Tag: orphan

1833 06-98 Toe to Toe, Challenger to Champion
1834 06-98 Western fire and Eastern water begin to dance
1835 06-98 Wanna look like me, Madame Pompadour?

PREVIOUSLY:  Hong, with minor assistance from her jawari, has wrestled Esmeray into submission and chained her by her ankles to the rail facing out over the desert.  NOW:

Esmeray eyed the mass of devils and demons defiantly, as if she was considering taking them all on.  And perhaps she was.  Slowly, she brought her breathing and her emotions back under control, regretting the loss of it.  She hated herself for being—whatever she was.  Emotional.  Instinctive.  Crazy—call it what you like, she hated it.  She hated at herself.

She had known today was going to be difficult and that Channah would try to make her lose it.  Channah always did that; a part of Esmeray hated her.  But that was getting her nowhere—stop, stop Stop STOP!

She told herself—ordered herself—to breathe, to stay focused on her work, and to ignore the potential threats around her.  Either Channah was going to put her in harm’s way, or she was going to protect her; and there was little enough Esmeray could do either way to improve or worsen her lot.

Like everyone in Channah’s orbit, she was the Succubus Queen’s tool and plaything.  She had been for a decade—ever since Channah had rescued her from worse—and she loathed herself for it.  Not that Esmeray was… entirely ungrateful.  She reminded herself, as she frequently did, that she was fortunate; and that Channah had treated her better than anyone ever did before.  It was as much as—more than!—a person could ask.  She knew she should be more grateful, or at the very least, more philosophical, about it.

And yet, it still rankled.  Esmeray longed to be free, free of all obligations and duties to her master.  Free of all masters.  Free of the world’s bondage!  At times, she thought back longingly to her days on the streets of Constantinople, the earliest times she could remember.

Didn’t she?  Of course, she did.  There were lengths of darkness she could not account for, but there was no sense in thinking on them because there was nothing to learn about them.  She had tried.

It was always the good times that beckoned to her anyway.  Today, and on other days when she was forced by circumstances to the unhappy task of reflecting. 

She hissed and spat at the devils, pleased they could not reach her, twice as pleased to get a rise out of them.  She always could!  They were predictable—fuck!  Like her.  No.  No!  She was not predictable.  Everybody told her so!

It was just the demons.  They were predictable that way, goading them a reliable gambit to break the cycle of her unwanted thoughts, trying not to think of—her position.  The chains—

Back then, she told herself, she slept where she liked, ate what she liked, and kept herself to herself.  Mostly.  Always, she slept anywhere she could find, ate anything she could scavenge, and avoided the city watch as assiduously as she tried to avoid the other monsters the city watch was meant to guard people against.  But not always with success.  She shuddered, remembering there had been some bad times—days, nights, when they caught her and things had been beyond her control awhile, things happening of which she would be no part, and her only objective had been to escape and recover, restore order, restore equilibrium. 

Like now.

Street children had only their wits to keep them a step ahead of horror; and like most street children, she had tripped and fallen into the clutches of evil men—always men—once or twice. 

But it was the freedom she had usually enjoyed, that she missed now.  She had been a brilliant child-thief.  And when she started to come into her powers… well, unfortunately, a child struggling to comprehend their power attracted attention long before it started paying dividends. 

Back then, perhaps… sometimes… maybe she had just been young and stupid.  But there had been such a hope that things would get better someday, somehow.  A wish that had at once been fulfilled when Channah took her in, and been slowly dashed to pieces ever since, as Esmeray, growing older and wiser, realized there was no way out for her from where she was right now, under Channah’s thumb.  Nowhere for her to go to get away.  But maybe, back then, before she met Channah—well, before she was caught by—

MAYBE BACK THEN, she thought forcefully to herself, she could have found somewhere, a place, if she’d had the chance.

As it was, she did not, and she would not.  Not ever.

She was Channah’s, body and soul.  Channah was a powerful matron and matriarch—which was generally to the good.  She worked for the strongest person she had ever encountered, someone whose reach was global, whose time was infinite.  It was a good thing to work for the Queen.  Something filled with perks.  The best she could hope for—

“Esmeray!  Madwoman!”  The voice tried again, more insistently.  She straightened, shook her head to clear it, and looked back over her left shoulder to see Hong regarding her urgently.  “Are you yourself again?”

She blinked, then nodded.  “I’m fine.”

Something—disbelief, scorn, a decision of some kind that Esmeray’s assertion was incorrect—crossed her face momentarily.  But after an initial sting, Esmeray’s more rational mind sensed whatever Hong was experiencing wasn’t meant for her.  Hong was as focused on herself, as she was formidable.  Not unlike Channah:  Neither of them wasted time thinking about others, except for how she could manipulate them, and what they might be able to do for her.  Despite her desire to dislike the snotty bitch, Esmeray instead felt something between relief to be dealing with a predictable, and therefore potentially helpful, person with no particular desire to mess up Esmeray’s life; and a desire to interact with Hong precisely because she couldn’t stand interacting with most people. 

And Esmeray thought she saw something like a grudging respect from Hong as well.  “When I heard about you, I couldn’t understand why my Queen would have anything to do with one as… brittle as you.  But I see now.  Do you?”

“What?”  Esmeray asked, startled by the frank and sincere question.

“Do you know why she brought you here, to this place, the heteraslakos?”

“To remind me she can do whatever she likes to me,” Esmeray answered, shrugging matter-of-factly.

Something played around Hong’s lips before settling on amusement, and she snorted.  “Very probably.  But beyond that.”

“She said I’m damaged enough that I have the capacity to do real damage,” Esmeray answered slowly, watching Hong’s expression intently for anything insincere or petty.  All she found was a flash of understanding.

Hong stepped up behind Esmeray, returning her curious gaze:  “Can you abide the touch—a gentle touch—of a woman?”

Esmeray stiffened, wanting to snap that she could survive anything but quelling the urge to do so, as Hong raised her hands slowly.  Sensing she had still been too fast, Hong pulled them back a moment, shushing her gently, before resting one, and then the other, on Esmeray’s sleeve, not looking away from her for a second.  And then she paused, doing nothing, saying nothing, as Esmeray held her body tight as a drum, before starting to understand.  With a testy but determined hiss of breath, she began forcing herself to relax.  Even with the other qahramanah touching her. 

“Can you touch others?” Esmeray nodded questioningly, and Hong explained, removing her hands from Esmeray’s sleeve and holding out her left hand, a few inches from Esmeray’s.  “Then touch me.”

Esmeray hesitated, considering her irritation, her instant desire not to do what somebody else wanted her to do, and the tension that had arisen in her the moment Hong called her name.  Deliberately, rationally, she chose to play along anyway.  The queen bee obviously wanted something from her; and Esmeray wanted to know why Channah had dragged her here, what kind of show she was supposed to be putting on, exactly.  Everyone wanted to be powerful and valuable—or at the very least, to understand their value to others, not merely to capitalize upon it, but to be wary of the threat the other person’s desire might pose.

Literature Section “06-98 Esmeray on Edge”—more material available at TheRemainderman.com—Part 98 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—1350 words—Accompanying Images:  1833-1835—Published 2025-05-23—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

1627 06-68 Domesticated bunnies don’t recognize predators
1628 06-68 Orphan bunnies deliberately imprinted on mother-predator
1629 06-68 Know your predators:
NOT the Easter Bunny
1630 06-68 Good girls mind their momma on Easter
1631 06-68 Girls pose respectfully with their Qahramanah
1632 06-68 Happy Easter!  Wait, did somebody die?

Literature Section “06-68 Easter Lessons”—Part 68 of Chapter Six, “Le Saccage de la Sale Bête Rouge” (“Rampage of the Dirty Red Beast”)—Accompanying Images:  1627-1632—Published 2025-04-17 to -20—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

06-36 1514 This one! (the adoption of Charles)^
06-36 1515 The boy is mine now. (The purchase of Penny)^
06-36 1516 You’re perfect! (the finding of Roger)^
06-36 1517 We’ve got you (the escape of Isaac [Esmeray])^
06-36 1518 Tricking the guards (Sindonie’s escape)^
06-36 1519 Buying in Bulk^

The Countess of Warwick

When the Countess married the Earl, and moved to Fensmere, she had brought her own entourage with her.  These included those she called nieces (Eleanor, Frances, Jane, Chas, and Penny), nephews (Roger, Cutter, Isaac, and Martin), and staff including her Lady’s Maids (Mary and Rebecca), carpenter Big George, and the children’s governess Sindonie.

Years later, came the day—Penny’s eighteenth birthday—when the Countess found out:  That the Defalais sisters knew her nieces were transgendered.  That Penny was teaching the girls even when they were being punished.  That in addition to Latin and religion, she had been continuing to teach them the subjects their mother had wanted them to learn, but Anne had forbidden to them, like grammar, Greek, Hebrew, rhetoric, philosophy, math, geometry, astronomy, and heretical ideas from Germany about the Church.  And that she had even let them dabble in some of the secret subjects Anne Batonnoir taught all her lost boys and girls, like fighting, spy craft, and the principles of magic.

She burst into Hellinore’s closet, finding Mary, Catherine, Beatrice, and Hellinore there.

“Hiding.” she growled. 

“With boys!” she raged. 

“Of… lower… station,” she spat in contempt.

“Aunt Anne!  I’m not a boy!” Chas began, looking stricken and betrayed, almost crying, and completely missing the point, bless her heart.

Penny looked guilty, ashamed, scared, a little relieved, and almost… almost, the tiniest bit proud, apologizing profusely and trying to explain she hadn’t meant to sleight her guardian, but only to help the girls, and pleaded to be allowed to continue.  It was a pronouncement as honest, and in its own way as misplaced, as Chas’s.

The sisters mainly looked terrified, as well they might have, although Hellinore, now 11, stoutly volunteered that when she found out Penny was transgender she had threatened to tell the Countess what they knew if Penny wouldn’t keep teaching.  It was a quarter-truth, at best, but strayed from the truth for loyalty’s sake, and would have been dead on-point if the Countess had been interested.

The Countess’s retribution was terrible and swift.  The five girls were birched in the Great Chamber, out of line of sight from the upstairs kitchen but in hearing range of half the house proper, to humiliate them as much as possible without allowing any of the servants ideas or feelings above their stations.  Of course, every decent or sensible servant but one fled the house the instant the birchings began, but the point was made, the girls embarrassed, and the stories spread.  Only the Countess’s carpenter, Big George, remained in the house, installing locks on all the girls’ closet doors, securing them against escape even while imperiling them from any fire or other calamity should one overtake the manor.  Then she locked her stepdaughters in their closets for days, having her lady’s maids supervise the servants who brought them food and water and changed out their chamber pots, to prevent them from showing the girls any additional or emotional kindnesses.

While the Countess herself, focused on attending to those she regarded as her own.  As always, the lowest in rank suffered the worst.  Even though, in this case, “lowest” was a relative term—at least as importantly, the three remaining offenders were from the Countess’s household, utterly beholden to her, with no other sources of support or care, nothing else to turn to, nowhere else to go.  They were all members of the gentry, the lowest rank of the English nobility, as far below the Defalaises as they were above the rest of the population.  But she had facilitated Sindonie’s escape, kept Chas from the orphanage, and bought Penny outright.

From the sisters’ perspective, they disappeared for days; and when they finally reappeared, the girls, at least, were subdued, almost timid, and in some kind of shock, more distant from everyone and everything around them, than they had been before.  If it had been secretly suspected in certain quarters on the manor estate before, that Penny and Chas were not quite what they appeared, it now became more or less an open secret that Penny and the tutor occasionally seen slipping to and from the manor to Cambridge—which did not allow women—were one and the same person.

Around the same time, the residents of the manor learned the King was planning to visit, a fairly rare event this far East.  Perhaps it was the stories of the progressive home built by three generations of Defalaises that attracted him.  But more likely, according to rumors that eventually even reached the older sisters’ ears, were that something else might have lured him here.  The same thing that had so impressed and befuddled the Earl and most of the young men in the county.

The Queen of Lust

Chas and Penny had been carefully selected for their respective adoption and purchase by Channah, the Succubus Queen of the Hell of Lust, who in her human guise had lately adopted the name Anne Batonnoir, married the Earl of Warwick, and now was slowly draining his wits and life away.  Since acquiring her wards, she and her vassals and collaborators and minions had worked together, like an orchestra, to mold and condition and train the boys—now girls—for the special purpose for which they had been recruited.  It was the same with all the thousands of the Queen’s wards, nephews and nieces alike, here in Cambridge today, and in innumerable other cities and villages and campsites scattered across the world since humanity had begun.

The succubae and their incubi had started the game with… certain advantages.  Reading and manipulating humans wasn’t just something they did, it was what they were.   And with every round of the game, every human soul they worked on, every human lifetime of experience they gained, they had continued to pull further ahead of their human prospects.  They could, literally, seduce and drain humans of their very life without even waking up.  How much more were they capable of wide awake in the flesh? 

Before they even set hands on the children—or occasionally adults—they wanted, the ancient, eldritch Queen and her Court had used their powers to discern things in their hearts and minds that neither the children nor any adult caretakers understood.  She did not adopt babies, but young children.  They were not just raw material like clay, indifferently mined from acres of the same ore to be given form by the succubae.  They were raw puppets, picked out from shelves stuffed to the brim with the world’s unfortunates, already animated by birth, already endowed by early childhood with the basic shapes Hell required.  All she and her servants had to do was to finish them, polish them, and set them on their paths.

PART 3 OF STORY RECAP

Literature Section “06-36 Grimm Transformations III:  The Evil Plan”—Accompanying Images:  1514-1519.  1115 words—©2025 The Remainderman.  This is a work of fiction, not a book of suggestions.  It’s filled with fantasies, idiots, and criminals. Don’t believe them or imitate them.

adventuresofradicalprovocateurs tudor england renaissance venice operative spy espionage succubus orphan adoption prisoner escape rescue fugitive escape smuggling street troll guardian ward olivertwist dickensian