The Irish Love Steppes

The Irish Love Steppes
By Yasrog

Full of grace and fluid motion, Sophie of Wicklow glided across the dancefloor like a dove on an iceberg. She flicked her eyes casually in that direction of her lover, Grant of Oxford, and made her way to the opposite of the large hall. Nobles had flocked as if they were crows to a cadaver, crawing and mrawking with their political shit-talk. Sophie didn't seem to notice, as she was busy making eyes to her male companion.

As well she didn't notice the man watching her and Grant of Oxford. The man was tall, gaunt, and his face was ribbed with years of hard labor. His hair was sprayed with an Irish red, and his mouth reeked of freshly consumed whiskey. The man's green eyes had long been blurred with the tell-tale sign of too much consumed alchohol, and he was surveying the two persons with utter hate on his parched lips.

Sophie stood gracefully at the head of the h'orderves table, her fine and elegant gown streaking to the inlaid marble floor beneath her. Grant had been surveying her plentiful bossom for some time, as it was being held up by a corset which did not disturb her features in the least. Her casual locks of curly brown hair only distinguished the delicate features of her face.

Grant however, was tall and lean, muscled as a quick fighter t'ey come. He had long been fighting in the rings of Wicklow, where he obtained the jagged broken jaw and crooked nose. As well where he had met Sophie, visiting an old servant she had once been close to.

But now, as Dedriech of Galway surveyed them in his drunken stupor, Grant felt his heart singe at the sight of her. He longed to do...well...many things to her, that he would hope to obtain this night. Aye, the night was young yet. And Grant was young. A tragedy one so young has to die so soon.

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Sophie touched the ragged cheek of her lover, savoring the taste of him upon her lips. Her body was wet with the sexual persperation that forms when two bodies combine to form one love being. Grant of Oxford lay sleeping humbly upon their small cot, his form rising up and down with each breath.

The brown haired woman considered waking him once again so he could lay into her nice and proper, she loved the feel of his pressure against her form, but reconsidered. He was tired. As was she. Besides, hadn't they already reaped for nearly five hours now? She smiled in spite of herself and wrapped an arm around his body. Quite soon her ample breast was rising and falling with his own.

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Dedriech stumbled through the hallways of the small inn, spitting out blood as he went. He had been eyeing Sophie of Wicklow for many a winter now, and to see her so easily taken by the tall form of that...Englishman made his head throb with pure hateful intentions. The matchlock pistol hung drearily from his mead soaked hand.

He wore a long rapier and a small bag of shot at his waist, readying himself for the oncomming brawl. He would have Sophie as his own. He would have her and take her many times into the night. And that rat bastard Grant of Shitland would find himself at the bottom of the river.

His breath was hot against the hallway walls when he turned the corner to a room marked "Paid in Full". He stiffled a barking laugh at what would beturn this poor man who slept next to the woman he wanted for himself. Without thinking, the hammer of the pistol pulled itself back by his touch. The drunken man let out a long scream and burst through the door of the room, pointing his pistol at the dark form on the ground and pulling the trigger.

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Sophie had almost drifted into sleep when she heard the slam of door against wood, and her limp form had shot upwards. In her minds eye, she thought she saw a man at the door. Probably just a figment. But then a shot rang out. Loud and bright, her ears shook with the ring of powder blast. She looked at Grant. He still lay there, unmoving.

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Roderick and his nightly harlot had just fucked up a storm. Juices and sweats dripped down their form like a waterfall of intercourse. The woman, he had forgotten her name, lay dreary with a placid grin on her face. Roderick knew he was good, but not that good. Whatever. He turned over to stick it in her once more, when the door suddenly burst open. He though he heard a man scream before his own head was torn from his shoulders in a crimson tidal wave upon the whore beside him.

His deflated melon head sagged against her naked form, and she let out a horrid shriek. The man at the door blinked at her. Registering her. The man sobbed. His rapier quickly appeard from his side to his hand. The next thing she knew, she felt a pain just above her left breast. Hard metal met soft skin as she passed into death. A gurgle of blood gauged from Roderick's blown skull.

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Sophie knew the blast had met it's target two rooms over. She also smelled the fire long before Dedriech had impaled the woman whore upon his sword of steel. Smoke had trailed it's way up the roof of the building, and she heard the muffled screams of "fire!" and "smoke!". She screamed to Grant, who was already up and half-dressed. He grabbed her arm and yanked her from the room. The fire was spreading. Already it had reached the common room. A man, whom Sophie recognized as Dedriech of Galway lay crushed under a burning door. Sophie studied the man, dead as he was, she had thought him a past friend. As they rounded the bend, Sophie lost the hand of Grant.

Slowly and surely she went tumbleing down the stairs into the kitchens, where fire had not spread. She screamed upwards. Grant shouted about being alright, when she heard the terrible creak of a beam unhingeing itself. She heard the scream of Grant in his final moment, as his head detatched from his body from the burning pillar of fire.

The orblike head of her lover tumbled down the staircase almost comically, leaving a sick trail of red slime behind it. Sophie screamed.

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It had been nearly a year since Grant's death. Sophie once again found herself with a pistol wrapped around her lips. She contemplated death. Almost beckoned it to her. And once again she was too fearful. Too afraid. She put the pistol down. As she did, it slipped off the table. In mid slip, she leaned over to catch it. When it hit the ground, the knowing crack of gunfire lit the room.

The late Sophie, wife of Grant of Oxford, heir to the Warwick fortune, hit the ground with a grinning third eye just above her nose.