Okay, here goes! Below is the way I write quickest (it would take longer for me to put this down in plot form), and I'm not writing this as a story for submission and tidying it up (lack of time!) thank goodness, it's just the raw idea of what would be the beginning of an RP, not necessarily contained to two people. I had no clue at all what I would write when my fingers touched the keyboard, so this all springs from your plot ideas, Moody. Thank you. Even if I twisted (mangled?) said ideas a wee bit.
I think this would be a fun RP!
The Adventures of the Pofftbarrian and the Scarlet Dancer – How It All Began
Fezelle looked through the bars of his tiny prison room at the prisoner across the way, who was attired in the black robes of the Order of Pofftbarr. The burly guards had brought her in just a few moments ago, depositing her with surprising gentleness in the other vacant cell. Though he was, of course, sorry to see another believer imprisoned, he was secretly relieved to see another of his kind.
"Stand fast, sister!" whispered Fezelle, cloaked in dignity, though little else as the guards had relieved him of his own black robes. "We will not let our religious principles be compromised by these tyrants!"
The redhead burst out laughing ruefully. "Stand? I can barely walk. They better be bringing me back my own clothes soon!"
As if in answer, a returning guard opened the woman's cell door and threw in a blindingly bright red dress and matching pair of shoes. With an undertoned comment (and a somewhat salacious chuckle), the man sauntered away as the cell door clanged shut.
"By the furry toes of the blessed Pofftbarr! Please tell me you are not a common sinner!" gasped Fezelle, jumping to a horrible conclusion.
"Oh no, " replied the curvaceous redhead as she shamelessly doffed the holy robes, and struggled with pulling the rather tight red dress over her head and down her breasts and hips. "I'm not common. At least," she continued, as her face emerged from the top of the column of silk, "that's what they tell me." She smiled warmly at the devotee of Pofftbarr. The earnest young man was very fair to look upon and she'd lay odds on him being an innocent. "I can sing and dance and make a terrific meekerbeast stew."
Fezelle had been unable to tear his eyes away from the shameful spectacle in front of him, though he felt his eyes slightly bulge and his face grow fiery. Obviously he must condemn her behavior. Right? At times like this he wished he had his mentor here to confer with. But he had escaped to the South a week ago.
"Madam," he said stiffly, trying not to stutter. "I .. I .. would like to know." He paused, trying to gather his thoughts. What was it that he would like to know? Conflicting desires cross-fired inside his brain, leaving it worse for the wear.
The lady waited attentively for Fezelle to gather his thoughts, her wide turquoise eyes fringed with long dark lashes seemed to caress him, her pink tongue licked her lips.
Thirsty. The woman was thirsty, thought Fezelle. They had probably tortured her by keeping her from food and drink. He was familiar with the various tactics of the brutes that worked for the Duke of Creptoni! He saw no jug of water or tray of food in her cell. Pofftbarr taught his devotees to be compassionate to everyone, even ladies of the night.
Fezelle grabbed the musty jar of water in his own cell and opened the door. Of course, he was on an honor system. The followers of Pofftbarr were virtuous men and woman, true to their word! With trepidation he approached the cell door of the redhead, while she continued to watch him with flattering interest. Surely, she would be locked in. But no. The door swung easily open to Fezelle's surprise.
"Well! Welcome to my temporary abode," she purred. "My name is Letishin."
Fezelle held the water jug out in front of him stiffly, at arm's length. "I thought you might be thirsty," he muttered, feeling inane. "Name's Fezelle," he managed to get out.
"Oh, Fezelle," Letishin gasped, "you are so thoughtful. I'm so thirsty I could die! But are you sure there is enough for both of us?!" The beautiful woman looked at him worshipfully. At that look, he felt gallant, no, he felt like a knight that had just won his first tourney. Warmth radiated throughout his body.
Unable to speak, he just nodded dumbly. Fortunately, Letishin grabbed the water jug before it could drop from his hand.
"Please have a seat," she invited as she sat on the crude but clean bunk and patted the empty space next to her. "I want to share something with you, as well."
Fezelle gingerly sat down, his heart racing, his knees wobbly. He felt uncomfortable and rather lost, but it would be rude to refuse her invitation. Letishin reached inside the discarded robes that laid to the side and, most surprisingly, produced a small roast chicken, wrapped in cheesecloth. Involuntarily, Fezelle began to drool as Letishin detached a sizeable piece and held it out to him.
As they shared their humble meal, Letishin told Fezelle her tale. How Duke Creptoni had a passion for needlework, but his haughty wife strictly forbid him to occupy his time with such an unmanly pursuit. For Duke Creptoni was a sadly henpecked man and ruled in name only. It was the Duchess alone that held sway and she was also who persecuted the gentle followers of Pofftbarr. The Duchess irrationally hated the color black and had put forth an edict, forbidding the wearing of the color in public. But the Pofftbarrians had continued to honor their black furry godling, and thus were hunted down.
Fezelle, his mouth crammed with chicken, nodded vigorously to show his interest in the tale. "Buh whaz shu cashured fer?" he asked. Which Letishin correctly interpreted as "But what you captured for?"
With a soulful look (and the gentle squeeze of an elegant hand that had somehow crept onto Fezelle's muscled thigh), Letishin explained how Creptoni had made an arrangement to come to her home in order to pursue his love of stitchery, but he had paid her to disguise it as a love affair. And she had to act the part of his mistress, to allay suspicion (thus the flaming red dress, and the salacious comments of the guard!). Mistresses of noblemen being, by and large, accepted by their wives as commonplace.
Unfortunately, the Duchess had sent a spy into their midst and thus, while Letishin was instructing the Duke in the advanced method of silk and metal needlework--they were caught in the act! The Duke blustered and protested as his wife swept in like a man-of-war, enraged at the subterfuge. She had ordered the guards to haul Letishin away. The Duke, of course, ensured that Letishin would be treated carefully until he could sneak her out of prison. But she would have to leave his domain, although not without a hefty monetary endowment, he promised.
"Which should happen any moment now my dear Fezelle. You must come with me!" purred Letishin with a imploring glance. "I can earn my own living through singing and dancing, or perhaps cooking of stews – but perhaps no more stitchery – however, I need the protection of a strong intelligent man like yourself. Surely a true follower of Pofftbarr would not abandon me!"
Fezelle had somehow ended up with his arm around Letishin's waist and she was snuggled up against him very comfortably. She looked relaxed and expectant. His heart pounding, he swallowed the last mouthful of chicken and bobbed his head in agreement. Protecting a helpless female was exactly the kind of thing that Pofftbarr would approve of! Letishin dabbed his lips with a cloth (she seemed to be well-equipped for everything!) and sweetly kissed him, as if in thanks, though wrinkling her nose a little. The sooner she got him in a hot bath, the better!
Suddenly the heavy tread of the guard could be heard coming down the hall. "Quickly!" cried Letishin, grabbing up the abandoned robes and turning them inside-out to present a gray silvery lining. "It's my escort out of here. Put this on!" She started to help him dress.
"But it's inside-out," protested Fezelle weakly, as Letishin's hands skimmed his half-naked body.
"It's a disguise," whispered Letishin. "Pofftbarr will understand. I understand he's a very compassionate deity. The Duchess has orders to arrest anyone dressed in black! Hurry!"
As Fezelle struggled not to think of this as a compromise of his principles, Letishin fastened the inside-out robe about him and in a short amount of time, they were, to Fezelle's surprise, racing across the countryside together on horseback, with a fat bag of coins jingling at Letishin's waist. "Letishin." He let the taste of her name roll across his tongue. "You must be sad to leave your home," Fezelle murmured consolingly in her ear.
Letishin turned her head, peeping up through her lashes at him. "I believe I am amply compensated," she said demurely.
She had never owned a residence in her life, nor done a lick of needlework, but there were things that Fezelle didn't have to know. And the rest, she would teach him.
