Erado's Journal

Author's Note: (All "Erado's Journal" entries will be going in this thread. Feel free to check back and follow our sinfully beautiful concubine on his dickgirl adventures. I'll be writing these in my spare time.

ERADO’S JOURNAL #2

RICHES BEYOND MEASURE

I am wrapped in an embroidered blanket as I write this- the feeling is soft against my skin. I don’t know how much such a wonderful piece of cloth must have cost the master of this house- but I wager even my father, that old veteran of trade and finance, would have raised an eyebrow at the price.

It is funny how we find ourselves to be in such a fine room only days after I had predicted wild lands and a lack of amenities. It seems our maps were incorrect, old as they are- and a private trading post has cropped up not two days ride from the border.

How brave my Leila was! It was clear that word had already reached the oasis warlord concerning a Cradle Spire expatriate and her fetching young squire- and that considerable sums had been offered for information leading to my capture and return to Zalia’s side. In arriving, we were confronted at once- my mistress had barely the time to scold herself softly for not skirting the outpost entirely before a burly guardsman was giving us a the knowing eye.

We were brought before a warlord. How I must have been shaking! I was clinging to her shapely thigh like a shorn lamb, my face and body shrouded in a riding cloak. I had spent the day siding, legs hanging side-saddle, while clinging to my mistress’ waist. The master of the outpost was a thick, deeply-tanned man. It was obvious that he was very wealthy, having stolen and corrupted that which he could not conquer via small-time conquest. Though a walled city like Cradle Spire would be far beyond him, it seemed easy to believe that many of the villages of the area were paying him tribute in some form. He spoke to us as he was reclining on a large and effete pillow, with two desert-tanned maidens rubbing his legs with painted fingertips.

“You may go in peace,” he said, addressing Leila, “but leave the boy with us, and take one hundred pieces of gold for your trouble.”

I clutched her tighter. In that moment, all I could think about was never letting go. I had painted my lips with spice-tasting cinnamon gloss that morning, had adorned my head with a crown of sweet blossoms. I had anointed my body in perfumed oils, and all for her. It was, to my mind, a tragedy that it should be the last time that I look beautiful for her. My protectress, my one and only.

“No deal,” she said, and my heart lept. “Not for a thousand.”

The burly man furrowed his brow, his sun-darkened skin seeming to turn an even deeper red. He was in his forties, I would guess, and the few white hairs that had crept into his beard and mous