There has long been a worldwide understanding that war is a terrible thing, that it is a violence that tears asunder and destroys, and that it should be avoided. It is also well understood that war is unavoidable. There is no perfect world here, no utopia that means everyone remains at peace. There is evil, and corruption and simple ignorance that leads to violence, that leads to war. It cannot be escaped, only dealt with.
With this understanding comes further understandings, further ideas that are recognized and acknowledged as full truth. One of these truths is that in the horrors of war, those that are the worst off are your front line men. Those brave infantry people, men and women of valor, who are the first charge of any conflict. They receive the first clash of arms, the first slamming together of the shield wall, the first volley of musket or cannon or magic. And there is no doubt, no room for argument, that they are truly in a difficult place. They will die and scream and feel pain as they lose the last of their lives.
But… but. There are worse things than death. There are worse things than minutes of pain as one bleeds and screams in the mud and slowly loses life. There are pains and torments and humiliations that do not end, that must be revisited again and again, experienced more than once. There are those that suffer in less obvious ways, but more often, more unendingly, than any soldier whose life is thrown away.
Spies come to mind. Those daring few who integrate themselves into the enemy, who learn their secrets and try to subvert or undermine them. But even these are a rare breed and subject to little. If discovered they may be tortured or turned or killed, but whatever the outcome, it is an end. Their day in that occupation is over, and they leave it for good more often than not. These men and women are the ones who suffer greatly, but not constantly, not repetitively. It is a unique position, but far from the worst possibility one might find.
No, the most dangerous occupation, within war and without, is the common messenger, the emissary, the lowly message bearer. Whether it’s dodging fire out in the open field to try and deliver orders, delivering an ultimatum, or simply running messages from one corner of the world to the other, being an emissary is perhaps the most dangerous job one can get. Dangerous, exciting, world viewing, and terrifying, all in one.
Most people don’t really think about such things in any real sense of thinking. You don’t consider the messengers same way you don’t consider the birds or the fish. They aren’t generally directly in your line of sight, and so they go by without a thought spared. And some may be angry here, may be furious that I would claim a mere emissary has a harder time than the man or woman dying in the heat of battle. Perhaps they are right to be angry, but I think not. That soldier will die, yes, and often painfully. But they die once.
In my line of work, death is a rarity, but pain, humiliation, these are all too common. Our messages are important, they must be delivered quickly, One person going alone, or with a single escort, moves faster and more efficiently than a whole squad. Of course they also move more dangerously. What am I to do, when out and alone, a troupe of bandits or a raiding party of orcs comes down upon me? Nothing but hope they don’t take me prisoner too long. What can I do against some lord or lady who decides they don’t like the content of my message? Nothing.
For you see, it is my job not only to deliver the message, but to receive the reply, and every reply has it’s own magic to it, its own meaning. A simple no, depending on how it is said and by whom and when, can speak volumes. But there are more brutish ways as well. We may find ourselves stripped naked before being cast out of the city, or beaten, or raped, or shaved, or clapped in irons, or whipped, or a thousand other things. And each one is a response of its own, with its own meaning and implication. Each one must be borne as best we can, along with the many other trials and tribulations we face.
Ah, but it is a work of wonders. I have been a part of the First Crow Corps for several years now, and I have seen the world. I’ve seen the great stone monoliths of Devri’niss, have paid my homage to the gods at the grand temple in Ovelia. I have been upon a boat down the grand Cien River, and I have seen the massive, towering trees of the Dark Forest. It is a job with perks, with sights and sounds and wonder. I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Though I might be willing to take a vacation, if it got me free of some grabby creatures.
>Hello all, had a thought of this, inspired by a small snippet in a book I recently read, though I would give a try at crafting a story. The first bit here, nothing exciting, just an opening and setting up the idea. Feel free to offer criticisms and ideas and tell me if you’d be interested in this continuing.
Source: reddit.com/r/eroticliterature/comments/6a2dst/the_emissary_bdsm_sadism_more_to_come
Off to a good start. I would like to see where this goes.