Tag: sims 3 greek myths

bulllordem:

When was the last moon they lay together? The birth of Princess Ariadne
– in fact, all the pregnancy – has strained the Queen. At least two seasons
have slipped by for her recovery.

His sober visions shouldn’t override the High Priestess’ predictions. The fumes of the cracked earth inspire her words. Hers, a tongue moistened by the nectar of the gods. Lips must remain unkissed, to utter the purest riddles. 

He is not drunk, though he has drank. He only has to blink to be haunted. 

How can the High Priestess not see what he sees? Not see that he sees? It amazes and puzzles the King that she can prophesy – and still be so blind.

bulllordem:

“What is it, Minos?” 

His Queen’s voice – a bird that won’t land, that won’t rest, won’t build a nest.

bulllordem:

“We ought.” He responds. To the arousal chord that his Queen’s husky tone strikes on him, the King adds, “We must, Pasiphae!”, with a voice that is coarser than normal.  

“But what is it?” Her words like a bird briskly fleeing.

The Queen is the only person in court with whom the King has ever shared his gruesome visions. Just now, wishing he hadn’t. For the sake of preserving their sacred night. From which she might flinch. 

As if his vision could cloud the favorable moon designated by the High Priestess. Could it?

bulllordem:

The serpents as they slither and hiss, and the long cloak the Queen draws over the furs, are noisier than her own barefoot steps.

She knows the serpent has warned him. Still, ceremonial rules that no King be caught by surprise. The least her consort, definitely. So she taps lightly on the curtains that separate his bedchambers from the terrace. 

Under the light of the full moon, the Cretan mountains shine mighty, and in the foreground a King would stand diminished – if all there is to see didn’t belong to him.

Without turning to face his Queen, for terror still clouds his eyes, he nods slightly, acknowledging her presence. Only then does she speak.

“Something you see, Minos?” There is concern in her voice. “That we oughtn’t, tonight?”

bulllordem:

He shifts position not to try to trick his Queen, because she won’t ever be fooled. Not by him.

He shifts position in hoping that, with the sudden movement, there is a chance the terrorizing vision that haunts his eyes will vanish. It has happened before.

He could simply turn his back on the vision. And face the Queen? With terror in his eyes? He can’t do that, knowing the impact it will have on her. Not tonight, with all the important consequences in the next many moons of her life.

So the King simply shifts position, his back still turned to the Queen, and endures the horrific scene laid before his eyes.

bulllordem:

The agile reptile, which can effortlessly spring for the neck of a person, knows better than to approach this King. A dutiful server of a very special royal guard, it precedes and announces the Queen’s arrival. 

The King nods and, once noticed, the redblackwhite serpent recedes back into the golden warmth of the bedchambers.

His wait over, the man shifts position. Yet, striking another relaxed pose. That might fool many, if not all in the court. But not his Queen. While others only arrive at his image like a threshold, from where to respectfully behold his divine presence, she regards him as a window. 

She sees through him. 

bulllordem:

For frail and flighty is royal solitude.

Coming from the corridors leading to the bedchambers, the King recognizes the voice of his best loved counselor. Though the good man actually whispers, as he goes around inspecting the guards. The King has counted three of them, the elite only, on such a night. They must have performed their ablutions before duty, tonight, according to precise instructions of the High Priestess. 

Like the King himself has, according to her recommendation. Scrubbed and rubbed with the finest aromatic oils, his body burns with expectancy.

And it doesn’t take long for our man to hear the distinctive slither of skin and scales on fur and stone. As the redblackwhite serpent appears on the terrace, the King feels the tingle of his own snake starting to awaken between his thighs.

bulllordem:

His posture, unceremonious and relaxed like hardly ever observed, as those who watch him from the distance could attest.

Feverish are his eyes, though. Concealed by the long dark waves of hair he cultivates since adolescent,

his countenance,

heavy with concern. 

Facing the night, only gods, spirits and the owls are testimonies to the torment seizing his brow. They might be the source of it, too. (No, not the owls)

All the more rare when he is awake,  the man enjoys a moment of solitude – permitting the world to weigh on him.

bulllordem:

A man moon bathes.

All his muscles but not the genitals exposed, as recommended by the High Priestess – recommend being the form one tries to oblige a King into doing as one says.