Friday, July 31, 2026
Sammi's Story Hour - Dragon's Dogma OG: Revisiting the....er....scene of the....
The Discreet Invitation, or: Queen Velucia Attempts Diplomacy and Is Betrayed by Everyone
Six months passed.
This was, in Queen Velucia’s opinion, enough time for a scandal to mellow into legend, for legend to soften into rumor, and for rumor to become the kind of thing people mentioned only after the third cup of wine and with a hand over their mouth.
It was not, unfortunately, enough time for Sena to stop humming suggestive tunes whenever Velucia crossed the hall.
Nor was it enough time for Morella to stop arching one eyebrow every time the queen said the words statecraft, discipline, or self-command.
Still, six months was six months.
The queen of the High Ruins sat upon her throne in black velvet and silver chains, every inch the dread sovereign of the mountain pass. She had regained her composure, restored her mystique, and only once in the previous fortnight had she absentmindedly touched her lips and drifted into a reverie during a tax raid.
Morella, standing at her right in plum silk and restrained disdain, finished reading the morning reports.
“Three caravans diverted, two toll disputes settled, one attempted mutiny suppressed, and a shepherd from the east valley requests the return of five goats.”
Velucia waved a languid hand. “He may have three.”
“Your Majesty is merciful.”
“I am practical. The goats have integrated into the castle economy.”
Sena, who had somehow become the unofficial minister of kitchens, morale, and emotionally relevant gossip, burst into the hall carrying a tray of honey cakes.
“Also,” said Sena brightly, “the girls on watch say the moon looks romantic tonight.”
Velucia did not move.
Morella did not blink.
Sena smiled wider.
“How fortunate,” said Morella, “that the queen is no longer susceptible to moon-related considerations.”
Velucia’s expression became glacial.
“I have no idea what you mean.”
Sena set down the tray.
“Of course not, Your Majesty.”
There was a long and terrible silence, during which Velucia tried to look like a woman who had never once been kissed breathless against her own bed curtains.
Then she stood.
“Bring me parchment.”
Morella and Sena exchanged a glance of such significance that it should have been illegal.
“For correspondence?” asked Morella, voice smooth as polished poison.
“For official purposes.”
“Ah,” said Sena. “Official.”
Velucia turned on them with queenly irritation.
“If a ruler cannot send a letter without being mocked by her own household, then civilization has collapsed.”
“Civilization,” said Morella, “may have staggered slightly, but I think it endures.”
Velucia sat at the long table beneath the broken window arch where moonlight fell across the parchment. She took up a pen. She placed it down. She took it up again.
She wrote:
To the Arisen,
If you are in the neighborhood, perhaps you might…
She stopped.
“That sounds desperate.”
“It sounds illiterate,” said Morella.
Velucia scratched it out.
She tried again.
To Sami the Arisen, whose sword arm is reputedly unmatched—
Sena coughed into her fist.
Velucia glared at her and continued writing.
—the High Ruins request the assistance of a capable adventurer in a matter of local concern. Compensation available. Utmost discretion assured.
She signed it with a decisive flourish:
Velucia, Queen of the High Ruins
Then, after a moment’s hesitation, she added a postscript:
P.S. The west wall is worse.
Sena clapped both hands over her mouth to keep from laughing.
Morella lifted the parchment delicately.
“It is almost subtle.”
“Send it,” Velucia said.
“By raven?”
“No.”
“By trusted courier?”
“No.”
Velucia stared into the middle distance, and her voice took on the dangerous softness of a woman making a very poor decision with full awareness.
“I shall deliver it myself.”
Sena nearly dropped a honey cake.
Morella closed her eyes.
“Majesty,” she said, “if you ride out in person to invite an adventurer to inspect your west wall, even the goats will understand what that means.”
Velucia drew herself up.
“Then the goats may learn discretion.”
I. Sami Shines by Being Exactly As Much Trouble As Before
Sami the Arisen, meanwhile, had indeed ridden forth with her sword at her side and new knowledge in her heart.
This knowledge had not made her calmer.
If anything, it had made her more dangerous.
She had toppled a corrupt baron in the north, exposed a fake oracle in the marshes, stolen a map from a wizard who had no business owning that many mirrors, and accidentally become the subject of three tavern songs and one particularly lurid puppet show.
She had also, to Mangar’s enduring confusion, developed the habit of smiling to herself for no apparent reason whenever someone mentioned castles, queens, silk, or white fabric.
On the day Velucia found her, Sami was sitting atop a fallen stone bridge, eating an apple and giving very bad advice to a merchant who had somehow managed to lose both wagon wheels and his dignity on the same road.
“You should have brought spares,” Sami said.
“I did bring spares!”
“Then you should have brought better spares.”
Mangar stood nearby like a monumental verdict carved from dark wood and muscle, arms folded over his mighty chest.
The merchant looked ready to weep.
Then came the sound of hoofbeats.
Velucia rode into view in a dark cloak with a silver clasp, her hair braided back, her expression fixed in the severe mask of a queen who had absolutely not rehearsed this encounter fourteen times.
Sami turned.
For one brief, radiant moment, her whole face lit up.
And that was the end of Velucia’s composure.
“Your Majesty!” Sami leapt down from the bridge and landed with the cheerful confidence of a woman who expected the world to contain queens around every corner if only she hoped hard enough. “What are you doing here?”
Velucia dismounted with great dignity.
“State business.”
“Oh good,” said Sami. “I love it when your state has business with me.”
Sena, riding behind the queen on a second horse and trying unsuccessfully to be inconspicuous, made a sound halfway between a squeak and a snort.
Morella, who had come because someone sensible had to, adjusted her gloves and muttered, “We should have feigned plague.”
Velucia handed over the letter.
Sami glanced at the seal, then at Velucia, then at the seal again.
“You came all this way to deliver a letter in person?”
Velucia lifted her chin. “It was… urgent.”
Sami opened it, read the two lines, and grinned.
“The west wall?”
“It is worse.”
“How much worse?”
Velucia’s gaze flickered, just once.
“Bad enough that I thought of you.”
Sami folded the letter and tucked it into her belt as though it were treasure.
“Well then,” she said, smiling like sunrise over a battlefield, “let’s go save your kingdom.”
Mangar made the slightest possible sound of resignation. It was the noise of a very large man who had seen the future and knew it involved carrying someone’s luggage back up a mountain.
II. Velucia Shines by Trying Heroically Not to Melt
The return to the High Ruins was a trial for Velucia.
Not because the climb was hard.
Not because the mountain road was steep.
Not even because the bandits on gate watch greeted Sami with the kind of cheering usually reserved for victorious generals and attractive storms.
No. The trial lay in acting like a queen under observation while being relentlessly delighted by the mere presence of one incorrigible Arisen.
Sami rode beside her and chattered with criminal charm.
“Did you keep the hairpin Morella gave me? I did. See?”
She held it up.
Morella, despite herself, looked pleased.
“And Sena, I still remember that bath. You were right, lavender is not an interrogation.”
Sena laughed. “High praise indeed.”
“And Velucia, is the bed still near the window? The moon looked incredible from there.”
Velucia nearly rode into a shrub.
By the time they reached the gate, the queen had regained outward control through a method known only to great monarchs and people trying not to blush in public: she became terrifying.
She dismounted in one fluid movement, swept into the courtyard, and began issuing commands with such power that half the castle sprang into motion before anyone knew why.
“Torches on the west wall. Archers to the parapet. Someone fetch plans. Sena, the supper. Morella, with me. No staring.”
Everyone immediately stared.
Sami stood in the center of the courtyard, hands on hips, admiring the place as though she had merely stepped away for a weekend rather than having become a semi-mythic romantic incident in its history.
Then she caught Velucia’s eye and smiled.
The queen forgot the next command.
Morella supplied it.
“And stop feeding sausage to the ravens,” she snapped at a passing bandit.
The woman fled.
Velucia inhaled.
Straightened.
Recovered.
This, then, was her hour to shine: not in bed curtains and moonlight, not in private, but before her people—armed, poised, magnificent, queenly. She would show Sami the sovereign she truly was.
And she did.
She strode the battlements in black leather and wine-dark silk, surveyed the crumbling western tower, reorganized sentries, reassigned labor, and delivered a speech so sharp and rousing that two bandits volunteered to mortar stone by hand and a third proposed writing an anthem about load-bearing courage.
Sami watched all this with unmistakable admiration.
“Oh,” she said softly to Sena, “she’s incredible.”
Sena beamed as if she had personally made the queen.
“You should see her during tax disputes.”
Velucia heard that.
She pretended not to.
But something in her posture went even prouder, even finer. The moon found the line of her throat. Her voice rang off the stone.
For that hour, she was every inch the sovereign of the High Ruins.
Which made what happened at supper all the more tragic.
Because when Sami casually reached across the table to brush a speck of mortar dust from Velucia’s cheek, the queen went completely, visibly, hopelessly still.
Sena lowered her cup.
Morella shut her eyes.
And from three tables back, someone whispered, “Oh no, not again.”
III. Sena Shines by Running the Castle Like a Merry Conspiracy
If Velucia ruled the High Ruins, Sena made it livable.
This had not been her intention when she first arrived, a captured peasant girl with strong arms, stronger opinions, and a bosom that entered rooms one diplomatic moment before the rest of her.
But years in the ruins had taught her that castles, like people, required feeding, patching, and emotional management.
By sunset on Sami’s return, Sena had organized a feast, assigned every guest a blanket, charmed Mangar into accepting a second helping, and informed the entire lower hall—without technically speaking a word of gossip—that the queen was engaged in an important reunion of state and heart.
This phrasing did tremendous damage.
Sena glowed in chaos the way saints glow in paintings.
She bustled between kitchen and hall in a white blouse and brown laced bodice, carrying platters, wine, and strategic observations.
To Sami she said, “Sit near the queen, love. She eats more when she’s flustered.”
To Velucia she said, “Majesty, perhaps wear the ruby necklace. It says authority, but also availability.”
To Morella she said, “You adore this.”
“I do not.”
“You’re smiling.”
“It is a structural twitch.”
When, later that evening, a section of the west wall finally gave up, sighed dramatically, and collapsed in a rain of ancient stones into the ravine below, it was Sena who prevented panic.
She clapped her hands once.
“All right! Torches! Ropes! Helmets if you can find them! No one dies before pudding!”
This, somehow, restored order.
Sami rushed toward the wall.
Velucia commanded the rescue lines.
Mangar moved fallen beams with the serene fury of an ambulatory fortress.
Morella counted everyone twice and insulted them for being hard to count.
And Sena, laughing into the wind with her braid whipping behind her, passed buckets, shouted encouragement, and kissed a frightened maid on the forehead before shoving a crowbar into her hands.
That night, when the work was done and the danger passed, even Velucia said it plainly.
“Sena,” said the queen, raising her goblet, “without you this castle would starve, riot, and forget where it put the rope.”
Sena curtsied extravagantly.
“Then I shall remain, Your Majesty, for the good of the realm.”
She looked sideways at Sami.
“And for the entertainment.”
IV. Morella Shines by Being Smarter Than Everyone and Tragically Present
Morella’s life before the High Ruins had contained velvet, tutors, and people with weak chins saying tiresome things at long tables.
Her life now contained cliffs, crossbows, and queens who lost their equilibrium around pretty adventurers.
She preferred the second life, though she would be dragged behind a wagon before admitting it.
When the wall collapsed, Morella became pure usefulness draped in silk.
She organized salvage, inventoried damage, redirected labor, discovered which mason had been overbilling them with the silent joy of a hawk spotting a mouse, and produced from nowhere a rolled map of the old foundations.
Sami, standing beside her in torchlight, peered at the map.
“You can read these markings?”
“Of course.”
“You’re amazing.”
Morella looked at her for a moment.
Then very carefully rolled the map tighter so no one would see how pleased she was.
Later, in the quiet after midnight, it was Morella whom Velucia found in the gallery overlooking the courtyard.
The queen stood beside her.
Below, Sami and Sena were laughing over some disaster involving a bent bucket and two drunk sentries. Mangar sat on a bench having the slightly dazed look of a man who had been fed twelve times against his will.
Velucia sighed.
“You told me this would happen.”
Morella nodded.
“I did.”
“I thought six months would be enough.”
“For a plague, perhaps. Not for that woman.”
Velucia rested her forearms on the stone rail.
“She makes me ridiculous.”
Morella’s voice softened—not much, but enough to count.
“No,” she said. “She makes you visible.”
Velucia turned.
Morella continued to look out over the yard.
“You are still feared. Still obeyed. Still queen. But with her, everyone sees that there is a woman beneath the throne, and that she is alive.”
The queen was silent for a long moment.
“That is insufferably perceptive of you.”
“I know.”
“And what do you advise?”
Morella finally allowed herself the faintest smile.
“I advise that if you intend to send her away again, you first be certain you actually wish her gone.”
Below, in the courtyard, Sami looked up just then, saw Velucia, and waved with the unconcealed joy of a dog spotting its favorite person across a field.
The queen placed one hand over her eyes.
Morella watched with private satisfaction.
Her moment to shine was not in laughter or command, but in that dry, exact, aristocratic loyalty by which she kept everyone from lying too badly to themselves.
V. And Then the Kingdom Was Toppled, More or Less Literally
By the third day, it had become obvious that the west wall was only the beginning.
The old duke, whose engineering philosophy had apparently been pile rocks and trust destiny, had left the High Ruins a network of passages, weak points, hidden cisterns, and one sealed chamber under the great tower.
Naturally, Sami had to investigate it.
Naturally, Velucia insisted on accompanying her.
Naturally, Sena brought a lantern and snacks.
Naturally, Morella came because the other three had the collective caution of a flame near curtains.
Beneath the tower they found not treasure, not bones, but an ancient support chamber—its central beam cracked, its stones shifting under years of neglect.
Morella read the markings on the wall.
Sena held the lantern high.
Velucia stood with one hand on her sword.
Sami poked the beam.
The floor groaned.
There followed a brief but energetic span of events in which everyone shouted at once, the old supports buckled, Sami tackled Velucia out of the way of falling stone, Sena dragged Morella by the wrist with astonishing force, and Mangar—summoned by pure narrative necessity—appeared in the doorway and held up a collapsing lintel long enough for them all to scramble out.
They burst into the upper hall in a cloud of dust.
A heartbeat later, part of the old inner tower settled downward with a majestic, rumbling finality.
Silence.
Then one pebble clinked.
Sena looked at the wreckage and said, with admirable calm, “Well.”
Morella coughed dust and adjusted what remained of her composure.
“The good news is that we found the structural problem.”
Velucia turned to Sami, who still had one arm around her waist from the tackle.
They were both disheveled, breathless, powdered with pale stone, and much too aware of one another.
Sena slowly turned to Morella.
Morella slowly turned away.
“Do not,” said Morella.
“Not even a little?” whispered Sena.
“Not even a syllable.”
But the entire hall had seen.
And because castles are made of stone but courts are made of nerves, the gossip spread instantly:
The queen had been dramatically rescued.
Again.
By the same woman.
In her arms.
By supper, it had become:
The queen and the Arisen had toppled a tower together.
By midnight:
The queen and the Arisen had toppled a kingdom together.
Which, in fairness, was not wholly inaccurate.
VI. The Four Ladies Shine Together
That evening, after the dust had settled and the rubble stopped muttering to itself, the four women ended up in Velucia’s chambers.
Not by formal order.
Not by plan.
Simply because some nights pull the right people together and shut the door.
Candles burned low.
The moon lay silver across the bed.
Sena sprawled in a chair with a cup of wine and both shoes gone.
Morella sat upright as if posture alone could defend her from absurdity.
Velucia stood by the window, one hand resting on the frame.
Sami sat on the edge of the bed, watching her.
The room was full of the peculiar warmth that comes after danger, laughter, and the kind of day that becomes legend while it is still happening.
Sena broke the silence first.
“Well,” she said, “our queen has been rescued, exposed, emotionally compromised, architecturally challenged, and looked at in that way at least fourteen times today.”
Velucia shut her eyes.
Morella corrected her. “Seventeen.”
Sami brightened. “You counted?”
“I count everything.”
Velucia turned from the window.
For a moment she looked not like a queen, but simply like Velucia: dark-haired, beautiful, proud, and at the very limit of what pride could survive.
Then she laughed.
Not the sharp queen’s laugh she used in the hall.
A real one.
Low and helpless and entirely hers.
The other three went still, as if aware they were witnessing something rare.
Velucia looked at Sami.
“This is your fault.”
Sami smiled. “I can live with that.”
The queen came closer.
“And yours,” she said to Sena.
Sena lifted her cup. “Happily.”
“And yours,” Velucia said to Morella.
Morella inclined her head. “I deny everything.”
Velucia stood before them all, moonlight and candlelight touching the lines of her face.
“If I am doomed,” she declared, “then I refuse to be doomed alone.”
Sena whooped.
Morella murmured, “At last, a policy I support.”
Sami rose from the bed and took Velucia’s hand with a tenderness so open it made the whole room gentler.
There were no proclamations after that, and no need for them.
Only laughter.
Warmth.
A queen who no longer bothered to pretend she felt nothing.
A peasant girl whose joy held the room together.
A rich girl whose wit kept everyone honest.
And an Arisen who had ridden out to fight monsters and somehow discovered that the greatest upheavals in life were often the sweetest.
What followed behind those closed curtains is best left to candlelight, moonbeams, and the honorable discretion of everyone involved.
But it is known that the next morning the castle staff found the four women at breakfast looking, each in her own way, victorious.
Sena was radiant.
Morella was composed to the point of parody.
Sami looked as though she had just been promised three more adventures and intended to deserve them all.
And Velucia, though regal as ever, wore the faint expression of a woman who had finally accepted two difficult truths:
First, that her reputation would never fully recover.
And second, that perhaps this was not, in the end, a tragedy.
Epilogue
In later years, travelers spoke of the High Ruins as a place transformed.
Its walls were stronger.
Its hall was louder.
Its governance was, depending on whom you asked, either unusually efficient or alarmingly flirtatious.
It was said that Queen Velucia ruled more wisely than ever.
That Sena kept the kitchens, the celebrations, and half the castle’s heart.
That Morella administered accounts, plans, correspondence, and sarcasm with equal precision.
And that, every so often, when the moon was high and the road clear, Sami the Arisen returned to the mountain castle—
sometimes for urgent structural matters,
sometimes for matters less structural,
and always to the immense satisfaction of at least four fine ladies.
Sammi's Story Hour - Dragon's Dogma OG: The Queen of the High Ruins, or: Sami the Arisen Fails to Notice She Is Being Seduced v2
The Ballad of Sami the Arisen, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the Queen
A Tragicomedy in One Act, With Excessive Description
Chapter the First: In Which Our Heroine Makes a Series of Unfortunate Decisions
Sami the Arisen—that storied warrior whose sword arm was matched only by her gift for missing obvious social cues—had done it again. There she stood, trussed up like a Solstice goose, dangling between two remarkably muscular women who had the sort of jawlines that could open wine bottles.
"Another one for the Queen," said the taller bandit, adjusting her leather straps with professional satisfaction. "She's got that look about her."
"What look?" Sami asked, genuinely curious.
"The look of someone who couldn't find a clue if it was nailed to her forehead."
The high ruin castle of the Daughters of Desolation perched atop a crag like a brooding ex-lover, all Gothic arches and suggestive turrets. Sami was dragged through corridors lined with tapestries depicting scenes that made her blush—scenes that, had she been paying attention, might have clarified her situation considerably.
Chapter the Second: The Throne Room of Sapphic Intent
Velucia, Queen of the Highway and Sovereign of Questionable Life Choices, reclined upon a throne carved from what appeared to be solidified midnight. She wore leather the way other women wore perfume—sparingly, strategically, and with devastating effect. Her eyes were the color of sin itself, which is to say, a very particular shade of violet.
"Unbind her," Velucia commanded, her voice like honey poured over gravel.
Sami rubbed her wrists. "Thank you! I was just passing through on my way to—"
"Silence." The Queen rose, circling Sami like a shark circling a particularly oblivious minnow. "You have... potential."
"For what? Questing? I'm excellent at questing. I once retrieved the Orb of—"
"For other pursuits."
Sami blinked. "Like... crafting?"
Velucia's eye twitched. It was a very small twitch, but Sena—who stood nearby oiling a breastplate that didn't strictly need oiling—noticed it immediately.
"To the tower cell," Velucia sighed, suddenly looking very tired for a woman who hadn't yet reached her sexual peak. "Perhaps solitude will clarify her... situation."
Chapter the Third: The Concubines Conspire (While Bathing a Clueless Woman)
Three days later, Sami sat in a copper tub large enough to host diplomatic negotiations, still wondering if perhaps the Queen wanted her to craft something—maybe a really nice belt?
"Lift your arm," Sena commanded, the buxom peasant girl whose previous life involved churning butter and whose current life involved considerably more interesting activities. She was enthusiasm incarnate, all curves and smiles and practical knowledge of knots.
"Now the other one," added Morella, the snooty noblewoman whose capture had been the scandal of three counties. She examined Sami with the critical eye of someone who had once judged horseflesh at the Imperial Fair. "The Queen requires you... presentable."
"Presentable for what? An audience? I've been asking for an audience for days!"
Sena and Morella exchanged glances that contained multitudes.
"Sweetheart," Sena said, sponging Sami's back with what was definitely unnecessary thoroughness, "the Queen doesn't bring just anyone to her private chambers."
"Obviously," Morella sniffed, arranging Sami's hair with pins that cost more than Sami's entire questing wardrobe. "One must be... selected."
"Selected for what? Is there a tournament? A test of arms?" Sami's eyes lit up. "A DUNGEON CRAWL?"
Morella's hand went to her forehead. "Gods preserve us, she's serious."
"I was a dairy maid," Sena confided, her hands wandering into territories that had nothing to do with hygiene. "Three years ago. Now I live in a castle with hot meals, soft beds, and regular... workouts. Best decision I never made."
"I had seventeen suitors," Morella added, fitting Sami with a negligee so sheer it could have been mistaken for a particularly ambitious shadow. "All of them tedious. All of them men. Do you know what men talk about? Horses. Always horses." She shuddered. "Velucia discusses philosophy. While doing things that would make a courtesan blush."
"She's very well-read," Sena agreed, tying ribbons that served no practical purpose. "And very... thorough."
Sami looked between them. "So she's looking for a... advisor? A court scholar?"
The concubines, in perfect synchronization, deflated.
Chapter the Fourth: The Negligee of Doom
The Queen's bedchamber was a monument to excess. Velvet draperies. Fur throws. Candles that burned with scents scientifically proven to lower inhibitions. And there lay Sami, arranged like a gift she didn't realize she was, wondering why the room was so warm and why her heart was beating so fast and whether perhaps she was coming down with something.
Velucia entered wearing a robe that made the negligee look like armor.
"At last," the Queen purred, approaching the bed with the inevitability of gravity. "You are... magnificent in your obliviousness."
"Your Majesty! I must protest this treatment! I am an Arisen, a warrior of—"
"—absolutely no romantic comprehension whatsoever. Yes. I've noticed." Velucia climbed onto the bed, her movements liquid and predatory. "Tell me, Sami. Have you ever been with a woman?"
"I've fought alongside many women! There's Janna the Swift, and—"
Velucia kissed her.
It was not a gentle kiss. It was the sort of kiss that rearranged priorities, that rewrote certain assumptions, that made Sami's brain—which had been running on a very specific operating system for twenty-eight years—suddenly require a complete system update.
"Oh," Sami said, when they broke for air.
"Yes?"
"Oh my."
"Better."
Chapter the Fifth: The Epiphany, or: Sami Downloads New Information
What followed was educational. It was, in fact, the sort of education that Sami had been missing despite all her adventuring, all her dungeon delving, all her regrettable encounters with creatures whose ideas of romance involved more teeth than was strictly necessary.
Velucia was an artist, and Sami was her canvas. The Queen worked with lips and fingers and whispered instructions that Sami found herself eager to follow. Every touch was a revelation, every gasp a discovery. This was not the clumsy pawing of Maangar, her erstwhile companion, whose idea of foreplay was asking if she was "still awake." This was not the terrifying, bitey enthusiasm of the goblin incident, which they never discussed and which had required three healing potions.
This was... this.
"I understand now," Sami breathed, sometime around the third hour.
"Do you?" Velucia smiled, satisfied.
"I understand everything."
And then Sami moved.
Perhaps it was the Arisen blood, that ancient lineage of heroes that demanded not participation but mastery. Perhaps it was simply that Sami, having finally understood the assignment, intended to ace it. Whatever the reason, she rolled Velucia beneath her with a strength that surprised them both.
"Your Majesty," Sami whispered, her eyes alight with terrible knowledge, "I believe it's my turn."
Chapter the Sixth: The Tables Turn, the Queen Learns, and Face is Threatened
Velucia had not been topped in seven years. She had, in fact, built an entire reputation, a criminal empire, and a personal brand around being absolutely, definitively, categorically in charge.
Sami, it turned out, was a natural.
"Again," Sami commanded, and Velucia, to her absolute horror, found herself obeying.
"Wait, I—"
"Again."
"Stop, I command you to—"
"Again."
The Queen of the Highway, Scourge of the Northern Roads, Terror of the Merchant Guilds, was reduced to a quivering, begging, submissive mess. And she loved it. She loved it so much she feared she might die from loving it. She loved it in ways that made her question every decision that had led her to this leather-clad throne of power.
"One more time," Sami suggested, and Velucia wept with joy and terror.
But afterward—after the fourth or fifth round, after Sami had discovered talents she never knew she possessed, after Velucia had experienced heights of pleasure that should have required mountaineering equipment—reality crept in like a thief.
Velucia lay in the wreckage of her own bed, her hair a disaster, her composure in ruins, her authority in question. Outside, she could hear her bandits training. Sena and Morella would be waiting with breakfast and knowing smiles.
She could not afford this. A Queen who moaned "yes, please, more" could not command respect. A bandit lord who begged was merely a liability.
"Sami," Velucia said, her voice carefully reconstructed into something resembling authority.
"Yes, my love?"
My love. The words sent a shiver down Velucia's spine that had nothing to do with fear. "You must go."
"What? But we were just getting started! I've got this whole new thing I want to try with the candles and—"
"NOW." Velucia sat up, pulling her command around her like armor. "You are banished. Exiled. Cast out. Take your things—" she gestured vaguely at Sami's adventuring gear, which had been cleaned and oiled by loving hands, "—and never return."
"But—"
"Guards!"
Chapter the Seventh: The Departure, and a Reunion
Sami found herself outside the castle gates wearing considerably more than she'd arrived in—armor polished, sword sharpened, provisions packed, and absolutely no understanding of what had gone wrong.
"Was it the candle thing?" she asked the closing portcullis. "I can skip the candle thing! We can work up to it!"
The only answer was the sound of a bolt being thrown.
Sami wandered down the mountain path, her mind a whirlwind of confusion and lingering physical satisfaction. She had learned so much. She had discovered herself. And now she was alone again, with no one to practice on.
She found Maangar at their pre-arranged meeting point, the idiot barbarian snoring beneath a tree with his mouth open.
"You're alive!" he said, waking with a start. "Did you get the treasure?"
"There was no treasure, Maangar."
"Did you kill the bandit queen?"
Sami thought of Velucia, her violet eyes, her command, her surrender. "No. No, I didn't kill her."
"Well, what did you do?"
Sami adjusted her armor, checked her sword, and smiled a smile that made Maangar—who was not a perceptive man—feel suddenly, inexplicably nervous.
"I had an education, Maangar. And I intend to apply it."
"To what?"
"To everything." Sami set off down the road, her stride purposeful, her mind already planning. There were other castles. Other queens. Other women who perhaps needed an Arisen to show them the error of their ways, or the rightness of them.
Maangar scrambled to follow. "Wait! Shouldn't we go back to town? Report to the Guild?"
"Guilds are boring, Maangar. I've discovered I prefer... private enterprise."
And so Sami the Arisen rode forth, her sword at her side and new knowledge in her heart, ready to topple kingdoms in the most literal and most pleasurable sense possible.
Meanwhile, in the high ruin castle, Velucia touched her lips and shivered, and wondered if perhaps—just perhaps—she might send a very discreet invitation in six months' time, when her reputation had recovered.
But that is another story.
FIN
Sammi's Story Hour - Dragon's Dogma OG: The Queen of the High Ruins, or: Sami the Arisen Fails to Notice She Is Being Seduced v1
Sami the Arisen was captured at noon, which annoyed her chiefly because she had planned to be captured later.
She had climbed into the high ruins in pursuit of a rumor involving treasure, a cyclops, and possibly a magical ring. As usual, the rumor had neglected to mention that the castle belonged to several dozen armed women with crossbows, excellent cheekbones, and a collective dislike of uninvited visitors.
“Drop the sword,” commanded one of them.
Sami looked down at her sword.
Then at the bandits.
Then at the very steep cliff behind her.
“Could we negotiate a fourth option?”
They could not.
Thus did the Arisen enter the famous stronghold of the Women Bandits of the High Ruins: disarmed, indignant, and being prodded uphill by the flat of her own sword.
Their fortress had once been the seat of some forgotten duke, until time, war, and structural neglect had reduced it to three towers, half a chapel, and a dining hall whose roof admitted both rain and dramatic moonlight. The bandits had improved it considerably with rugs, weapon racks, drying laundry, and a sign over the gate reading:
NO MEN. NO TAX COLLECTORS. NO MINSTRELS AFTER SUNSET.
Sami was marched through the great hall, where every conversation stopped.
The women stared.
Sami smiled.
Several stared harder.
Sami assumed they had recognized the Arisen.
They had, in fact, recognized her legs.
At the end of the hall, upon a throne built from the duke’s old dining chair and several pieces of stolen church furniture, lounged Velucia, Queen of the High Ruins.
Velucia wore black leather, red silk, and the expression of a woman who had never once been told to lower her voice. Her dark hair fell over one shoulder. A jeweled dagger rested against one thigh. Her boots rested upon a velvet footstool that had almost certainly once belonged to a bishop.
At her right stood Sena, broad-hipped, rosy-cheeked, and gloriously bosomed, a former peasant lass who had been captured while driving a cart of turnips through the wrong valley.
At her left stood Morella, narrow-eyed and elegant, the runaway daughter of a wealthy family who still spoke of mud as though it were a personal insult.
Both women wore fine gowns, expensive jewelry, and the complacent expressions of people who had discovered that captivity came in radically different grades.
Velucia leaned forward.
“Well,” she said. “What have we here?”
“Sami,” said Sami.
Velucia waited.
“The Arisen,” Sami added helpfully.
“I know who you are.”
“Oh. Good.”
Velucia slowly crossed one long leg over the other.
Sena coughed into her hand.
Morella looked toward the ceiling as though asking the gods for patience.
Velucia said, “They say the Arisen fears neither beast nor death.”
“Mostly true.”
“And that she has faced dragons.”
“Yes.”
“And ogres.”
“Several.”
“And creatures so foul that ordinary women would faint merely to behold them.”
Sami shuddered.
“Goblins,” she said darkly.
There was an uncomfortable pause.
Velucia, sensing hidden history, chose not to inquire.
Instead, she descended from her throne and began to circle Sami.
Sami remained perfectly still.
Velucia’s fingertips brushed the torn edge of Sami’s cloak.
Sami assumed she was checking the stitching.
Velucia leaned close enough for Sami to smell spiced wine and rose oil.
Sami assumed the queen had poor depth perception.
Velucia whispered, “You are very pretty for a trespasser.”
“Thank you. You have a very defensible castle.”
Morella shut her eyes.
Sena bit the inside of her cheek.
Velucia stepped back.
“Put her in the cell under the great tower.”
Sami blinked. “Was it something I said?”
“Yes,” said three women at once.
The cell under the tower was not especially unpleasant. It contained a bed, a blanket, a washbasin, and a tiny window overlooking the mountain road.
Sami had slept in worse places.
She had also slept in better places, though not always voluntarily.
For three days, meals arrived on proper plates. Fresh fruit accompanied breakfast. Someone sent down wine. On the second evening, a bandit delivered a small vase of wildflowers.
Sami studied them carefully.
“Poison,” she concluded.
She fed one to a passing rat.
The rat ate it and appeared delighted.
“Slow poison,” Sami amended.
On the fourth day, Velucia came to visit.
She stood outside the bars in a fitted velvet coat, one hand resting upon her hip.
“Are you comfortable?”
“As comfortable as a prisoner can be.”
“I could make you much more comfortable.”
Sami nodded seriously.
“A second pillow would help.”
Velucia stared at her.
Sami stared back.
Somewhere above them, a raven began laughing.
Velucia left without another word.
That evening, the second pillow arrived.
By the sixth day, Queen Velucia had exhausted subtlety.
She had sent wine.
Flowers.
Perfume.
A silver comb.
A book of scandalous poetry, which Sami had used to steady the uneven table.
She had personally visited the cell wearing three increasingly daring outfits.
Sami had complimented the tailoring of every one.
At last Velucia summoned Sena and Morella.
“She does not understand,” said the queen.
Sena folded her arms beneath her impressive natural advantages. “Perhaps she’s shy.”
“She fought six of us on the drawbridge.”
“Battle shy is different from bedroom shy.”
Morella inspected one polished fingernail. “She may simply be stupid.”
“She is the Arisen.”
“Those things are not mutually exclusive.”
Velucia paced before the hearth.
“I have never been ignored.”
“You are not being ignored,” said Sena. “She watches you very closely.”
“She watches my weapons.”
“Well,” said Morella, “you do wear the dagger rather provocatively.”
Velucia stopped pacing.
“Clean her up.”
Sena smiled.
Morella sighed.
“Dress her properly,” Velucia continued. “Bring her to my chambers after sunset.”
“In what?” asked Sena.
“The white negligee.”
Morella raised one eyebrow. “The transparent one?”
Velucia’s expression became imperial.
“The moonlight one.”
“Transparent,” Morella translated.
Sami was collected from her cell shortly before dusk.
Sena unlocked the door.
Morella stood behind her holding a folded garment between two fingers.
“You are to bathe,” Morella announced.
“I bathed yesterday.”
“That was not bathing. That was splashing water upon yourself and declaring victory.”
“I used soap.”
“You used saddle soap.”
“It removes dirt.”
“It also removes hope.”
Sena took Sami gently by the shoulders and steered her down the corridor toward a steaming bath.
“Come along, love.”
Sami peered suspiciously into the water.
“Is this an interrogation?”
“With lavender?” asked Sena.
“I’ve seen stranger methods.”
The two women washed her hair, scrubbed the dust from her shoulders, and attempted to explain her situation.
“Velucia likes you,” said Sena.
“I like her too.”
Morella leaned against a pillar. “No. She likes you.”
“Yes. I heard.”
“She desires you.”
“She desires my cooperation?”
“She desires,” Morella said through clenched teeth, “to have you in her bed.”
Sami considered this.
“To discuss an alliance?”
Morella looked ready to drown herself in the bath.
Sena tried a different approach.
“She thinks you’re beautiful.”
“That’s kind of her.”
“She has been imagining you without your armor.”
“She may borrow it if she needs measurements.”
Sena stared at Sami for several seconds, then began laughing so hard she had to sit down.
Morella pinched the bridge of her nose.
“You cannot possibly be this oblivious.”
Sami looked wounded. “I notice many things.”
“Name one.”
“The castle’s west wall is collapsing.”
Morella pointed toward the negligee.
“Put this on.”
Sami unfolded it.
There was very little to unfold.
“This appears unfinished.”
“It is finished.”
“It has less fabric than my sword belt.”
“That,” said Sena cheerfully, “is its principal virtue.”
Sami held the garment to the light.
“I can see through it.”
“Yes,” said both women.
“Does Velucia know?”
Morella walked out of the room.
Sena remained long enough to help Sami into the negligee, arrange her damp hair over one shoulder, and dab rose oil at her throat.
When she finished, she stepped back and gave an appreciative whistle.
“Oh, the queen is doomed.”
Sami looked down at herself.
“To pneumonia?”
Velucia’s bedchamber occupied the uppermost surviving room of the great tower.
Candles burned in every niche. A fire glowed in the hearth. Wine waited beside the enormous canopied bed. The entire chamber had been arranged with the strategic precision of a military ambush.
Sami entered barefoot.
Velucia forgot the sentence she had prepared.
Sena nudged Sami forward.
Morella announced, “Your Majesty, the prisoner has been washed, perfumed, dressed, instructed, and—against all reason—remains confused.”
Then the two concubines withdrew, closing the door behind them.
Sami stood in the center of the chamber.
Velucia reclined against the pillows in a black silk robe.
There followed a silence of such density that it could have been used in masonry.
Finally Sami said, “You wanted to see me?”
Velucia took a long drink of wine.
“Yes.”
“About the west wall?”
“No.”
“The cyclops rumor?”
“No.”
“The magical ring?”
“No.”
Velucia set down the goblet.
“Come here.”
Sami approached the bed.
“Closer.”
Sami came closer.
“Closer.”
Sami climbed onto the mattress.
Velucia touched her cheek.
Sami’s eyes widened slightly.
At last, the great machinery of comprehension began to move.
The queen drew her down.
What followed was not a discussion of alliances.
Nor was it an examination of masonry.
It was, however, highly educational.
Velucia was patient at first, which was fortunate, because Sami approached the situation with the same earnest concentration she brought to deciphering ancient tablets. But the queen was also experienced, confident, and thoroughly accustomed to command.
She guided.
She demonstrated.
She issued several instructions in a tone usually reserved for armed raids.
Sami obeyed.
Then, somewhere between the candles burning low and Velucia murmuring something scandalous into her ear, revelation struck the Arisen with greater force than any dragon’s tail.
“Oh,” Sami breathed.
Velucia paused. “What?”
“This is what everyone meant.”
The queen stared at her.
Sami’s face transformed with wonder.
“You have been flirting with me.”
Velucia let her forehead fall against Sami’s shoulder.
“For a week.”
“I thought you were inspecting my clothing.”
“I sent you perfume.”
“I thought the dungeon smelled damp.”
“I wore a gown cut to my waist.”
“I thought you were hot.”
“I was hot!”
“Yes,” Sami said, beginning to grin. “I understand that now.”
And with understanding came enthusiasm.
Sami had always been a quick learner.
A very quick learner.
An alarmingly quick learner.
Velucia’s original plan had been to overwhelm the Arisen with the full force of royal charm, enjoy a night of magnificent conquest, and then perhaps keep her as a favored companion until either boredom or a dragon intervened.
The plan survived approximately another quarter hour.
Sami, having discovered an activity she liked considerably more than goblin captivity, began asking questions.
Then she began experimenting.
Then she stopped asking questions.
By midnight, Velucia had lost one earring, all sense of time, and a portion of her authority.
By one in the morning, she had issued an order that sounded suspiciously like a plea.
By two, she had discovered that the title “Queen of the High Ruins” carried absolutely no legal power beneath her own blankets.
At three, Sami asked, with cheerful concern, whether Velucia needed rest.
Velucia, who would rather perish than admit weakness, declared that queens did not need rest.
This was a strategic error.
At dawn, Sena and Morella waited outside the chamber with breakfast.
They heard the bed creak.
Then Velucia cried out something that did not sound regal.
Sena’s eyebrows rose.
Morella slowly lowered the tray.
Another sound came from within.
Sena smiled with enormous satisfaction.
“Our queen appears happy.”
“Our queen,” said Morella, “appears to be losing a war.”
The door opened shortly after sunrise.
Sami emerged glowing, tousled, and immensely pleased with herself.
“Good morning.”
Sena looked past her.
Velucia lay face-down amid the pillows, one arm hanging over the side of the bed. Her hair had become a political crisis. Her robe was missing entirely.
Morella’s eyes narrowed.
“Is she alive?”
Velucia lifted one hand weakly and made a dismissive gesture.
Sena beamed.
“She likes you.”
“I know,” said Sami proudly. “I finally noticed.”
For the next two days, the High Ruins entered a period of constitutional instability.
Velucia continued to summon Sami to her chambers.
Sami continued to arrive.
The queen intended each encounter to restore the natural order.
Instead, the natural order became increasingly unnatural.
At meals, Velucia sat upon her throne with a cushion beneath her and a haunted expression in her eyes.
Sena poured her wine.
Morella watched with the clinical interest of a scholar observing the collapse of an empire.
On the second evening, Velucia dropped her dagger.
Sami bent to retrieve it.
The queen made a tiny sound.
Every bandit at the table stopped chewing.
Velucia straightened.
“I have a cough.”
Morella sipped her wine.
“A remarkably specific cough.”
The queen glared at her.
Sami handed back the dagger.
Their fingers touched.
Velucia’s commanding expression flickered.
Sena saw it.
Morella saw it.
Half the band saw it.
Rumors began immediately.
Was the queen becoming gentle?
Had the Arisen bewitched her?
Had Velucia started saying “please”?
A kitchen maid claimed to have heard “please” three times in one night.
This was deemed treasonous gossip, though no one dared ask how the kitchen maid had been close enough to count.
Velucia called an emergency council.
Sena and Morella attended.
Sami was not invited because she was asleep in the royal bed, occupying it diagonally.
“This cannot continue,” Velucia said.
Sena looked sympathetic. “Are you tired?”
“No.”
Morella looked at the cushion.
“Of course not.”
“I am losing face.”
“You still have your face,” Sena said.
“My reputation.”
Morella nodded. “That is in greater danger.”
Velucia paced.
“I am the queen. I command. I dominate. I inspire terror.”
“Yesterday you asked Sami whether she was comfortable.”
“A queen may show concern.”
“You fluffed her pillow,” said Morella.
Velucia stopped.
Sena covered her mouth.
“You also called her ‘my fierce little turnip,’” Morella continued.
“That was private.”
“You shouted it.”
Velucia turned crimson.
Sena lost the battle and began laughing.
The queen pointed toward the door.
“Out.”
Morella did not move.
“You know what must be done.”
Velucia’s shoulders sagged.
“Yes.”
Sami the Arisen would have to leave.
Not because Velucia disliked her.
Quite the opposite.
If Sami stayed another week, Velucia feared she would begin sitting at Sami’s feet during council meetings, wearing a collar, and asking whether the Arisen approved of the day’s raids.
A monarch had limits.
Or at least ought to.
Sami was expelled from the High Ruins the following morning.
She was given her armor, her sword, three bottles of wine, a purse of gold, and the white negligee folded carefully inside her pack.
“This seems generous,” Sami said.
Velucia stood upon the drawbridge with her arms crossed.
“You defeated us in honorable combat.”
“I was in a cell.”
“Metaphorical combat.”
“Oh.”
Sena embraced Sami warmly enough to threaten several ribs.
Morella gave her a small jeweled hairpin.
“For remembering things,” she said.
Sami smiled. “I’ll remember you.”
Morella glanced toward Velucia.
“Some of us will remember you every time we sit down.”
Velucia made a strangled sound.
Sami approached the queen.
For one dangerous moment, neither spoke.
Then Sami kissed her cheek.
Velucia’s knees nearly betrayed the monarchy.
“Farewell, Your Majesty.”
“Go,” Velucia whispered.
Sami turned and walked down the mountain road.
Velucia watched until she disappeared among the pines.
Sena stood beside her.
“You could call her back.”
“No.”
“You could ask nicely.”
Velucia gripped the battlement.
“Never.”
Morella joined them.
“She left the negligee here.”
Velucia spun around.
“What?”
Morella held up the tiny white garment.
A folded note rested atop it.
Velucia snatched the note and read:
For next time. Try not to miss me too badly. —S
The Queen of the High Ruins stared at the message.
Her expression softened.
Then hardened.
Then softened again.
“Burn it,” she ordered.
Sena took the note.
“Certainly.”
She did not burn it.
Sami found Mangar two days later beside a ruined chapel, surrounded by the remains of several unfortunate saurians.
At six feet eleven inches and built like a siege engine, Mangar looked down at her with immense relief.
“Arisen. I searched everywhere.”
“I was captured.”
His eyes narrowed. “Were you harmed?”
Sami considered the question.
“No.”
“Threatened?”
“Not exactly.”
“Interrogated?”
“Eventually.”
Mangar studied her face.
Sami had the look of someone who had recently discovered both religion and advanced mathematics.
“What happened?”
She adjusted the pack on her shoulder.
“I learned several things.”
“About the bandits?”
“About myself.”
Mangar waited.
Sami began walking down the road.
After a moment, he followed.
“Arisen.”
“Yes?”
“Why are you smiling?”
“No reason.”
Behind them, far above the valley, a horn sounded from the High Ruins.
Sami glanced back at the distant tower.
Then she smiled wider.
“Come along, Mangar. We have a dragon to find.”
And thus the Arisen resumed her grand quest—older, wiser, and considerably less likely to mistake transparent nightwear for unfinished tailoring.
The Arisen may conquer dragons, but apparently lesbian subtext requires a week of flowers, perfume, imprisonment, and direct physical demonstration. Magnificent.
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