The Thief of the Rose - Sex Stories

The Thief of the Rose

... the British Isles during the middle ages, but after single-malt was first distilled. I find that I cannot live without it. Perhaps the Scottish Highlands, along the river Spey." "What time, My Lord?" Timekeeper asked. "Some time in the mid 1500's," he replied. "Make it near a good distillery, or monastery that produces excellent single-malt whisky." "As you command, My Lord," the sword replied. The sword's blade glowed with a bluish tint, as its runes glowed silver. Like a pocket door sliding open in a wall, an opening in the fabric of time appeared: a gateway to a different where and when. The man stepped through the doorway, and it slid closed behind him. Scottish Highlands 1539. He stepped out of the doorway onto a dirt road leading toward Auchindoun Castle. His destination was not the castle, but a small town near the castle. Arriving at the town of Mortlach, he looked for an inn or tavern. The innkeeper was out front sweeping his porch when the man walked up to the inn. After identifying himself as a traveling Bard, he offered his services in lieu of payment for room and board. After negotiating a satisfactory contract the Bard sat on the front porch and lit his pipe. The innkeeper returned with a shot glass and earthenware jug, and poured an amber liquid into the glass. The man took the glass and sniffed the contents and downed the liquid in one sip. The liquid burned a little going down, "not near as smooth as Gnomish," he thought dejectedly. "Hmm, I bet they do ...

... not know to age their whisky. Perhaps I can change that." "Where is your whisky produced?" the Bard asked. "There is a Monastery just in the foothills, overlooking the valley," the innkeeper explained. "There is a spring close to it discovered by a brother years ago." "Hmm, I think I may need to visit this Monastery," the Bard thought to himself. "Maybe, I can teach them about aging their casks." The dinner crowd was large after word went out that a Bard was not only staying in the town, but also would be performing after dinner. The inn was humming with trade and conversation, anticipation of the evening's entertainment hanging heavy in the air. A hush fell over the crowd as the minstrel walked to the front of the common room and picked up his harp. The innkeeper took this as his cue to toss another log on the fire, and as the taproom brightened from the blaze, the Bard began to play... "Good evening, my name is Reginald Ravensblade and this is the first in a series of stories that I like to refer to as, 'Tales from the Bard'." "Hmm, if I tell them the truth, that Andor is a planet in a completely different galaxy," he thought. "They are either going to call me a heretic, and have me burned at the stake, or call me a witch, and have me burned at the stake. Either way it will be a hot time for me. No, I need another way to describe this mystical place, hmmm." "These stories all take place in a land beyond the seas, where no man of Scotland or any of the other known lands has ...