The story so far

It's come to my attention that the snippets of story with the pictures are a little hard to follow, so I'm posting the entire story so far as a block.  Hopefully, some of my formatting will remain in this long post:

The sleepy town of Dacqoise sat at a quiet bend on the river Cirop, and by all indications, should have remained a quiet, idyllic hamlet. Its well-built buildings and pleasant weather made it a pleasing locale for its small numbers of inhabitants. Its industries were farming and dairy on the outskirts, milling, and there was a small town center of tradesmen and merchants. Although small, the town was well-known for the various exquisite pastries made with the high-quality locally produced flour and excellent dairy products provided by the surrounding countryside. Although local business kept the farmers and the bakers well-compensated for their efforts, a small mercantile class had taken up the task of exporting these pastries to any cities nearby enough to deliver them with any degree of freshness. It was agreed, that even stale, the pies and cakes of Dacqoise were often better than goods baked elsewhere.

Sadly, history rarely has respect for the humble ambitions of small people who wish to carry out their lives in peace. Sadly for Dacqoise, the Cirop was a recognized border. At the time of the events recounted here, it was a border between the small kingdom of Plouffe, to which they belonged, and the Kingdom of Anoria, a rising power, recently under the control of a pair of ambitious sorceresses, who had taken it by force. Known for their relentless all-female army, their beauty, and their cruelty, the sisters Foxglove had set their sights on their quiet but prosperous neighbor to the west, and there were few that could hope to stand in their way.  In response to aggression from Anoria, Plouffe had drafted the men of the kingdom to defend its capital, leaving small towns like Dacqoise to fend for themselves. Bereft of their menfolk, it was up to the women of Dacqoise to keep business going as usual, and hope the hostilities would stay far from their hamlet.

Fiona Foxglove of the Crystal Lake had a fearsome reputation beyond the juggernaut of her armies. An accomplished sorceress of immense power, she was also known for her vindictiveness, and her beauty. With her raven hair, and shapely body, it was reported that most anyone who saw her would fall under her spell, before she even bothered to cast a cantrip. Her sister, Selena Foxglove, was beautiful in her own right, yet was still envious of her sister’s more classical beauty. On this matter, she compensated by making a point to dress better than her sister. Certainly, Fiona wore finery fit for a countess on a Sunday outing, but the taste tended to the more practical. She would often wear trousers! Her beautiful onyx-toned hair, she wore half-shorn and brushed to one side. Still, there was no doubt of her beauty, and these outfits, though less formally feminine than her sister’s, revealed her perfect figure. This enraged Selena, whose figure was still considered near-perfect by many. She imagined how her extremely feminine attire would better display such perfection. She wore form-fitting dresses, and wore her hair in elaborate coiffures. Her makeup was carefully applied to maximize her best features, even though it wasn’t subtle.

The ripples created by Selena’s envy sometimes bubbled up to the surface. Those who witnessed disagreements between the two were rarely bold enough to speak of it, but somehow, there were rumors that the sisters weren’t always civil to one another. This problem was compounded by the fact that, though both sorceresses were very intelligent, Selena was a bit smarter, causing Fiona to have her own resentment.

No one knew for certain if the formidable sorceresses were actually sisters, although they addressed each other as such. Their background before coming to power in Anoria was difficult to illuminate, and those who were astute enough to uncover their origins had the good sense to keep their findings to themselves. It was rumored that they had both travelled from the western peninsula to the misty isles as children, to learn to control the innate magic powers that were burgeoning in them. It was not known if they travelled together (as sisters might), or found each other there (as strangers might), yet it was agreed by all that their later departure from the Misty Isles wasn’t entirely voluntary.

While the real relationship between the sorceresses remained a mystery, that was one of many. The two slept in locked quarters, sometimes in separate rooms, and sometimes not, preventing intrusion by order, fear, and powerful magical wards on the doors. If either had ever taken a lover to her bed, none remained to tell the tale. Some of their own followers held that the sorceresses were virgins, that their magical powers were enhanced by abstention from sex. Others believed them predators, seducing strangers for their pleasure, then disposing of them. Still others thought that they were one another’s lover, and that the “sister” relationship was merely a decoy, hiding their connection because there is power in understanding the relationship between people.

Almost as feared was the commander of their army, a tall, pale woman known as Rowena the Black for her raven hair and the dark plate armor she wore. Her martial prowess was said to be unmatched. Her presence on the battlefield was like death itself, terrifying her enemies and allies alike. Other knights would demure on points of honor with her just to avoid a duel. She rarely entered tournaments, but, starting with the second one she entered, it was customary for the other contestants to withdraw, as her reputation preceded her.

Two guards withdrew with a fearful salute as Rowena made her way into the tavern that had been commandeered as a base of operations for her army’s forays into Plouffe territory. Selena was standing over a hefty table, covered in scrolls and books. Laid out was a large map showing the border, with the tavern’s knife collection stabbed into it, marking points of interest. Behind her, Fiona stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot impatiently. Her corset revealed impressive cleavage above, and a bit of pale, toned midriff below. “It’s against your interest, dearest Rowena, to keep us waiting.” 

Rowena scowled, “It won’t happen again. I was cleaning up a conflict caused by the newcomers.” At that comment, a dark-eyed woman in battle-worn armor stepped away from the shadows at the edge of the room and glared at Rowena. The cosmetics on her freckled face, and the messy bun out of which her scarlet hair spilled belied the resolve in her gaze. 

Before she deigned to speak, Selena broke the silence. “I know your distaste for working with mercenaries, Lady Rowena, but Commander Maeve’s troops have served us admirably.” Rowena’s face registered a silent protest, garnering a smile from Maeve. “And, in case you have forgotten, this army and this war belong to us, the Foxglove sisters. You are a talented knight and leader, but you’re merely one important cog in a larger war machine. Understood?”  Selena loved putting disobedient subordinates in their place, and her face seemed to become even prettier as her grin widened. “Now, to the matter at hand…the hamlet of Dacqoise…our gateway to Plouffe.”

“If I may, your majesty,” Maeve started, flattering the sorceress with a title that had never been bestowed on her, although she was a queen, in a de facto sense of the word, “why Dacqoise? There are points along the river that are even more poorly defended.”

“I’m glad you asked, and so politely,” the sorceress responded, grinning at Rowena again to demonstrate the contrast between them, “Dacqoise, though small, is the bread-basket of Plouffe. You’ve probably had its cheese and its pastries, even here in Anoria. An army, it is said, travels on its stomach. Should we take the town quickly, and quietly, we’ll capture enough supplies to last most of the campaign. Not to mention the quality of the sweets, which will be excellent for troop morale. We’ll keep the town’s farms and bakeries producing with a small force left behind, and our soldiers will eat like nobles. That’s worth fighting for, is it not?”

“I humble myself before the wisdom of your words,” the mercenary commander responded, sweetly. Rowena rolled her eyes and received an immediate look of admonition from Fiona.

“If you want that cow pasture conquered, your Majesties,” Rowena said, smiling as she one-upped Maeve’s sycophancy,  “send me with a squadron, thirty troops at most, and it will be yours within minutes. We’re better and more efficient than mercenaries, and using your own troops saves you money.”

“If you send me, your majesties, I’ll subdue the town just as quickly, but without sustaining casualties or captures, quite unlike this bumbling knight. My Crimson Horde will make short work of it, and you’ll still have the full force of you armies when the real battle against the forces of Plouffe takes place,”

“Bumbling?!” Rowena’s hand flew to her sword. The mercenary smiled, and tapped the pommel of her own blade, threateningly.  Maeve was the first person other than the sorceresses to be so insolent to Rowena in a long time. She wasn’t used to being challenged. Of course, the Mercenary had quite a reputation herself.

“Enough. Both of you,” Fiona’s voice boomed unnaturally, reminding both officers of her sorcery, both women removed their hands from their weapons, and Rowena took a step back. “I’ve heard enough of this. This is MY army and MY campaign. You’ll have to work together because I, I mean we,  deem it necessary. I’ll have no more of these childish quarrels. Understood?

Both ladies nodded, blushing a bit.

“I think I have a solution,” said a new voice, from the back of the room. The officers turned, startled that anyone was listening in. Fiona, on the other hand, smiled knowingly, as a dark-haired woman in a lavish gown and tall hennin approached the table.

“This is a small battle,” the woman continued , in a thick Italian accent, “I say we can afford to make it a wager, to settle your petty rivalry. Each of you will take a thirty of your own soldiers; whoever can capture the town—“

“And hold it,” Selena butted in, “no point in taking what you can’t hold,” “Yes, capture and hold the town for a day will earn a monetary reward from me,” the elaborately-dressed woman continued in her thick accent, different from any of the others in the room.

Fiona grinned, “and I have something for the loser, as well. Let’s just say that winning is preferable by far. Unless you shrug off your differences and work together, one of you will be humbled—both by the two of us, and her rival.”

“As I said, I’ll take the town,” Rowena said confidently. “A bunch of Plouffian hayseeds can’t stop us; I can defeat the defenders myself, the troops are only needed for the occupation of the entire town.”

“We’ll swoop in and save the day when Lady Rowena fouls up an easy conquest,” Maeve responded.

Turning to the Venetian woman, Selena smiled, “Thank you, Duchess Vittoria, for the funding and wise counsel you provide.

“What brings your interest to this conflict, if I may ask?” Rowena inquired.

The Duchess ‘ eyes flashed anger as she retorted, “We Romoli can choose whatever affairs pique our interest. We didn’t become the biggest banking house in the world through isolationism. We dislike the trade policies of the current ruling house of Plouffe, and would like to see such a prosperous, if small, kingdom, governed by one whose ambitions are more…in line with our own. Plus, their pig-whore of a queen refused to pay the massive debt her father owed us on his death, then, to add insult to injury, refused to wed her imbecile of a son to my older sister. In fact, the letter she sent was quite insulting. This dungheap of a kingdom will burn and she will suffer.” The next breath caught Vittoria as if she was unaware of her ranting. She breathed in deeply, then added, more calmly, “Not that this is any of your business.”

“Ah, a noble cause, I see,” Rowena responded. Maeve raised an eyebrow, unable to determine how much the knight intended irony.

“We thank you for the generous support, your grace, and look forward to collecting your generous reward,” Maeve said with a bow, before excusing herself from the war-council. Vittoria smiled; she had always appreciated how unabashedly mercenaries spoke her language—the language of wealth. 

Fiona bit her lip in thought. After all, this was HER campaign, HER army. She would have preferred not to need the Venetian, not to share the credit. But wars were won by gold, and Vittoria had deep pockets. They would work with her for the time being. Later? Who knew what fate would bring. “Rowena, gather your troops, the game begins. It’s time to prove with your deeds the superiority you claim with your words.”

“I will not disappoint you, my mistresses.” “You should hope not,” Selena scowled.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the river, the town of Dacqoise was blissfully ignorant to the powers conspiring against them. On a low scaffold in the town square, Corinna the échevin was hearing the complaint of a dairy farmer against a neighbor who she accused of witchcraft. Corrina had been made the local magistrate due to the fact that she had actually studied law at the royal university in the city. While the town wasn’t large enough to provide her proper judge’s robes, they appreciated her role in keeping the peace.

“This is a serious matter,” she said gravely, “no one has been prosecuted in Plouffe for witchcraft in over 200 years.” “It’s still the law, and I demand satisfaction!” shouted the irate farmer. “Please!” responded the accused, a fresh-faced young woman in a dress with red, black, and white stripes, “ I’m just a simple craftswoman. I know I’m new here, but I beg you to send word to the capital. I am known there, and many will vouch for me.” Corinna squinted and rubbed her forehead. “The charge is so grave, I think we owe her that courtesy.” “Fine, but until then, you’d better keep her locked up.” “It’s not a crime to be a mage,” a voice called out from the villagers below. 

Corinna thought for a moment. “No, indeed, it isn’t, but if the accusations about the cows are true, then the witchcraft law, though outdated, must apply. But if this is a baseless accusation, Miss Lowry, then you’ll spend a day in the stocks for wasting the court’s time again.” “Then come to my farm, and see for yourself. The cream is coming out already sour. It’s witchcraft, I tell ye,” said the farmer, a tall, thin woman in a white dress with a blue apron.

“The court will reconvene on the Lowry farm in one half hour, to contemplate the evidence. Clarabelle, escort Eleanor.” The constable nodded, and gently took hold of the accused’s wrist. For her part, Eleanor followed without further protest. The constable was a large woman; she had been taller and heavier than all the other girls growing up. This, and her freckles had been the subject of ridicule and teasing in her youth. Now, she filled out a soldier’s mail hauberk and enforced the laws of the land. No one was laughing at her anymore, and she liked things that way.

Arriving at the farm, she brought Eleanor to where the magistrate and her accusers were looking at some of the cows. In a pen nearby, a bull bellowed. Lorraine produced a bucket, sat on her milking stool, and started milking the largest of the cows, as the magistrate watched with interest.  Within a short while, she had filled the bucket with enough milk. Dropping a ladle into it, she offered it to Corinna, who demurred, gesturing to the Clarabelle.

“That milk is sour, alright!” she said, turning her gaze on Eleanor. “Wait!” Eleanor called. Everyone stopped and looked at her. “Up her sleeve.” “You be quiet!” “Check up her sleeve.” Lorraine stepped back, but the magistrate looked her in the eye. “Put your arms out.” “I milked the cow right in front of you! How could I get something by your watchful-“ “Put your arms out. Now. Or I’ll have the constable do it for you.”

Lorraine put her arms out in front of her, and Corinna felt around her wrists and forearms. Feeling a lump on her right wrist, she reached into her sleeve, and produced a small glass vial, recently emptied of its contents. Passing it under her nose, she sniffed its contents. “vinegar.”

“Look, this isn’t what it looks like!” “Constable, please escort Lorraine back to your office.” “And Eleanor?” “We’ll keep an eye on her for a while,” said Corinna, then turning to Eleanor, “but it’s clear that this was just a setup. Why would you do this, Lorraine?” Lorraine looked down at the ground and spat, the saliva landing dangerously close to the magistrate’s shoes. Eleanor broke the awkward silence that ensued, “I think it has something to do with my questioning her about her visitors.” “Visitors?” “Yes, foreign types, shady-seeming ones, that ride across the borderlands, usually late at night. They don’t stay long.”

“You shut up!” Lorraine called out. “Are you running a brothel right here in our town?” Corinna asked. “Yes, that’s it, a brothel,” Lorraine responded venomously. Corinna raised an eyebrow as she couldn’t tell if the dairy maid intended irony. While she was contemplating, Eleanor screamed. 

“Soldiers!” “They aren’t ours,” said the constable, loosening her grasp on Lorraine to shield her eyes from the midday sun, “Someone has to warn our guards. Get back as quickly as possible! Sound the alarm.”

Before anyone else could act, Lorraine had slipped the constable’s grasp, jumped a small fence, and mounted a horse that she kept next to the cows. “I’ll ride on ahead and warn them!” she shouted as she rode away. “Wait!” shouted Clarabelle, running after her until she reached the horse. Then, turning to the others, she said, “We need to get inside the walls. Now!”

The advancing troops were gaining on them. Instead of moving at a marching pace, these were running, to make best use of the element of surprise. At least a couple dozen could be seen by now; they carried no banner with them, but an all-female army of soldiers and conquistadoras in dark armor strongly suggested to anyone listening to local rumors, that, as the crown had feared, sisters Foxglove had arrived. 

Lorraine was quite far ahead of them by now, but for some reason, she wasn’t shouting to raise the alarm. Riding directly to the gate, she dismounted. Clarabelle tried shouting to her guards, but it was useless as they were too far to hear her. To make matters worse, the dairy maid disappeared through the gate, and for some reason, Patrice, who was on watch at the gate, was abandoning her post to follow her!

“To the gate!” Chorinna shouted, to no avail. The three of them would need to get there before the enemy and seal it. That’s when she heard another horse galloping, this time, behind them. Turning her head, she saw a huge black stallion, with a raven-haired rider in black armor mounted upon him. She was racing right for them!

The magistrate grabbed the tradeswoman’s arm, and tackled the Constable to the side of the road. All three landed in a pile, two of them dumbfounded to the meaning of this action, until the horse charged right by them. Clarabelle gave Chorinna a thankful nod, when she realized the horse would have run them down. But now, the foot soldiers were right behind them!

“Go on ahead, Constable, close the gates and stop the attack!” Chorinna ordered, “We’ll try to hold them off!” “With what?” Clarabelle responded. “Just go!” As the constable ran toward the gate, Chorinna and Eleanor stood in the road, weaponless. As dozens of soldiers advanced on them, only a small bridge over a stream standing between them and the enemy. “What was your plan?” Eleanor said. “I have no idea,” the échevin responded. 

Eleanor bowed her head, closed her eyes, and seemed to be whispering to herself. “This is not the time for prayer,” the magistrate said, trying and failing to take an intimidating stance. “Stop!” she shouted at the soldiers, “Dacqoise is a sovereign territory of Plouffe, and I am its échevin! You will stop and tell me what your business is here.”

A few of the soldiers stopped for a moment to exchange glances. Then, they laughed, and kept advancing toward the two unarmed women. 

Suddenly, a bellowing bull charged down the road. Eleanor calmly watched, and Chorinna turned to run. The soldiers on the bridge saw the bull headed for them, and, with nowhere to retreat, dove into the mud on either side of the low bridge to avoid being hit by it. The soldiers behind them likewise scattered, trying to steer clear of the raging beast as it ran toward them. Eleanor grabbed Chorinna’s wrist and tugged, “This is our chance. Get to the gate!”

Reaching the city, Chorinna ran to close the gate herself, at the same time calling to the oddly absent guards to do so. Eleanor, helping, watched the pursuing soldiers, who had dived from the low bridge to avoid the bull, extricated themselves from the mire, having to strip off their heavy gear in order to do so. Arms, weapons, waterlogged boots, and most of their clothes were left behind as they pulled their bodies from the squelchy mud. More soldiers were coming, but the bull had given them the time they needed to get inside the gate.

As the gate nearly shut, she saw the bull disintegrate into particles of light, and momentarily, there was nothing where it had been. She smiled. Finally, they  slammed it shut, and barred it.

In the meantime, Patrice, the gate guard, was panting, having run to the center of town at high speed, in full armor. “Are you sure Clarabelle ordered me to the town square? What’s going on?” “I’m sorry,” said Loraine. “For what?” the winded guard asked, visibly annoyed. The answer arrived in the form of an unexpected punch to the jaw. As she fell on the ground of the town square, she could hear the gasps of the townspeople, and as she lost consciousness, she saw Loraine taking her mace from her belt.

“What’s the meaning of this?” shouted Angelique, a local merchant, as she approached Lorraine.

Loraine waved the mace menacingly at the merchant.  “Guards! Help!” Angelique screamed, stepping back, “She’s gone crazy!” Lorraine lunged forward to keep Angelique away, but no other members of the town’s short-handed security force appeared to help.

“You should have run,” Lorraine said. “Come to think of it, I’ve never liked you…with your golden locks, your purse full of gold, your expensive garb…yeah…that’s it. Get that dress off, right now. I think it would fit me.” “You’re insane!” Angelique replied. “Just do it…or you’ll see what this mace does. Things are about to change around here.”

Angelique bit her lip, and her gaze shot around the square, looking for someone to intervene. Then, she slowly pulled the dress over her head, in shock that the dairy maid was committing crime after crime in broad daylight. 

“Ugh, I should have guessed that you weren’t wearing anything under it. Now I have to wash it. Just drop it on the ground in front of you, and back away.” Angelique did as the woman with the mace commanded, using one arm to cover her petite breasts and the other over her shaved womanhood. In all her days, she had never been exposed like this. Lorraine, still threatening with the mace, seemed to be enjoying it.

Just then the town bell, kept near the gate, rang. “We’re under attack!” came a scream from some nearby street. “Everyone! Get inside!” another voice shouted. Angelique knew any chance of rescue had probably evaporated with that bell. Or had it?

The dairy farmer was so intent on the scene in front of her that she missed Emile, the local tavern maid, who was coming up behind her as quietly as possible. Grabbing the heavy end of the mace with both hands, the heavy-set blonde tried to wrest control of the weapon. Angelique almost turned to run, but paused, seeing her chance to cover up, by getting her dress, if Emile was able to stop Lorraine. But Lorraine stomped on the dress, keeping Angelique bent over and tugging on it, as she fought against Emile.

Finally, Emile tore the mace loose, and let it clatter to the ground a few feet away. Lorraine, disarmed and concerned, now squared off with the much huskier barmaid. “I will beat your ale-guzzling lardass,” she taunted. “Think again, milk-drinker!” the heavier woman shot back. Meanwhile, Angelique was still hoping to get her dress, but both of them were now standing on it. She considered just running home, but then she looked again at Lorraine.

The dairy farmer caught the barmaid by surprise with a gut punch, and it looked like she had the upper hand. Grabbing her by the hair, she was planning on delivering a knockout punch, when something pulled her own hair so hard it yanked her head back. Emile recovered, and grabbed her arms.

Angelique stunned her with a punch, then grabbed hold of her dress. “What are you doing!?” Emile shouted “knock her out!” But Angelique pulled the dress up, and pulled it up over the dairy farmer’s head. The tavern maid had to let go as the dress came over the arms she was holding. In no time, Angelique had Lorainne’s dress off, revealing a red, lacey bra and panties. “How do YOU like it?” the merchant said, enjoying a modicum of revenge. Lorraine, however, was better-endowed than the merchant, and wearing undergarments. This made it slightly less satisfying, and Angelique planned to remedy the situation.

“We need to get out of here, we’re under attack!” Emile said, “Get Patrice, and let’s go.” But Angelique was already grabbing the stunned Lorraine’s panties and tugging them down. A flustered Emile decided she’d have to knock the dairy farmer out, and bring the other two into the tavern for safety. 

That’s when they heard the hoofbeats approaching. Fast at first, they settled into a trot. Emile moved aside as a huge black horse, bearing a rider in black armor, with a huge sword over her shoulder, made its way into the square.

The rider dismounted, and, holding her sword toward the barmaid threateningly, addressed Lorraine. “So, you are the one that opened the gates for us.” Lorraine nodded. “Traitor!” Angelique spat, but an ironclad gaze from the armored woman made her bow her head silently. Addressing Lorraine, the knight continued. “I see you’ve run into some trouble here.”

“Yes, Lady Rowena,” Lorraine said, bowing her head. Angelique, realizing the tides had turned against her, dropped Lorraine’s red lacy panties that she had still been holding. A breeze carried them away before Lorraine could recover them.

Rowena looked at Emile, the only full-clothed townsperson. “You strip her, and tie her up, then this one,” she commanded, gesturing first to Emile, then Angelique.  I’ll deal with the guard. Patrice was just starting to regain consciousness. Rowena found her discarded mace, and stood over her, with her sword in one hand and the mace in the other. A black-armored sabaton came down on Patrice’s chest. “Stay down. You have been thoroughly defeated.” Rowena said, smiling.

Lorraine took pleasure in stripping the woman who had engineered her defeat. Unlike the other townspeople in the square, Emile had a voluptuous and soft body. Like Angelique, she wasn’t wearing undergarments, instead relying on the laced-up bodice of her dress to keep things in place. Lorraine delivered a few swats to her large, round breasts, soft flanks, and large buttocks as she finished undressing her, then tied her wrists and ankles with the strong lace that kept her bodice together, leaving Emile tied up on the cobblestones.