How proud I am of my four Amazons as I watch them troop wearily back from another hard fought sortie in the brutal categories of storiesspace. With six votes they think they've failed me, but their bleeding wounds are a testament to their fearless endeavors and loyalty.
They are my Invincibles, they fight with words and charge screaming into battle dressed in loin cloth skirts and leather strap sandals on their feet. Chain mail cups their heavenly breasts, but it's not boob protection they seek. They'll use their armored tits as weapons rather than waste a fruity description on defense.
"It's not fair," says Melanie, a voluptuous warrior and Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus how the sight of her cute butt drives me crazy.
"We can't reach ten votes," says Hazel, a hot fiery redhead and by Christ does that chick know how to kiss babes.
The Empire's forces have regrouped and built an ever more impregnable citadel. Now they taunt us from behind walls ten votes high, they won't engage with my Amazons unless they have to. Instead they watch and jeer as we waste ourselves on low scoring skirmishes and dreary sentimentality.
"Take heart my Amazons, we won seven votes not six."
"er..." stutters my sister, the brains of our squad and what she doesn't know about tribbing ain't worth printing. "It was me, I cast the seventh vote."
"What?" I scream at her. "You did what?"
"Melanie's right, it isn't fair, we got six votes and should have won. I thought..."
It doesn't matter what she thought, she knows our creed. We don't make alliances with mercenaries or merchants looking to trade votes not fight for them. Nor do we suffer legions of camp followers, weak minded souls with no cause of their own. Above all we don't pay homage to ourselves, our cause is just and we must never bear the stain nor stench of corruption.
"You know the penalty," I tell my sister.
My sister, my own dear sister, kneels and offers up the offending hand that I must strike off. The very same hand she used to make the click of betrayal. But Chloe, you've not gone down on a girl until you've gone down on a black girl, also kneels before me...
"Strike my hand off too," Chloe says. "Or I will cast the eighth vote."
"And me the ninth," says Hazel.
"And this hand will cast the tenth," adds Melanie.
One for all and all for one. I have trained my Amazons well, perhaps too well it seems for these unfortunate circumstances. Their loyalty to me and each other is unquestionable, but even as we speak our cause looks doomed.
By now the Empire will have traced the seventh vote and with it our location. Unimaginable forces will be riding out to slaughter and delete our small band. Flight is not an option, but at least I can spare my Amazons' hands for one final, glorious battle.
And we still have a last few moments to choose our category, decide on which killing ground our story will die. And who knows, we may yet save the day and with a miracle make the illusive tenth vote.
Fat chance - so Fantasy seems most appropriate.
"Ready girls."
"Tummies in, tits out..."
"and chaaarge."
steffanie +++
They are my Invincibles, they fight with words and charge screaming into battle dressed in loin cloth skirts and leather strap sandals on their feet. Chain mail cups their heavenly breasts, but it's not boob protection they seek. They'll use their armored tits as weapons rather than waste a fruity description on defense.
"It's not fair," says Melanie, a voluptuous warrior and Sweet Mary Mother of Jesus how the sight of her cute butt drives me crazy.
"We can't reach ten votes," says Hazel, a hot fiery redhead and by Christ does that chick know how to kiss babes.
The Empire's forces have regrouped and built an ever more impregnable citadel. Now they taunt us from behind walls ten votes high, they won't engage with my Amazons unless they have to. Instead they watch and jeer as we waste ourselves on low scoring skirmishes and dreary sentimentality.
"Take heart my Amazons, we won seven votes not six."
"er..." stutters my sister, the brains of our squad and what she doesn't know about tribbing ain't worth printing. "It was me, I cast the seventh vote."
"What?" I scream at her. "You did what?"
"Melanie's right, it isn't fair, we got six votes and should have won. I thought..."
It doesn't matter what she thought, she knows our creed. We don't make alliances with mercenaries or merchants looking to trade votes not fight for them. Nor do we suffer legions of camp followers, weak minded souls with no cause of their own. Above all we don't pay homage to ourselves, our cause is just and we must never bear the stain nor stench of corruption.
"You know the penalty," I tell my sister.
My sister, my own dear sister, kneels and offers up the offending hand that I must strike off. The very same hand she used to make the click of betrayal. But Chloe, you've not gone down on a girl until you've gone down on a black girl, also kneels before me...
"Strike my hand off too," Chloe says. "Or I will cast the eighth vote."
"And me the ninth," says Hazel.
"And this hand will cast the tenth," adds Melanie.
One for all and all for one. I have trained my Amazons well, perhaps too well it seems for these unfortunate circumstances. Their loyalty to me and each other is unquestionable, but even as we speak our cause looks doomed.
By now the Empire will have traced the seventh vote and with it our location. Unimaginable forces will be riding out to slaughter and delete our small band. Flight is not an option, but at least I can spare my Amazons' hands for one final, glorious battle.
And we still have a last few moments to choose our category, decide on which killing ground our story will die. And who knows, we may yet save the day and with a miracle make the illusive tenth vote.
Fat chance - so Fantasy seems most appropriate.
"Ready girls."
"Tummies in, tits out..."
"and chaaarge."
steffanie +++
