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jheti
Excerpt from Medalon by Jennifer Fallon.
You may kinda remember this book. Or not. XD
"Tarjanian Tenragan. Ten lashes. Public brawling."
A murmur ran through the crowd at the number of lashes to be administered. Ten was a rare punishment. Wilem was known to be a fair man who doled out punishment for discipline, not entertainment. R'shiel glanced at Wilem and suddenly understood why Tarja was last. Loclon I really could not take these names, they stopped being funny three chapters in had already delivered fifteen blows with the deadly Tiger's Tail. Wilem had put Tarja last to spare him a little, but while she appreciated Wilem's gesture, she doubted it would do much good. [...]
Silence descended on the crowd as Loclon stepped up and drew his arm back, expertly flicking the tails of the whip. The lash landed with an audible crack across Tarja's back, and he flinched with the pain but gave no other sign of the agony he must be feeling, because he became the Love Interest a few chapters ago, and must therefore now be invincible as well as a pure yet devestatingly handsome sex god. The next blow landed with similar force, raising a bloody welt across the first cut. Tarja remained silent, flinching with the pain but refusing to utter a sound. The silence continued as Loclon laid blow after blow across the rebel's back, which soon became a bloody canvas of torn flesh and raw muscle. The crowd shared Tarja's silence; it was as if the were collectively holding their breath, waiting for him to break. Loclon grew increasingly agitated. R'shiel recognized Loclon's frustration. He had worn the same look when she had refused to scream for him.
The only noise that echoed through the Square was the sound of Loclon grunting with the effort of laying open Tarja's back and the monotone voice of the sergeant who was counting off the blows. When he reached ten, Loclon raised his arm for another strike, but the sudden cheer from the crowd distracted him. They might despise him for a traitor, but they were willing to acknowledge Tarja's courage. Loclon looked disappointed as the guards hurried to untie him and douse his bleeding back with the saltwater. Tarja finally allowed himself a loud yelp when the water hit him.
R'shiel was thoroughly sickened by the whole affair, but Crisabelle seemed quite exhilarated by it. She turned to the woman standing on the other side of her, a blue-robed Sister from one of the workhouses. She chattered on about what a lovely day it was for this sort of thing, though the wind was a bit nippy, and shouldn't they put in some sort of seating for the spectators? R'shiel watched them lead Tarja away and wondered just how much willpower it was taking for him to stay on his feet.
I get the giggles when Main Character bumps into a Stupid Woman that she dislikes intensely--usually because said woman sleeps around, which is so much worse than, say, genocide and all the other stuff the Main Villains are busy perpetrating--but, anyway, usually Main Character meets Stupid Woman and spends the next couple chapters having a total shitfit and proving how much purer they are at great and tiresome length.
That's always good for a laugh. ^_^
"Trestan Anselm. Ten lashes. Public brawling."
A murmur ran through the crowd at the number of lashes. Ten was a rare sentence indeed. William was known for measuring out punishment that fit the crime, not entertainment. Ria glanced at William and, seeing the grim set of his face, suddenly knew why Trestan was last. Lisandro had already delivered fifteen blows with the deadly Tiger's Tail--his breath came fast through his teeth and he shone with sweat. William had sought to spare Trestan a little by moving him to the end of the line. Ria appreciated the gesture, but she doubted it would do much good; Lisandro's face twisted as the guards tightened the ropes. The Tiger's Tail twitched in his grip. [...]
The silence pressed on her eardrums. The crowd made not a whisper as Lisandro drew back his arm and let fly the tails of the whip. The lash sang forward and landed with an audible snap. Trestan flinched, but gave no other sign of the agony he must be feeling. The next blow landed with similar force, raising a bloody welt across the first cut. Trestan went rigid, refusing to utter a sound. Lisandro laid blow after blow across his back, which soon became a bloody canvas of torn flesh and raw muscle. Still Trestan made no outcry. The crowd shared his silence, holding its collective breath, waiting.
Lisandro sneered, pacing alongside his target. His lips moved; Ria couldn't hear what he said, but Trestan went red, then white, and stretched his arms further apart, as if daring Lisandro to continue.
He did. Ria recognized that stiff and coiled stride, the desperate, brutal force behind each stroke, and that terrible snarl. He had worn the same look when she would not scream for him.
The square was quiet but for the song of the whip and Lisandro's straining--he grunted with the effort of laying open Trestan's back as the sergeant counted off the blows. When he reached ten, when his prisoner hadn't even whimpered and would not look him in the eyes, Lisandro raised his arm again, only to be stopped by the roar of the crowd. Trestan had long been their favorite, traitor or no, and he'd just won back a measure of their respect. To hold his peace under ten lashes! His bravery was incredible.
Lisandro shook as he lowered his whip and stood aside. The guards rushed to untie Trestan and douse his shredded back. He bucked and shouted when the saltwater hit him, the only sign he gave of any suffering, and leaned on the guards for support as he was led away.
Ria shut her eyes; the spectacle had made her queasy. Not so Isabella. She was chattering gaily with the Sister beside her--it was a lovely day for this sort of thing, if a bit chilly, and they could have done with some sort of seating for the spectators...Ria forced herself not to listen; striking her mistress would only get her in trouble. She tried not to think of Trestan, of what remained of his back, of what he must be feeling. She could only guess at what it had taken for him to stay on his feet.
You may kinda remember this book. Or not. XD
"Tarjanian Tenragan. Ten lashes. Public brawling."
A murmur ran through the crowd at the number of lashes to be administered. Ten was a rare punishment. Wilem was known to be a fair man who doled out punishment for discipline, not entertainment. R'shiel glanced at Wilem and suddenly understood why Tarja was last. Loclon I really could not take these names, they stopped being funny three chapters in had already delivered fifteen blows with the deadly Tiger's Tail. Wilem had put Tarja last to spare him a little, but while she appreciated Wilem's gesture, she doubted it would do much good. [...]
Silence descended on the crowd as Loclon stepped up and drew his arm back, expertly flicking the tails of the whip. The lash landed with an audible crack across Tarja's back, and he flinched with the pain but gave no other sign of the agony he must be feeling, because he became the Love Interest a few chapters ago, and must therefore now be invincible as well as a pure yet devestatingly handsome sex god. The next blow landed with similar force, raising a bloody welt across the first cut. Tarja remained silent, flinching with the pain but refusing to utter a sound. The silence continued as Loclon laid blow after blow across the rebel's back, which soon became a bloody canvas of torn flesh and raw muscle. The crowd shared Tarja's silence; it was as if the were collectively holding their breath, waiting for him to break. Loclon grew increasingly agitated. R'shiel recognized Loclon's frustration. He had worn the same look when she had refused to scream for him.
The only noise that echoed through the Square was the sound of Loclon grunting with the effort of laying open Tarja's back and the monotone voice of the sergeant who was counting off the blows. When he reached ten, Loclon raised his arm for another strike, but the sudden cheer from the crowd distracted him. They might despise him for a traitor, but they were willing to acknowledge Tarja's courage. Loclon looked disappointed as the guards hurried to untie him and douse his bleeding back with the saltwater. Tarja finally allowed himself a loud yelp when the water hit him.
R'shiel was thoroughly sickened by the whole affair, but Crisabelle seemed quite exhilarated by it. She turned to the woman standing on the other side of her, a blue-robed Sister from one of the workhouses. She chattered on about what a lovely day it was for this sort of thing, though the wind was a bit nippy, and shouldn't they put in some sort of seating for the spectators? R'shiel watched them lead Tarja away and wondered just how much willpower it was taking for him to stay on his feet.
I get the giggles when Main Character bumps into a Stupid Woman that she dislikes intensely--usually because said woman sleeps around, which is so much worse than, say, genocide and all the other stuff the Main Villains are busy perpetrating--but, anyway, usually Main Character meets Stupid Woman and spends the next couple chapters having a total shitfit and proving how much purer they are at great and tiresome length.
That's always good for a laugh. ^_^
"Trestan Anselm. Ten lashes. Public brawling."
A murmur ran through the crowd at the number of lashes. Ten was a rare sentence indeed. William was known for measuring out punishment that fit the crime, not entertainment. Ria glanced at William and, seeing the grim set of his face, suddenly knew why Trestan was last. Lisandro had already delivered fifteen blows with the deadly Tiger's Tail--his breath came fast through his teeth and he shone with sweat. William had sought to spare Trestan a little by moving him to the end of the line. Ria appreciated the gesture, but she doubted it would do much good; Lisandro's face twisted as the guards tightened the ropes. The Tiger's Tail twitched in his grip. [...]
The silence pressed on her eardrums. The crowd made not a whisper as Lisandro drew back his arm and let fly the tails of the whip. The lash sang forward and landed with an audible snap. Trestan flinched, but gave no other sign of the agony he must be feeling. The next blow landed with similar force, raising a bloody welt across the first cut. Trestan went rigid, refusing to utter a sound. Lisandro laid blow after blow across his back, which soon became a bloody canvas of torn flesh and raw muscle. Still Trestan made no outcry. The crowd shared his silence, holding its collective breath, waiting.
Lisandro sneered, pacing alongside his target. His lips moved; Ria couldn't hear what he said, but Trestan went red, then white, and stretched his arms further apart, as if daring Lisandro to continue.
He did. Ria recognized that stiff and coiled stride, the desperate, brutal force behind each stroke, and that terrible snarl. He had worn the same look when she would not scream for him.
The square was quiet but for the song of the whip and Lisandro's straining--he grunted with the effort of laying open Trestan's back as the sergeant counted off the blows. When he reached ten, when his prisoner hadn't even whimpered and would not look him in the eyes, Lisandro raised his arm again, only to be stopped by the roar of the crowd. Trestan had long been their favorite, traitor or no, and he'd just won back a measure of their respect. To hold his peace under ten lashes! His bravery was incredible.
Lisandro shook as he lowered his whip and stood aside. The guards rushed to untie Trestan and douse his shredded back. He bucked and shouted when the saltwater hit him, the only sign he gave of any suffering, and leaned on the guards for support as he was led away.
Ria shut her eyes; the spectacle had made her queasy. Not so Isabella. She was chattering gaily with the Sister beside her--it was a lovely day for this sort of thing, if a bit chilly, and they could have done with some sort of seating for the spectators...Ria forced herself not to listen; striking her mistress would only get her in trouble. She tried not to think of Trestan, of what remained of his back, of what he must be feeling. She could only guess at what it had taken for him to stay on his feet.
