Druken Brute
Tumultuous beauty prowled upon the port of New Orleans. Brutish, blemished skin harmonized with unburdened, snow-white delicate skin. Thou one stood clothed amidst a low-cut blouse furthermore, exposing her considerable femininity. Thus the forbidden beauty blossomed with a tight raven frock coat possessing embellished ruby roses evermore accentuating her physique. For she dares, he accuses her of a swashbuckler with bayonets on both sides, for her, akin to a rose adorned with thorns, will forsake him to deteriorate and flood blood from the guard’s hands for merely nearing the rose’s petals. Her velvet palms tenderly caress against the soldier’s skin, glaring him down akin to a cat scowling at a mouse. She pouted condescendingly as she suddenly drilled her stabbing talons into the guard’s chin. He mewled as she sarcastically pitied me “You appear to have fallen foolishly. Unfortunately, you will be vastly more than just fallen, especially when one utilizes their heart instead of their mind.” her canine teeth snarled as she said this.
“Curse you, a bacchanalian British merchant who has fallen to a life of defiance.” He scowled, although intimidated. “All you are to most is a feeble prostitute.” The frivolous Mailitaman grinned.
She gashed her claws against my face leaving blood vigorously pouring. “I feel as if you’re the bacchanalian one for blaming me of such lustful miserable lifestyle. For I might be drunk, but if there’s one thing I’m aware of, is that my body, my being, is of my tenancy, of my consent. A brothel will never exist to be an establishment of my dwelling, for I am above the lurid erotica of inane men. Most importantly, I’m not your feeble scapegoat.”
“I’m drunk, not foolish to the point of being scornful..”
“Learn your place as a soldier, furthermore as a soldier, you severely lack chivalry. For, how crude of you to ever contemplate the use of women as just mere playthings.” She growled as her domineering aura caused fear to flourish through the foolish soldier’s body.
The soldier eventually quivered, falling to his knees pleading for her mercy.
She yanked the foolish soldier’s hair and bashed him onto a rugged cobble foundation. He layed there pitifully covered in dirt drowning my wounded arms in grime and pain, provoking the fool to grimace in misery.
“You’re a pathetic excuse for a Mailitaman.”
“Please, my lady! Don’t vamoose me here....vacant” He yelped as the filth scorched into his wounds.
She glowered at him, then unexpectedly, the rose’s expression softened to that of a concession “I’ll oblige you frivolous one barring your expense..”
“Anything!” The foolish Militiaman shrieked.
“Pledge me the possession of one of the militia’s vessels..” The Rose demanded.
“Fine...” The foolish Militiaman said, his aching body pleading for aid.
“Please, Mistress, I am of your clemency..”
The Swashbuckling Rose gently aided the Militiaman in arising to his feet, her sustaining him in his consonance, he, the Militiaman alleviated cognizant that Rose’s impulsive benevolence wouldn’t permit to abide him to tumbling at her feet.
