Chapter 28
The past is now our play
Monqilcolnen and I chose an experience that was historically based but didn’t reenact any actual events from our records.
The creator who’d designed the experience had drawn on the past but forged a whole new story for us to explore.
However, this experience was also one where the story wasn’t set.
The outcome wholly depended on the choices we made in the moment.
By mutual decision, we also chose to engage in the adult version of this story, which meant if we wanted, we could fuck while in character.
I’d never done that before, but I was excited to do so with Monqilcolnen.
Some people even chose to have clothes made to match the experience they were doing.
I felt that was way too much work, not to mention a waste, even if using dispenser-made clothing, which were easily recycled.
For most of us, we simply allowed the experience to overlay the costume over whatever we were wearing.
We both fitted a techplate—a vest with the required technology—on, then Monqilcolnen stepped into the empty suite, which consisted of blank white panels, and I followed right behind him.
Soon enough the panels began to pulse and change.
Bubbles danced in my stomach. It wasn’t often I indulged in experiences, as much as I adored the story-based ones.
My eyes flicked to Monqilcolnen, and he was already staring at me.
The feeling in my gut changed to something wholly different.
It was a fire. An all-consuming fire.
When people spoke of inner fires, it was like this—a neverending fire in one’s center.
While I did experience a tug in my stomach when I rarely used my inner fire, it was nothing like this.
I’d never felt anything even close to this sensation as I stared at Monqilcolnen and he looked back at me.
No. This wasn’t fire. It was lava. It was the pulse beat of a soul.
It was life its very self. I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be able to step away from him, not again.
My soul cried out for him, and, perhaps it was a foolish hope, but I was certain I saw the same reflected in his golden eyes when he looked at me.
As the world changed into a fabricated reality around us, I was unable to rip my gaze off Monqilcolnen, and he was much the same.
The pull was so strong it felt as if my soul would be shredded if it didn’t greet his.
Monqilcolnen didn’t wait; he didn’t hesitate; no, he strode toward me as if he knew what I was feeling. Perhaps he did.
Without prompting, Monqilcolnen rested a hand over the center of my chest, over my pounding soul. I laid my hand over his soul and just stared into the depths of his golden eyes. I whispered, my voice huskier than I’d ever heard it, “What is happening?”
He smiled; it was a small thing, barely a quirk of his lips. Monqilcolnen didn’t answer me. Perhaps he didn’t know, or like me, was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of feeling sweeping through me, through us, between us.
Before I or Monqilcolnen could say a single word, a dramatic voice started to speak, “When the Tilhyn and Vargendil clan decided to stop warring, they pledged a child of the Tilhyn clan leader to the heir of the Vargendil clan to stem the flow of blood. But can a mating save two seperate clans or will it dissolve into even more bloodshed? Only you can decide.”
A randomizer chose who we were to play, and I was garbed in a simple skirt toga that was a deep green, and Monqilcolnen was in the fine brown tunic and trousers.
I was the heir of the Vargendil clan, who, from the information that popped up before me on a glowing rectangle, were a forest Drakcon clan, whereas the Tilhyn were a clan who lived in the caves, high up in the mountains.
Monqilcolnen and I were separated, and behind him stood a clan of drakcol dressed like him.
With a glance over my shoulder, I saw I had the same.
An older woman, easily in her seventh decade, stepped forward and slightly in front of me.
She had lovely pale green scales that were jagged with age, clouded pink eyes, and thin yellow hair that was in a loose braid down her back.
Her wings drooped behind her back, ready to whip out in attack or defense as the situation called for, or maybe old age had rendered her unable to curl the wings up.
I wasn’t sure. As she took a step ahead of me, I noticed the gnarled staff in her gaunt hands.
Opposite of us, stepped another man who was older than I or Monqilcolnen, but he wasn’t close in age to the old woman beside me.
He was probably in his fifth decade. He had dark red, near black scales, black hair, and silver eyes.
His haggard expression was what struck me most. He appeared to be a man who was on his last legs.
“We know why we’re here,” he snapped.
The woman beside me bared her teeth, and all those opposite of me growled at the insult.
My pulse quickened, and my fingers drifted to the sword strapped to my hip, even though there was nothing to fear.
If this broke out in a fight, nothing could actually harm me, because of the safety measures that were in place.
However, it felt real. I could see the anger on their tired faces.
I could hear the snarls of fury. My own instincts stirred.
Thankfully, the experience couldn’t make smell, taste, or feel.
Even now, as I moved my sandaled feet, I could feel I was wearing my boots and the firm floor beneath me, not the purple grass that spread across the plain.
“Yes, and none of us are happy about it,” the woman beside me snapped. “My grandson is worth more than… him.”
I blinked. So she was my grandmother—important information—but more shocking, she was dismissive of Monqilcolnen.
He looked beyond lovely in his garments, his silver hair flying free and flaring in the wind.
I wanted to throw myself at him, but that wasn’t truly acceptable right now.
I had to stay in character. Besides, even if I wanted to move, to the upper right of me was a red glowing line, indicating I wouldn’t be able to.
Experiences like this one were turn based.
I wouldn’t be able to react or speak until the light turned blue.
“My son is a fine specimen,” the man snarled. “He is worth far more than that slip of scales.”
“Father,” Monqilcolnen said. “Calm yourself.” His eyes met mine, and I shivered. Why in all the stars had we chosen a romance? It was going to be impossible to stay in character, though the experience would make me, to some extent.
“Yes,” my grandmother taunted, “calm yourself. You’re lucky we’re even considering this.”
The opposite clan leader growled.
But mine continued, “We are strong and plentiful; you are not. You are but a gust of wind away from demise.”
Four selections popped in front of me I was allowed to choose from, and I read over them carefully, because each choice would change how the story progressed.
One was snarky and taunting, like my leader had given.
One was an utter refusal to mate Monqilcolnen.
One was much like Monqilcolnen’s response, to tell my leader to calm down.
The last was silence, which was always an option.
I tried to think of what my character would respond—a man forced to mate someone he didn’t know for the sake of his clan’s well being. I made my selection, and a gentle force directed me to lay my hand on my clan leader’s, which held her staff, and read the script that appeared before me.
“Be still. You offered this arrangement, and I will hardly turn it down now,” I said, looking at Monqilcolnen.
“No matter how disagreeable I find this offering.” Internally, I winced.
You never knew the exact script until you chose a general direction, and clearly, this wasn’t the best response.
Also, some romances were harder to end well than others.
For some reason, we seemed to love a sad ending.
I didn’t, but most of our stories ended horribly as the norm.
Monqilcolnen cocked an eyebrow, and I had no idea if that was him, somehow sneaking through the filter that kept us from ruining the story, or his character. I doubted my responding smile to the movement made it through.
This story was going to be a challenge to make happy, but I was determined to succeed. My eyes ran over Monqilcolnen, and I smiled again. Yes, I very, very much wanted this to end well.