Dubhaine Family/Moira/Roleplays/2008/March

March 9th - Westmoor

Moira carefully disentangled herself from the handsome youth slumbering next to her, his fair locks plastered to his forehead with sweat. It was months since she'd last allowed herself a lover but the fleshpots of Westmoor were well known in the north, and he was such a beautiful boy. She sighed at the memory and shook her head to clear it as she stood naked in the early morning light filtering through the heavy drapes. The temptation to crawl back beneath the blankets and have him whisper her name again was so strong but there was no time now for that now, she had to round up her lads and get them back to duty.

They'd arrived in Westmoor early in the morning having marched most of the night from Poitiers. Normally she wouldn't have thought much of a night on the roads, and back when her company had comprised a dozen men they'd kept irregular hours - as long as they were in the field in time for battle little else mattered. But now they marched with the Lions it seemed a lot more emphasis was placed on timekeeping and regular soldiering. So when they'd rolled into town after several days of hard labouring Moira had decided to let the lads loose.

Of course Yfain had known a few choice dives to spend their coin in, and the men were soon three sheets to the wind and feasting like their lives depended on it. Hours passed and the ale flowed as they staggered from one tavern to another, her old Cagilan hands drinking the younger lads towards stupor. Cards were played and plates of meat consumed, rounds of beer quaffed and serving wenches groped as the troopers gave vent to their pent-up frustrations.

By the time they arrived at The Silken Purse, one of the city's more generously-appointed sporting houses, they were down to a hard-core of maybe fifteen and Moira was wondering what the hell she was doing tagging along. But she was already gripped by that delicious feeling she used to get when she and her sister Aoifa had snuck away from their tutors, leaving poor Brigdha to explain their absence, and the thought of another night spent poring over despatches left her cold inside.

The sound of the anonymous youth stirring in his sleep brought Moira back to the present and she hurriedly pulled her britches up, tucking her shift into the waistband and then tying her hair back. By the time her tunic was fastened and her boots pulled on all trace of tenderness was groomed away, and with stealthy bravura she slipped out into the hallway...