Human sewing, anyone?

["Peggy Walker" <skysinger@hotmail.com>]

Reception Hall -- Baron's Residence -- Harko (Giedi Prime)

     Opulent and vast, the Reception Hall's sole purpose seems to be to 
intimidate its visitors. The entire room gleams, from the polished parquet 
floor reflecting the radiance of the large skylight overhead, to the 
glowglobe candelabra on tall iron and gilt stands, to the paintings framed 
with gold, and the gilt-edged furniture. The walls are papered with red silk 
and trimmed with Giedi marble, and the vaulted ceiling is white plaster with 
gold filigree and medallions of blue and gold, and the rectangular skylight 
has double panes of glass that look out at the iron red sky. Marble archways 
with carved wooden doors lead to various libraries, studies, and private 
salons.

     The hall is furnished with delicate settees and wing chairs, the 
slender legs and carved frames covered in gold leaf, the cushioned seats and 
backs upholstered in red silk. Heavy tables of gilt, topped with marble, 
stand at intervals about the room, equipped with stationary and writing 
instruments, or with liquid refreshment and finger foods. The myriad 
paintings that cover the walls are the spoils of decades of Harkonnen power: 
family portraits and religious themes carried out by masters of the art. 
Booted footsteps echo in the immense chamber, as well as voices speaking 
above a whisper, and there are guards dressed in blue and silver uniforms 
standing sentry before the baron's suite.

Players:
Boris                                 Fahahd
Ceile

Fahahd appears, leading in the captive Ceile.

Boris loafs in a settee. The room is a bit chilly, the way most chambers are 
on this snowy world, but the Baron seems quite warm and content, lit cigar 
in one hand, goblet of wine in the other. "Sergeant Alaurens! And what's 
this you've got, eh?"

Ceile is pulled along behind Fahahd, her back stiffly erect and her head 
held proudly. Well...as proudly as it can be when she's being led along by a 
leash attached to the collar that’s around her neck. Her hands are bound in 
front of her, and though her eyes blaze, her expression is neutral.

Fahahd has the unfortunate former Corinno leashed, like a lady with her 
poodle, wrists bound before her. The bonds are gleaming and decorative, but 
also quite clearly very sturdy. "The La- Ceile," he corrects himself, 
hastily...all too conscious of how ridiculous the pair looks. Like an ad for 
the Feydograd Circus. All the Sergeant needs is a ringmaster's whip. "My 
Lord."

Boris rises, grinning toothily. And then he spies Ceile. He chuckles, the 
chuckle becoming a laugh, the laugh stretching into a torrent of mirth. It's 
all he can do to remain standing he's laughing so hard.

Fahahd's eyes narrow, and the youthful face hardens slightly...most likely a 
result of those closely held if outdated chivalrous ideas concerning the 
treatment of a defeated enemy.

Ceile remains standing quite erect, locking her gaze with the Baron’s.  Her 
lips curl downwards for a brief moment in a show of her disgust before she 
schools her expression carefully once again.   Indeed, the bonds she wears 
look as out of place with her carriage as the Baron cleaning for himself 
would be.   As the Baron finds amusement in her plight, she draws a deep 
breath, but remains silent.

Boris wipes at a tear in his eye with the back of his wrist. "Lady Ceile! 
Why, of course, you're not Lady Ceile anymore, are you? And you never were, 
your former bedmates' pretensions to the contrary."

The guard's lips thin out into that grim line that indicates he's clamping 
down on his temper again...not willing to incur another inkvine beating by 
speaking out again.

Ceile lets out her breath slowly, as if counting to ten before she answers. 
Finally, she speaks, her voice surprisingly calm. "I was born a Lady, and I 
shall die one, your perverse ideas to the contrary. I am more a Lady now 
than a Baron you ever were, or will be."

Boris chortles. He steps forward. "How I love it when they fight back!" he 
rubs his hands. He rumbles, "Why, you're nothing but a jumped-up actress, 
Ceile, who bedded the right fellow, acted like she loved the poor old fool, 
but lost...and now is stripped of your tenuous title. You used to run the 
entire Empire, my beauty, and now you're just another belonging of mine."

Fahahd stands off to one side of Ceile, who is facing the Baron. The former 
Lady's hands are bound before her; the collar around her throat is connected 
to a leash, the end of which is in the Guard's gloved grip. For his part, 
Fahahd is all but gritting his teeth at the Baron's glee.

Ceile gives a shudder at Boris’ words, and she grimaces. “I will never 
belong to you, you disgusting specimen of a man.” She hisses in reply, her 
eyes blazing with her famous temper.  “You are nothing more than a bully, 
who needs to pick on those who can’t fight back to feel big.”  She gives her 
head a slow shake, smirking.  “Though with your girth, I don’t see why you 
bother attempting to feel any bigger.”

Sen fades in from the stairwell, half-hidden in shadow.

Boris shrugs, chuckling as he puffs his cigar. "Go on, there's a good girl!" 
he says indulgently. "Get it out of your system! Nothing stokes the fires 
like a good healthy hatred! By my father's testicles, I believe I will quite 
enjoy this! What would you do, if the Sergeant cut your bonds, eh? Tell us, 
tell us!"

Ceile clenches her jaw, her hands knotting around themselves in front of her 
skirts until her knuckles go white.  She doesn’t answer, purposely shifting 
her gaze towards one of the many paintings on the wall as if it holds great 
interest for her.

Fahahd is white-faced, staring straight ahead as if trying to fade into the 
background by sheer force of will alone.

Sen's eyes glisten, though her pale face, luminescent, in the indirect light 
of the glowglobes, remains neutral.

Boris reaches out and cups Ceile's chin in his massive hand, then with a 
quick. fluid motion undoes the woman's elegant hairstyle, letting it spill 
down around her shoulders. He tosses away the comb that held her hair in 
place. "There," he says. "Much better," he nods.

A shudder runs through Ceile’s body the instant Boris’ fingers come into 
contact with her skin, and her gaze immediately returns to him.  “Don’t 
–touch- me!” she hisses, jerking her head away as soon as she can.  Her hair 
falls to her lower back as she takes a half step back, increasing the 
distance between herself and Boris as much as possible.

Fahahd's grip tightens reflexively on the leash, to prevent her bolting 
entirely. But other than that, the Guard is still, as if still trying to 
will himself elsewhere.

Boris shrugs, sipping his wine. "How sweet the feisty ones are. Fight all 
you wish, Ceile. That will make your breaking all the sweeter. However, you 
should know that this is my domain, my homeworld. And not even the 
Sardaukar, that you lately commanded, can help you here. Isn't that right, 
Swordmaster?

A strange little voice from the gloaming replies, "Not here, My Baron."

Ceile narrows her eyes as she continues to regard Boris, managing to still 
the impulse to look and see to whom the strange little voice belongs to.  
“You may try to break me, Boris, but you’ll sadly discover it to be beyond 
your limited ability.” She answers softly, sounding rather confident.

For the first time in the little scene, the Guard's expression shifts, 
though it shows little but a wintry amusement. "I fear you are mistaken," he 
says, very gently.

Boris makes a tiny gesture to Sen as he seats himself.

Something rushes from the mouth of the stairs, something grey as it appears 
in the circle of ruddy light thrown by the tinted moonlight through the 
skylight, and the candelabra. There's a sharp *crack*. The grey something 
resolves into the Swordmaster, standing before Ceile, one open palm against 
the slave's face. She stares at the ex-concubine fixedly for several seconds 
before lowering her hand. "You will address My Baron by his title, or I will 
sew your lips together."

Ceile flinches at the unexpected movement rushing at her, and though she 
holds her ground, she is a shade paler, her eyes tightly shut as if 
expecting a blow.  When it doesn’t come, she opens her eyes, locking gazes 
with Sen.  After being given her orders, she somehow manages to have the 
audacity to smile.  “I address people by the name they deserve…”  She allows 
her gaze to slip past the swordmaster, and look disdainfully upon Boris for 
a moment before she nods, almost to herself.  “And pig suits better than 
Baron here, I do believe…”

Boris gives an almost disappointed sigh. "Ceile, I thought you'd be wiser 
than that. Sen is more devoted to me than any Sardaukar was to you, and 
twice as capable of inflicting pain."

Fahahd assumes an expression of exaggerated patience, like a mother with a 
recalcitrant child. He murmurs to the new slave, "You do realize you're only 
making it worse, don't you?"

Ceile continues watching Boris. "The ability to speak the truth is the 
wisest one a person may cultivate. But of course, you wouldn't realize 
that." She doesn't even glance at Fahahd as she adds, quietly, "As the 
Emperor's concubine I could not speak as I wished. Now I may, even if I must 
pay for it."

Sen gives Boris a quizzical, lizard-like look.

Fahahd ponders that a moment, then nods reluctantly.

Boris taps ash from his cigar. "And here I was willing to offer you pride of 
place at tonight's orgy." he says almost sadly. He flicks a finger at Sen, 
in the affirmative.

Fahahd's gaze skitters away again. Orgy. Yuck.

Ceile shudders at the mention of an orgy, never having like them anymore 
than she’d liked slavery.  Catching Boris’ figure motion to Sen, she draws a 
deep breath, bracing herself for whatever may happen now.

Sen reaches into her hair, drawing out something like a black spider web. 
She twists it in her fingertips, and it becomes rigid.  Sen takes Ceile's 
chin in one little white hand, visegrip not quite crushingly tight. 
Intently, she lays the point of the black wire under the left corner of 
Ceile's lower lip. "You have yet to learn what you may and may not do here," 
she says as she pushes it through and pulls it out the upper lip.

The muscles in the Guard's jaw clench...but he does not move further. The 
color slowly drains out of his face, though, leaving him nearly as white as 
the snow outside.

Ceile’s entire body stiffens as her eyes widen as the wire pushes through 
her lip, a soft whimper sounding in her throat.  Surprisingly enough, she 
makes no other sound.  She gives her head a sharp jerk reflexively in an 
attempt to free herself from the object of torment, which is rather 
impossible now that it’s through her lower lip.

Boris shakes his head, almost regretfully. But not quite. "What a grand 
waste to such a beauty, wouldn't you say, Sergeant?"

Fahahd's voice is nearly a whisper, lest it break from the strain. "Indeed, 
my Lord," he agrees, in a voice as pallid as his face.

Sen pulls Ceile's head back into position with such force as to twist her 
whole body. "Be still," she murmurs in warning, as she carefully pulls the 
wire the rest of the way through(with a tiny squeak), bends it, and pierces 
Ceile's lips again, from top to bottom.

Ceile squeezes her eyes shut, digging her nails into the palms of her hands 
as she balls them tightly into fists.  As Sen continues quite calmly with 
the human sewing project she’s taken on, the former Lady begins to tremble 
with her effort to keep quiet, not to give those around her the satisfaction 
of that victory as well.

Boris rises, merriment in his voice as he rumbles, "You had a warning, but 
of course you understand, Ceile, that the burdens of power insist that we 
take them very seriously." He chides her. "But you used to run the Empire, 
so of course you know this. And your Sardaukar, of course, breakfasted on 
ground-up baby flesh, so I'm sure you saw worse than this a hundred times 
each day!"

The metallic squeals of wet meat against shigawire, like damp hair pulled 
between fingertips, is barely audible in the perfect acoustics of the hall. 
Sen wears a look of somber concentration, an artist at her work. The fingers 
of her right hand delicately guide the shigawire back and forth, back and 
forth. Those of her left have gradually sunk into Ceile's skin from gripping 
her so tightly, leaving bruised grooves along her jawline.

Boris asks Fahahd, "Isn't it amazing. Sergeant? Not a drop of blood our 
Swordmaster's leaving! She's a marvel, wouldn't you say?"

Fahahd has passed white and managed to achieve a sort of mottled grey. The 
hands that grip the woman's leash are white knuckled, and the green eyes 
wild. It's one thing to see men dismembered in battle, another to see 
something inhuman mutilate a defenseless woman with all the offhanded skill 
of a quilter at her frame. "Oh, a wonder," he affirms, in that dry 
whisper...though his tone is as flat as if the Baron were asking his opinion 
of the weather.

Despite the grip Sen has on her jaw, and the undoubtedly painful stimulation 
she’s getting from the shigawire, Ceile slowly begins to collapse, her knees 
giving out under her.  She’s allowed to sink only so far, however, the hand 
on her chin keeping her mostly upright.  As a tear leaks past her tightly 
shut eyes, a deep groan of pain comes from her, muffled by the work done to 
her lips.

Sen blushes faintly under the praise, tucking the ends under the stitches 
and hooking them around to keep them from loosening. She continues to hold 
up Ceile's deadweight with one hand as she turns, spreading her legs to 
maintain balance against the greater weight of the slave. "She's fainted, My 
Baron."

Fahahd resolves to get thoroughly, obliviously drunk the moment his duty 
schedule permits, though he doesn't even have vague hopes of it washing the 
memory of this away.

Boris gives Ceile a rueful look. She brought this on herself, after all. He 
reaches out with one big hand and sets a finger on the shigawire, tracing 
the line a moment. He's silent. Then he turns away. "What a day this is for 
me, eh?" he says flatly, his back to his underlings. "The woman who held the 
old Emperor in the palm of her hand is now in mine."

Sen watches the Baron's back thoughtfully, boots emitting a squeak when she 
narrows her stance and swings Ceile up into a fireman's carry.

Boris turns to Sen and makes a brushing off, dismissive gesture. "See that 
she's looked after, Swordmaster." He finishes his drink.

Fahahd releases his grip on the leash...not as if the unconscious woman 
could attempt to flee, at this point. He remains in place though, as if 
effectively rooted to the spot.

Sen nods, executing a sort of curtsey-like dip.  "With My Baron's leave," 
she intones, turning on her heel and carrying the limp slave back down into 
the bowels of the palace.

_________________________________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.

Share information about yourself, create your own public profile at 
http://profiles.msn.com.

---------------------------------------------------------------------
Dune III Readers Mailing List (dune3-readers@fremen.org)
This list is unmoderated. To unsubscribe, email majordomo@fremen.org
with 'unsubscribe <listname>'. For help, mail majordomo@fremen.org
with 'help <listname>' in the message.