”

. . . . .

The tavern fills up quickly that night. Only one Master comes in with his slave-a girl a few years younger than Mora. He makes her get them food and drinks from the bar before letting her sit on the floor next to him. After a majority of the tavern fills up, two women walk through the door. They aren’t dressed in pants like Mora or Sari, but in dresses.

The dresses they wear aren’t exactly what Mora would describe as flattering but the style might be lost on her conservative Derven mind. They are tight around the torso and the skirts don’t have enough fabric to allow for a free range of motion. The necklines plummet past good taste-with their breasts squeezed so close together she wonders how they keep them from popping out entirely. Both of them have big hair, painstakingly stacked as high on their heads as they could get it and their faces are each painted to match their dresses. The tall one in blue has overly thick matching make up around her eyes which make her seem extremely surprised, whereas the shorter, plump one in yellow’s make up only has the effect of making her appear ill.

She can’t help but look at the disaster with amusement, until she catches Sari shifting in her chair. When she turns back to the table, the irritation on Sari’s face is evident. Mora realizes why, when the two women plod over to them, smiling and winking at the hoots and hollers from the men they pass. As if entirely comfortable around Rick, the tall one sits in his lap lovingly while the shorter one attempts to perch her wide bottom on the arm of his chair.

“Hello Master Rickan,” they gush, almost in unison.

She clenches her jaw and looks at Sari, allowing herself to huff with some realization. Sari rolls her eyes before winking at Mora. Sari, ignoring the close proximity of the two women, raises her glass and drinks her wine.

“Ladies,” Rick says curtly. Though he doesn’t look happy to have them fawning over him, he doesn’t exactly shove them away.

Mora tears her eyes off of them, forcing herself to look at the table so that she doesn’t get angry with jealousy. She thinks she now realizes the kind of man the Queen entrusted her life to.

“Master Rickan,” the plump one says, trying to sound seductive, “Why do you stay in this dreary place? Come with us to the dance hall.”

“We promise to share you this time,” the other one chimes in.

“I’m free,” offers James, scooting out from the table and patting his lap, trying to get some attention. Daniel and Lucas snicker at him. When the ladies look up to James, who is sitting directly to Mora’s left, they spot her. She tries to keep her face blank but she has a hard time wiping off the vexed, smug smile on her face.

“What is this-do you have a new pet?” The one on Rick’s lap says, too overly excited.

“Rebecca, Fanny, please meet Mora. She is staying with me for the week,” his voice is calm.

“Lucky,” Fanny, the fat one mutters.

“What a pleasure to meet you!” Rebecca, the tall one pours out.

Forcing herself to look up for the introduction, Mora is unable to remove the hostile tone from her voice, “Charmed.”

“Mora is nobility from Derven,” Rick adds, drawing her attention to him; he searches her face for a reaction. She isn’t sure if he intentionally added ‘nobility’ to irritate her or the two women fondling him. They see the obvious threat in her eyes at their rivalry, even if he doesn’t. The frantic look in their faces lets her know that they view her as an obstacle in getting what they want from Rick.

Quickly they get up and scurry over to Mora. Rebecca perches herself on the edge of the table next to her, while Fanny stands too close to her side; she reaches out and grabs Mora’s braid.

“Oh do come with us, Master Rickan… you can bring your pet too. We will fix her hair and paint her face so that she shines like a star in the night,” Fanny’s words, though meant to be flattering, annoy Mora.

“Or at least we’ll try… it’s unfortunate that we can’t do as much as needed with so little time,” Mora doesn’t need to look at Rebecca to know that she is trying to insult her.

She turns her head to the yellow one, reaching up to grab her braid back from her, “Thank you but I much rather prefer the company in the tavern.” James and Lucas snicker in amusement.

“Huh,” the one in blue huffs, “For someone who is supposed to be nobility I am surprised you would decline such an offer from a Lady. I would think you’d know your own kind, when you see them,” her face is distorted with a sneer; because of her thick make up, Mora can’t help but think she looks like a poorly conceived child’s painting.

“Yea,” the other one says, taking a hint from her friend.

“Trust me, when I say that I mean this in the nicest way possible,” Mora says slowly, making sure that the two pathetic excuses for nobility understand her; she looks up to Rebecca but with the cold demeanor of a Princess emanating from her, everyone knows that she is talking down to the woman, “but we are not of the same kind.”