Weaklander
Onlooker
The scene is very hot. But the ropes should secure her to the fence, not just bind her hands together.
-
Sign up or login, and you'll have full access to opportunities of forum.
mark sessnatz's Deviated Artworks
- Thread starter mark sessnatz
- Start date
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Brea's Darkest Hour 2
"You should think yourself lucky to be alive, Madam," scoffed the Chancellor, his plummy voice rolling down the length of his opulent study. "When I was young they used to execute witches and mystics. Not to mention that we still do that to subversives and traitors."
Brea squeezed her trembling hands into tight fists, trying to quiet the rattling of her manacles. She stared straight ahead and said nothing.
The Chancellor coughed.
"That said, I need you around for now. Until the rest of your gang of miscreants comes sniffing back around for you."
"They won't," Brea replied softly. "They're smarter than that."
"If any of you were smarter than that you would have stayed far away from here in the first place. No, no. I've played this game before. They'll come back once the news gets out."
"What news?"
"The masses out there are so tedious. It's so easy to get them riled up and chatting away. All you need to give them is a big bloody show!"
Brea's heart was beating faster but she didn't move, never letting him see her face.
The Chancellor snapped his fingers to summon a secretary.
"Take this down," he ordered, "and file it with the Heralds and the Magistrate: An enemy of the state and known practitioner of heathen spellcraft was arrested today inside the Citadel. By order of the Chancellor, she is to be publicly flogged tomorrow evening, at three hours past sundown in the Magisterial Square. All citizens of the Valley are encouraged to attend and bear witness to Justice."
The secretary scribbled the notice down furiously as Brea blinked away the onset of tears. She had to be stronger than this.
"Get the notice out anywhere and everywhere," the Chancellor continued. "Captain, get this girl out of my sight. I don't want to see her again until we have the rest of them as well."
The guards seized Brea by her wiry arms and began to drag her away as though she weighed nothing.
"And rest assured, girl," the Chancellor called after her. "It may be a trap for your friends, but I promise it will hurt you all the same."
It was only later that Brea realized she never actually did see the Chancellor's face.
...
"You should think yourself lucky to be alive, Madam," scoffed the Chancellor, his plummy voice rolling down the length of his opulent study. "When I was young they used to execute witches and mystics. Not to mention that we still do that to subversives and traitors."
Brea squeezed her trembling hands into tight fists, trying to quiet the rattling of her manacles. She stared straight ahead and said nothing.
The Chancellor coughed.
"That said, I need you around for now. Until the rest of your gang of miscreants comes sniffing back around for you."
"They won't," Brea replied softly. "They're smarter than that."
"If any of you were smarter than that you would have stayed far away from here in the first place. No, no. I've played this game before. They'll come back once the news gets out."
"What news?"
"The masses out there are so tedious. It's so easy to get them riled up and chatting away. All you need to give them is a big bloody show!"
Brea's heart was beating faster but she didn't move, never letting him see her face.
The Chancellor snapped his fingers to summon a secretary.
"Take this down," he ordered, "and file it with the Heralds and the Magistrate: An enemy of the state and known practitioner of heathen spellcraft was arrested today inside the Citadel. By order of the Chancellor, she is to be publicly flogged tomorrow evening, at three hours past sundown in the Magisterial Square. All citizens of the Valley are encouraged to attend and bear witness to Justice."
The secretary scribbled the notice down furiously as Brea blinked away the onset of tears. She had to be stronger than this.
"Get the notice out anywhere and everywhere," the Chancellor continued. "Captain, get this girl out of my sight. I don't want to see her again until we have the rest of them as well."
The guards seized Brea by her wiry arms and began to drag her away as though she weighed nothing.
"And rest assured, girl," the Chancellor called after her. "It may be a trap for your friends, but I promise it will hurt you all the same."
It was only later that Brea realized she never actually did see the Chancellor's face.
...
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Brea's Darkest Hour 3
All around the perimeter of the torch-lit square, hundreds of grim, pallid faces stared at the diminutive figure of Brea as she was dragged by her chained hands toward the looming stone pillar in the center. She walked stiffly, instinctively dragging her feet, struggling backward away from the pillar while the massive guards at her sides forced her along. She had never felt so small, so weak.
“Before you,” boomed the voice of the Chief Constable, from his balcony at the head of the square, “stands an unrepentant enemy of our people. A convicted terrorist, thief and insurrectionist, and a practitioner of forbidden spellcraft!”
The guards shoved Brea violently against the pillar, causing her to grunt. One unlocked the chains around her wrists, then pulled her arms apart and locked them into the even colder, heavier manacles bolted to the sides of the pillar.
“By order of the City Chancellor, before you all this night, she will be punished with one hundred lashes!”
The guard seized the top of Brea’s tunic and, pulling a small knife from his belt, slashed it from neck to waist. He then tore each sleeve apart and dragged the shreds down, stripping Brea completely naked to the waist. She whimpered as the night air breathed across her bare skin, then silently cursed herself for it. She had to be stronger than this. Had to be braver. She tucked her elbows in as much as the chains would allow and pressed her chest to the stone, hiding her bare chest from the jeering audience. A tear rolled down her face.
“The city wishes to thank every one of you for being present to witness justice being done!” The Constable took his seat and saluted the guards on the ground. “Commence the punishment!”
Brea turned her head as much as she could, the stone of the pillar scraping roughly against her cheek. She saw the guard lift the whip off a hook a few feet away. It was a long, snakelike, black lash of oiled animal hide, with tiny sharp knots all down the last third of its length, and a single small shard of bone embedded in the tip. He unfurled the length of it, snapped it between his hands and grinned at her maliciously as he walked behind her.
She clutched at her chains, trying to brace herself. She cast around in her panicked mind for all the gods and spirits she relied on, invoking them one after another, asking them to be with her through her ordeal. To Zeheia she prayed for strength through pain, to Qhaone for perseverance, to Gidmera for healing and to Siphane for justice to be visited on her tormentors.
Finally, she asked Viraura to shelter her friends from danger, focusing on that thought as the first stroke of the whip hissed through the air and struck like lightning across her bare back.
…
All around the perimeter of the torch-lit square, hundreds of grim, pallid faces stared at the diminutive figure of Brea as she was dragged by her chained hands toward the looming stone pillar in the center. She walked stiffly, instinctively dragging her feet, struggling backward away from the pillar while the massive guards at her sides forced her along. She had never felt so small, so weak.
“Before you,” boomed the voice of the Chief Constable, from his balcony at the head of the square, “stands an unrepentant enemy of our people. A convicted terrorist, thief and insurrectionist, and a practitioner of forbidden spellcraft!”
The guards shoved Brea violently against the pillar, causing her to grunt. One unlocked the chains around her wrists, then pulled her arms apart and locked them into the even colder, heavier manacles bolted to the sides of the pillar.
“By order of the City Chancellor, before you all this night, she will be punished with one hundred lashes!”
The guard seized the top of Brea’s tunic and, pulling a small knife from his belt, slashed it from neck to waist. He then tore each sleeve apart and dragged the shreds down, stripping Brea completely naked to the waist. She whimpered as the night air breathed across her bare skin, then silently cursed herself for it. She had to be stronger than this. Had to be braver. She tucked her elbows in as much as the chains would allow and pressed her chest to the stone, hiding her bare chest from the jeering audience. A tear rolled down her face.
“The city wishes to thank every one of you for being present to witness justice being done!” The Constable took his seat and saluted the guards on the ground. “Commence the punishment!”
Brea turned her head as much as she could, the stone of the pillar scraping roughly against her cheek. She saw the guard lift the whip off a hook a few feet away. It was a long, snakelike, black lash of oiled animal hide, with tiny sharp knots all down the last third of its length, and a single small shard of bone embedded in the tip. He unfurled the length of it, snapped it between his hands and grinned at her maliciously as he walked behind her.
She clutched at her chains, trying to brace herself. She cast around in her panicked mind for all the gods and spirits she relied on, invoking them one after another, asking them to be with her through her ordeal. To Zeheia she prayed for strength through pain, to Qhaone for perseverance, to Gidmera for healing and to Siphane for justice to be visited on her tormentors.
Finally, she asked Viraura to shelter her friends from danger, focusing on that thought as the first stroke of the whip hissed through the air and struck like lightning across her bare back.
…
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Brea's Darkest Hour 4
“THIRTY-FOUR!”
Brea had been wounded in battle a couple times, but this was something different. An arrow in the leg or a glancing sword-stroke to the side burned at first, then ached, then faded. It was a singular burst of pain that gradually healed. Purposeful, prolonged torture, on the other hand…that was something far worse.
The pain never faded. It never got a chance. Each blow of that wicked lash slashed a new wound on top of all the others, layering bruised, bloodied flesh on bruised, bloodied flesh. The searing, raw sting just multiplied, getting deeper and hotter with every stroke.
“FORTY-EIGHT!”
The coarse marble of the column was smeared wet with her tears against her face. She couldn’t conceal her distress. She hurt too much. She whined like an animal, sobbed like a suffering child, every time the whip cut into her. It shamed her, but she couldn’t stop. The torture overwhelmed her.
“SIXTY SIX!”
She was distantly aware of the assembled crowd, jeering and hollering, reveling in her torment each time the lash fell. That, of course, stung in its own way. Her mother had always taught her to be proud of who she was…taught her that spellworking was meant to heal, to reveal knowledge, to connect one with the earth. It was a noble pursuit, a beautiful thing to be, And these people hated her for it. Delighted in seeing her suffer for it. Reveled in seeing her very skin bruised, beaten and bloodied for wanting to heal and learn. Her tears were as much for that as for the pain itself.
“EIGHTY ONE!”
But her friends were safe. They had made that clear. She may suffer for now, but it was temporary. And none of her companions would suffer alongside her. Each lash that carved into her back was one that would never fall on anyone else she loved.
“NINETY-FIVE!”
Brea screamed. She bawled. She wailed. But she was at peace.
…
“THIRTY-FOUR!”
Brea had been wounded in battle a couple times, but this was something different. An arrow in the leg or a glancing sword-stroke to the side burned at first, then ached, then faded. It was a singular burst of pain that gradually healed. Purposeful, prolonged torture, on the other hand…that was something far worse.
The pain never faded. It never got a chance. Each blow of that wicked lash slashed a new wound on top of all the others, layering bruised, bloodied flesh on bruised, bloodied flesh. The searing, raw sting just multiplied, getting deeper and hotter with every stroke.
“FORTY-EIGHT!”
The coarse marble of the column was smeared wet with her tears against her face. She couldn’t conceal her distress. She hurt too much. She whined like an animal, sobbed like a suffering child, every time the whip cut into her. It shamed her, but she couldn’t stop. The torture overwhelmed her.
“SIXTY SIX!”
She was distantly aware of the assembled crowd, jeering and hollering, reveling in her torment each time the lash fell. That, of course, stung in its own way. Her mother had always taught her to be proud of who she was…taught her that spellworking was meant to heal, to reveal knowledge, to connect one with the earth. It was a noble pursuit, a beautiful thing to be, And these people hated her for it. Delighted in seeing her suffer for it. Reveled in seeing her very skin bruised, beaten and bloodied for wanting to heal and learn. Her tears were as much for that as for the pain itself.
“EIGHTY ONE!”
But her friends were safe. They had made that clear. She may suffer for now, but it was temporary. And none of her companions would suffer alongside her. Each lash that carved into her back was one that would never fall on anyone else she loved.
“NINETY-FIVE!”
Brea screamed. She bawled. She wailed. But she was at peace.
…
But if it’s held after dark, her miscreant compatriots might feel comfortable enough to attend, and maybe try something foolish. I trust the Chancellor has a plan to trap them all!
The Beast
Tribune
I hope we will see a result of one hundred lashes on her back.
To avoid permanent scaring of her back after 100 lashes,50 lashes could have been directed to her bare bottom adding more shame to her and more entertainment to the public.
Klingsor
Spectator
hope of a pic after 100 lashes to her back only!
mark sessnatz
Tribune
They aren't trying to avoid permanent scars I'm afraid.
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Brea's Darkest Hour 5
Brea woke up cold. Very cold. But alive.
She slowly focused her eyes and let them drift to the only light source—A tiny barred window set in a thick stone wall, through which she could see dim sunlight, and snow. The first snow of the season. She always loved snow.
She stirred, and shifted to sit up.
Angry, hot pain lanced through her back. Every nerve burnt and throbbed. Scabs cracked and she felt fresh hot blood trickling across her skin.
Brea screamed and recoiled, weeping, clawing at the floor, sucking in sharp ragged breaths until the spasm died down. Then she tried again. Slowly pivoting herself upward, every muscle connected to her back protesting. She groaned, grunted, yelped until she was more or less vertical, then hugged her knees to her chest, whimpering.
Her tunic was still in tatters. Her sandals were gone. Her hair and face were damp where her head had been lying in a dirty puddle. And it had really happened. She had been flogged, taken a hundred lashes, and had the shrieking, oozing wounds to show for it.
She had no idea how long it had been since the punishment. Maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe only hours. Probably not that long, considering the state of her back. What would they do now? Just keep her here? The Chancellor seemed confident he could use her to bait a trap. She hoped her friends would be smarter than that. If they were, if they never came, what then? Would they sell her as a slave? Just let her rot in this cell?
Moving stiffly, with gritted teeth, Brea dragged herself to the corner near the door, where a small pile of chimney ash had accumulated, blown in from the corridor over many years. With shaking, practiced hands, she scooped up the ash, blackened her fingertips, and began, painstakingly, to draw on the floor.
It took her several minutes, and a few fresh spasms of pain, but eventually she completed the protection sigil. Ideally, she’d have had herbs to line it with and burn, but all her herbs were in her satchel back at the camp site. Or wherever the others had gone.
The only other ingredient the spell required was salt. Fortunately, she had an abundance of tears at the ready.
Brea woke up cold. Very cold. But alive.
She slowly focused her eyes and let them drift to the only light source—A tiny barred window set in a thick stone wall, through which she could see dim sunlight, and snow. The first snow of the season. She always loved snow.
She stirred, and shifted to sit up.
Angry, hot pain lanced through her back. Every nerve burnt and throbbed. Scabs cracked and she felt fresh hot blood trickling across her skin.
Brea screamed and recoiled, weeping, clawing at the floor, sucking in sharp ragged breaths until the spasm died down. Then she tried again. Slowly pivoting herself upward, every muscle connected to her back protesting. She groaned, grunted, yelped until she was more or less vertical, then hugged her knees to her chest, whimpering.
Her tunic was still in tatters. Her sandals were gone. Her hair and face were damp where her head had been lying in a dirty puddle. And it had really happened. She had been flogged, taken a hundred lashes, and had the shrieking, oozing wounds to show for it.
She had no idea how long it had been since the punishment. Maybe days, maybe weeks, maybe only hours. Probably not that long, considering the state of her back. What would they do now? Just keep her here? The Chancellor seemed confident he could use her to bait a trap. She hoped her friends would be smarter than that. If they were, if they never came, what then? Would they sell her as a slave? Just let her rot in this cell?
Moving stiffly, with gritted teeth, Brea dragged herself to the corner near the door, where a small pile of chimney ash had accumulated, blown in from the corridor over many years. With shaking, practiced hands, she scooped up the ash, blackened her fingertips, and began, painstakingly, to draw on the floor.
It took her several minutes, and a few fresh spasms of pain, but eventually she completed the protection sigil. Ideally, she’d have had herbs to line it with and burn, but all her herbs were in her satchel back at the camp site. Or wherever the others had gone.
The only other ingredient the spell required was salt. Fortunately, she had an abundance of tears at the ready.
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Martial Law 1
As a result of the decades-long border war between Ssnatzburg and Slurvia, martial law was declared for a period of three years in St. Marksburgh, the capitol, as well as its surrounding province of Sessnylvania. During this period, the army instituted a vast number of new laws and ordinances, enforced swiftly and brutally with harsh corporal punishments.
One account of this period comes from the diary of Mrs. Theodora Pryszbicki, who writes that only days after their marriage, her husband Dietrich was arrested for failing to report for military conscription (on the day of the wedding.) Dietrich was sentenced by court martial to recieve 35 lashes on his naked back, publicly at the courthouse. At the time of the entry, Mrs. Pryszbicki was 19 years of age. Her new husband was 21.
As a result of the decades-long border war between Ssnatzburg and Slurvia, martial law was declared for a period of three years in St. Marksburgh, the capitol, as well as its surrounding province of Sessnylvania. During this period, the army instituted a vast number of new laws and ordinances, enforced swiftly and brutally with harsh corporal punishments.
One account of this period comes from the diary of Mrs. Theodora Pryszbicki, who writes that only days after their marriage, her husband Dietrich was arrested for failing to report for military conscription (on the day of the wedding.) Dietrich was sentenced by court martial to recieve 35 lashes on his naked back, publicly at the courthouse. At the time of the entry, Mrs. Pryszbicki was 19 years of age. Her new husband was 21.
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Tropical Plantation 11
Maggie had been sold to the Cochranes from an estate in a neighboring county, where she had been her previous Mistress's favorite chambermaid. Mrs. Cochrane resented her immediately, sensing that she had grown entitled and far too comfortable.
She immediately demoted Maggie to weeding the orchards and cleaning the stables. She confiscated Maggie's house dresses and shoes and replaced them with rags, and just generally set about making her life miserable.
One day, Maggie finally looked Mrs. Cochrane in the eye and demanded to know why she was so much crueller to her than to any of the other workers. Apparently vexed by the question, Mrs. Cochrane turned quite red and called for Earl, the burly old overseer.
On the Mistress's orders, Maggie was taken down to the grounds behind the servants' quarters and tied between the two sturdy posts. Her rags were peeled off to the waist and the man laid the bloody old cowhide lash across her naked back some fifty or sixty times, till she fell faint in her bonds. A harsh but "needful" lesson, Mrs. Cochrane said, in minding her manners around the lady of the house.
What Mrs. Cochrane would never admit was that she did it, all of it, because she resented that Maggie was pretty.
Maggie had been sold to the Cochranes from an estate in a neighboring county, where she had been her previous Mistress's favorite chambermaid. Mrs. Cochrane resented her immediately, sensing that she had grown entitled and far too comfortable.
She immediately demoted Maggie to weeding the orchards and cleaning the stables. She confiscated Maggie's house dresses and shoes and replaced them with rags, and just generally set about making her life miserable.
One day, Maggie finally looked Mrs. Cochrane in the eye and demanded to know why she was so much crueller to her than to any of the other workers. Apparently vexed by the question, Mrs. Cochrane turned quite red and called for Earl, the burly old overseer.
On the Mistress's orders, Maggie was taken down to the grounds behind the servants' quarters and tied between the two sturdy posts. Her rags were peeled off to the waist and the man laid the bloody old cowhide lash across her naked back some fifty or sixty times, till she fell faint in her bonds. A harsh but "needful" lesson, Mrs. Cochrane said, in minding her manners around the lady of the house.
What Mrs. Cochrane would never admit was that she did it, all of it, because she resented that Maggie was pretty.
thecuriousone
Tribune
Nice pic and ministory. The only downpoint is the thickness of the ropes doesn't march.
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Martial Law 2
Constantin and Helena were lovers once.
Helena had been his first love. They were eighteen, and barely out of school. They met the docks, where she was walking and he was working. He used to unload crates of coffee and tea from the barges. He worked stripped to the waist, and she noticed. She stopped, stared and smiled.
It was a hot summer, and they grew so close so quickly. He would never forget the passion of those months.
But the winter was hard, and by the following year, Helena had grown distant, troubled. Constantin loved her as much as ever, but it didn’t feel the same. Eventually, she broke down and told him…she had fallen deeply in love with another man, a lawyer from the capitol, and she was with his child.
Constantin joined the army, threw himself fully into regimented life. He traveled the globe. He became a corporal. He made many friends in the service. The memories of that summer began to fade.
Eight years passed.
Constantin was in the capitol, where the army had held control of the government for eighteen months. He was assigned on a police rotation, correctional duty. One of his least favorite tasks, it had to be said. The first time he flogged someone, he was sick afterward. But he forced himself to accept it. It was only a week-long rotation, and he was, first and foremost, a company man.
At half past one, they brought a prisoner from the lock-up to the post, a woman, around his own age. The arresting officer debriefed him: She was caught stealing government-rationed medicines from the back of a wagon. She claimed the ration wasn’t enough and she couldn’t afford supplemental cures, since her husband’s salary was cut under the occupation. Her son was terribly sick, she said. Constantin pushed down the twinge of sympathy. He had heard dozens of similar sob stories.
The soldiers shoved the woman to her knees before the wooden pillar and ripped away her blouse. As they chained her hands to the post, she turned and looked at Constantin with wide, moist, terrified eyes.
Helena.
“Constantin…” she choked out, recognizing him the same instant. “Oh God…please. Let me go. Make them let me go! My son, my poor boy… Please!”
He gritted his teeth, his stomach twisting in knots.
Her husband…her son…the son she bore from the man she left him for all those years ago.
The other soldier nudged him in the ribs.
“She knows you?” he asked. “Where from?”
Constantin shook his head, lips tight.
“No idea who she is,” he said flatly. He hoped they couldn’t see his shaking hands.
The soldier shrugged.
“Okay then. Sentence is thirty-six hard ones.” He clapped Constantin on the back and strolled away.
“Constantin! Please!” Helena pleaded with him, sobbing into the post. “Please don’t do this!”
Constantin looked away from her. He pushed down the memories of that long ago summer. And he brought the whip down across the naked back of the first woman he ever loved.
Constantin and Helena were lovers once.
Helena had been his first love. They were eighteen, and barely out of school. They met the docks, where she was walking and he was working. He used to unload crates of coffee and tea from the barges. He worked stripped to the waist, and she noticed. She stopped, stared and smiled.
It was a hot summer, and they grew so close so quickly. He would never forget the passion of those months.
But the winter was hard, and by the following year, Helena had grown distant, troubled. Constantin loved her as much as ever, but it didn’t feel the same. Eventually, she broke down and told him…she had fallen deeply in love with another man, a lawyer from the capitol, and she was with his child.
Constantin joined the army, threw himself fully into regimented life. He traveled the globe. He became a corporal. He made many friends in the service. The memories of that summer began to fade.
Eight years passed.
Constantin was in the capitol, where the army had held control of the government for eighteen months. He was assigned on a police rotation, correctional duty. One of his least favorite tasks, it had to be said. The first time he flogged someone, he was sick afterward. But he forced himself to accept it. It was only a week-long rotation, and he was, first and foremost, a company man.
At half past one, they brought a prisoner from the lock-up to the post, a woman, around his own age. The arresting officer debriefed him: She was caught stealing government-rationed medicines from the back of a wagon. She claimed the ration wasn’t enough and she couldn’t afford supplemental cures, since her husband’s salary was cut under the occupation. Her son was terribly sick, she said. Constantin pushed down the twinge of sympathy. He had heard dozens of similar sob stories.
The soldiers shoved the woman to her knees before the wooden pillar and ripped away her blouse. As they chained her hands to the post, she turned and looked at Constantin with wide, moist, terrified eyes.
Helena.
“Constantin…” she choked out, recognizing him the same instant. “Oh God…please. Let me go. Make them let me go! My son, my poor boy… Please!”
He gritted his teeth, his stomach twisting in knots.
Her husband…her son…the son she bore from the man she left him for all those years ago.
The other soldier nudged him in the ribs.
“She knows you?” he asked. “Where from?”
Constantin shook his head, lips tight.
“No idea who she is,” he said flatly. He hoped they couldn’t see his shaking hands.
The soldier shrugged.
“Okay then. Sentence is thirty-six hard ones.” He clapped Constantin on the back and strolled away.
“Constantin! Please!” Helena pleaded with him, sobbing into the post. “Please don’t do this!”
Constantin looked away from her. He pushed down the memories of that long ago summer. And he brought the whip down across the naked back of the first woman he ever loved.
ianwarrick
Magistrate
Would like to see an image after the whipping and perhaps a later bottom caning for defiance. Perhaps I'm greedy!
mark sessnatz
Tribune
Judicial 7
Winifred was a faithful wife, a devoted mother, and beloved by many, but the royal authorities disapproved of her sending her tax money to the church poorhouse. they let it slide the first year. And more reluctantly the second year, but the third year, the Baron could tolerate the disrespect no longer.
It was, perversely, her own 48th birthday, a frigid, snowy day in early February, when the officers seized Winifred, dragged her in chains to the public forum, stripped her and flogged her bloody across her trembling naked back. Her family were, mercifully, not present.
Winifred was a faithful wife, a devoted mother, and beloved by many, but the royal authorities disapproved of her sending her tax money to the church poorhouse. they let it slide the first year. And more reluctantly the second year, but the third year, the Baron could tolerate the disrespect no longer.
It was, perversely, her own 48th birthday, a frigid, snowy day in early February, when the officers seized Winifred, dragged her in chains to the public forum, stripped her and flogged her bloody across her trembling naked back. Her family were, mercifully, not present.
Nobbes25
Senator
It's look like cold today in town!