Headsnap
1st Level Orange Feather
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A little first chapter prologue thingy from a story I'm writing. It's only the first bit, there's more to come though if anyone would be interested. If you reckon it's decent post a comment and let me know 
BE WARNED:
Might be some content that is judged as specifically adult. Although there's no sexuality or nudity alluded to, it's tickling at it's most sadistic. This bit isn't that bad, though it'll get worse as the story goes on.... but hey; that's why we're here, right? ;D
IN DEFIANCE:
A big barrell of poo by Headsnap
! This could not be what it seemed. Could it? Her mind raced as she sprinted through the blackened woods, darting from shadow to shadow, flitting through the shafts of moonlight as they pierced the boughs above her hooded head. If what she'd read was true, if the message that foul knave had been carrying was true.... No, she would not allow herself to believe it. Lord Margram Shadowbreaker, the greatest amongst the White Knights and hero of Schwarzkamp Bay, a traitor to king and country? Ludicrous. Nevertheless, he contents of the rogue's letter were sufficiently worrying to warrant the attention of Ithis, and to that end she headed, swiftly and silently, through Blackmoon Forest to her officer's cabin.
Her mind wandered back over what she had read as she ran, and as she mulled over a million thoughts in her head she did not notice the rope snap tight up ahead of her; at full speed she ran into it throat-first, snapping her head forwards and back with such force that it nearly broke her neck before flinging her violently to the floor. The girl sputtered and gulped in air, struggling to force it down her bruised windpipe as her attacker stepped triumphantly from his hiding place and loomed over her. He was a tall man, and even though he wore a grand suit of plate mail armour it was not hard to see he was powerfully built. His helmet was ornate, decorated with various spires and spikes, a steel mask of a stoic-set face covering his own to shield it from harm and conceal his identity from his prey. She writhed in pain for a few more seconds until her discomfort subsided and enough of her composure had returned to allow her to sit up.
"What the hell are you doing?", she seethed, "You could've killed me!"
"You reap what you sow Morrigan", replied the man. The woman was somewhat shocked; this was obviously not the voice she had been expecting, and she started slightly.
"What's wrong, girl?", he demanded, sliding a thick, concussive mace of some soft yet dense material from his belt.
"Were you not expecting to be discovered?" The woman tried to stand, but as she did the warrior brought his cosh down upon her shoulder viciously, the blow landing with such force that it slammed her face first into the floor. The woman groaned.
"Lord Margram.... Please....." Margram's lips pursed into a triumphant leer beneath his mask. He knew what she would ask.
"Fear not girl", he snorted, "I have no desire to kill you. You came here to betray me, and I would know to what end; you may know something that could be of use to me...."
Morrigan's blood ran cold; she could not reveal Ithis or the underground to Margram. The slaughter which would follow would be catastrophic, and she knew she could not live with that on her conscience. Her mind raced as she once again tried to stand, a million choices and courses of action swirling like a vortex in her brain. However, a second later the mace struck another blow, one of such force to her skull that it knocked her unconscious. The last thing she saw were two hooded lackeys, more Wraiths like herself, stepping out of the shadows towards her. As her world faded to black, the Wraiths gathered up Morrigan's prostate form, tying her legs and arms around a long pole before hoisting her up and carrying her off into the woods. As he watched them take her away, Margram smiled evilly, his gaze turning to the moon. Ithis wouldn't like this one bit....
Morrigan awoke to a world of swirling pain; her head felt as though it was about to explode, her brain thoroughly rattled to the point that it was difficult to fix her gaze or concentration for more than a moment. She groaned as a pain in her arms manifested itself, a dull ache that ran from the tips of her fingers to the base of her neck. She had been bound, the clank of chains abrading her wrists and upper arms indicating she would not be shuffling off these bonds; not as quickly as she was accustomed to, that is. Her legs were also bound, fixed tight around the thighs and ankles with Brigantine leather that had been fastened with thick metal clasps, embossed with Shadowbreaker's own seal. She tried to shake off the fatigue in her head and sat upright, looking around to find herself in a large obsidian room flanked by two of Shadowbreaker's Invincibles. These personal guardians, beings of living metal fashioned in the image of Shadowbreaker's own aegis, were said to have been gifted to him by an ancient sage from the North; a likely tale which led Morrigan's educated mind to liken them to the foul Revenants those wizened old villains employed to defend their clandestine mountain-fortresses. Few knew of the Invincibles, and she surmised that if anyone of import were to find out, the Great-Lord would probably find himself in hot oil. However, her concern at this moment was not for Shadowbreaker's well-being; it was for her own. She could not know where she was, although the Invincibles' presence suggested Shadowbreaker Keep, and had no way of knowing how long she had been unconscious for her cell walls were solid, the dank, musty room lit only by candles. The sole entrance was the thick oaken door in front of her, iron-hinged and spiked to prevent any attempts at barging it. Chance would be a fine thing, she though, tugging at her restraints.
Almost as if to answer her concerns, an image appeared before her; a spectral mist-like shape, seeming to find a masculine, heroic form out of thin air, floating like a mist before her startled eyes as it began to address her.
"My lady Morrigan", cawed Shadowbreaker's shade. His ethereal face cracked into a leering smile.
"Foul cur!", spat Morrigan defiantly, "Your treachery curdles my blood, and the blood of Empyrea! Release me!" Shadowbreaker laughed, the eerie cackle his wraith-visage emitted echoing chillingly from the walls of the cell.
"Is that where you were going, little one?", he mocked, "To betray me to your master?"
"I have no master but Illuvia!", she raged at the air.
"And what would a Fury know of loyalty?"
"More than you, traitor!", she spat derisively. Shadowbreaker snorted.
"Pathetic servant-girl", he snapped, "As if you could hope to understand the schemes We scheme! By the by, however.... by the by." His voice trailed into silence, which hung in the air like a pall for a few moments, before Shadowbreaker spoke once more.
"You know something of me; something I do not wish to have bandied about. For the good of my reputation, you understand; for the good of The Nation."
"Pah!", spat Morrigan, "Kill me, and ten more will take my place. Your evil-"
"I have already told you that I have no desire to kill you...." His voice suddenly dropped, his tone no longer haughty but now altogether more sinister and menacing, "I wish to know what you know, and to punish you to repentance for your betrayal of my trust. Lucius, Catiggia, take her to the chambers and have Mortigern prepare her for me. I will attend her at half to three."
The Fury made to speak, but before she could the wraith was gone. The door swung open with a hiss and the mighty steel hands of the Invincibles hauled her from the ground, dragging her backwards from her cell and into the fell corridors of the Catacombs. As they wound their way through seemingly endless rows of wooden doors guarded by numerous clanking abominations of nature, Morrigan's keen ears picked up sounds which chilled her soul drifting on the stark, musty air; forlorn sobbing and groans of misery mingled with bestial snarls and disconcerting whispers, interspersed by the inexorable clatter of the Invincibles as they went about their patrols. By the time the Invincibles stopped, Morrigan felt pricked by a sensation she had not known in a great many years. This place, it was hell incarnate, the vile dimension of Vilifis himself made stone and iron and brought to life with the pain and suffering of countless souls. She wanted to escape, to break her bonds and be free of this place, and not so that she could complete the task that Ithis had set for her. She was frightened, for the first time in years, fearing not simply for her life but for her soul and sanity; she had to leave. Yet even as she felt herself shivering, her gaolers stopped dead; she heard a door swing open, and suddenly she found herself thrust sharply to the floor, landing in a crumpled heap with a wince of pain.
"Is this her?..... What am I asking you two for, you're machines..... Go on, be on with you....."
Morrigan looked around; the voice had come from a spindly, nervous looking man at the far end of the room she was in. He wore a black hooded tabard emblazoned with the red sigil of the Scrutiniers and seemed to be manipulating some device, though she could not see it for his back was to her. However, a look around the room suggested that whatever it was, it was nothing good; the room was hexagonal, roughly thirty feet in diameter, with a thick metal door set into each of the walls. In the centre of the room was a small pool of what appeared to be water, directly beneath a hole in the centre of the domed roof which opened out to the sky. At the far end of the pool was an eight-pointed crucifix device to which a female form had been lashed. Her feet and legs were secured to the downward jut at the ankles and thighs with heavy metal loops which fastened around her, securing her feet to the bottom of the pool of water which lapped at her ankles. Further restraints around her waist and shoulders served to hold her upright against the circular body at the centre of the device, whilst her arms had been lashed to the diagonal upward juts in a cruel and almost unnecessary fashion; every joint was immobilised with metal loops, including her splayed fingers. Her head hung forward, stark white hair matted with sweat as it coursed down over her shoulders and obscured her face, reaching her knees at it's greatest length; Morrigan sighed for the poor woman, her long, pointed ears indicating Sildinan descent and the general debilitation of her demeanour betraying a lengthy ordeal at the hands of the Lord. She looked over the she-elf's slender form for signs of trauma and torture, strangely finding none visible; what she did see however were several tattoos on the woman's outer thigh. Interwoven patterns of white, gold and red staining her pale lavender skin and stretching from the waistband of her underwear, widening to form a complex Sildinan script across the width of her thigh, and then tapering down once more to a point just above the outside of her knee. The mark of a Gehennan; and not just any Gehennan. Morrigan's heart sank as she looked over the tattoo.
"Keka!" The Fury's voice smashed the silence like a thunderclap, startling the Scrutinier and seemingly bringing the poor she-elf to her senses. The man turned from whatever it was he was doing as Keka raised her head. She looked at Morrigan for a moment with pleading eyes, lips quivering pathetically as tears of desperation rolled down the tracks of tribal scars which ran from her hairline to her chin across both eyes.
"Oh Keka.... What have they done to you?....."
"You know her then eh?", said the Scrutinier half to himself, "God. Should make this more interesting." Morrigan looked into her friend's eyes for a moment; two silver orbs, usually flashed with life and alertness, now drained and welled with the suffering of whatever torment these beasts had subjected her to. They begged Morrigan to release her, to do something, ANYTHING to help her. Morrigan's blood boiled as she looked back at her friend apologetically, cursing her weakness and folly as she fought with her bonds to free herself.
"Stop that, it's very annoying", whined the Scrutinier as he held up an object to the light, squinting down it's length.
"Fiend!", screamed Morrigan, "You beast of hell! I'll kill you!"
"What did I just say?", crowed the Scrutinier again, placing the object back in it's rack and turning to Morrigan.
"Let her go you scum, or so help me I'll tear out your eyes and feed them to you!"
"Pff". The Scrutinier clenched his fists and stalked towards Morrigan, stopping in front of her and turning to face Keka as some arcane energy crackled in his hands. With a suddenness that made Morrigan jump the man seethed energy from his throat and thrust his hands forward, forks of arcane electricity cracking against the surface of the water in which poor Keka was standing barefoot. The elf-girl yelped in pain and her body convulsed within her bonds, wracking the device for a moment before slumping back to her defeated posture.
"Leave her alone!!", Morrigan howled with bestial wrath.
"You shut up", replied the Scrutinier, his whiny, nasal voice somewhat anticlimactic after the power he had just unleashed, "This is how this works; I'm going to cut you loose, and you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Every time you aggravate me, every time you fail to follow an instruction, every time you look at me sideways, your elf-friend gets a shock." Morrigan looked up at Keka, who looked back at her. Morrigan smiled as reassuringly as she could, but Keka just shook her head and let it drop once more. She'd had enough, she could take no more. The Scrutinier continued his ramble.
"I've been given the job of preparing you for examination by Stonebreaker or whatever his name is", he waffled, "But I'm on orders not to touch you, same as I am with elfy there. Prefer it that way to be honest, you humanoid lot make me skin crawl frankly. Not that I don't enjoy a bit of misery though; I mean, that's how I earns me bacon after all. Anyway, I'm off on a tangent; basically, if you so much as breathe out of turn, your mate gets hurt." He turned back to the rack, then suddenly back to Morrigan.
"One other thing; if, while you're untied, you get the urge to come over all Avenging Angel on me and go for me, gulp and swallow it. If you so much as touch me, she dies. Horribly. You ever seen an elf melt? I have, and it ain't nice. Stinks like a bugger as well, impossible to get the smell out of your clothes..."
The Scrutinier continued rambling to himself as he turned back to the rack. Morrigan thought for a second, looked at Keka, and then slumped her shoulders dejectedly.
"Fine", she sighed, "I will do whatever you ask of me; but please, if you have any mercy in your heart, please let my friend go."
"Point the first; I know you will, coz of what I just told you", he replied, "Point the second; I can't let her go. She's Lord Thingywotsit's now, his new little dolly. He's always had a thing for the elfies has old Doohickey, Lord bloke.... most of the time they love him, too, they're more than willin' to pop off wiv 'im. Only this one wasn't, probably because he wasn't payin' 'er to be; she spat in 'is face first she saw 'im, and he's been goin' at 'er ever since. She broke months ago, started sobbing, couldn't take no more, she said, promised 'im the world; but he's still down 'ere every other night, danglin' 'er by the ankles an' proddin' an' pokin'....." Morrigan was revolted; she had no idea what the grimy torturer meant, but her mind could draw only one conclusion, and in her heart she wept for poor Keka.
"Prolly end up doin' the same to you, I'd wager...."
"I would rather die!"
"That's no option", he replied curtly, scuttling over to free her from her bonds quickly before discarding them to one side. The thought of grabbing him, of throttling him to death and fleeing with Keka flashed through her mind, but as she looked up into his hooded face she could see only darkness beyond his visor; pierced only by the sickly green glow of inhuman eyes. He was Silvynai, one of the few living creatures from the land of the dead; the likelihood she could dispatch him before he could harm Keka was low, and thus she resolved to play along, for the moment at least.
"On your feet", he muttered, turning his back on her to fidget some more with one of the tools on his wall rack. Morrigan did as ordered, shaking the fatigue out of her limbs and the blood back in.
"Strip down" Morrigan stopped suddenly.
"I beg your pardon!", she said indignantly. Her only reply was the Scrutinier's arm shooting to his side, the lightning arcing from his fingers wracking Keka's body with more magical pain as she cried out pathetically.
"Stop! I am.... I... I will comply."
"Leave your undies on", he mumbled. Some small measure of relief caused Morrigan to sigh as she gingerly removed her night-blue leather tunic and discarded it meekly to the floor. Within moments she had removed the rest of her leather armour, and stood shivering with cold as a brisk gust blew into the room from the hole in the roof. The Scrutinier turned and looked her over, regarding with some annoyance the thin canvas under-shoes which she had neglected to remove.
"Erm, I said undies, not yer boots", scolded the man-thing, staring at her feet.
"These are under-shoes", she replied, her tone almost like a chided child; she had hoped he'd allow her to keep her under-shoes on. The Scrutinier said nothing, raking yet another burst of power across the water at Keka's feet, only this time allowing it to linger for a moment. Keka howled in agony.
"No, please!", yelped Morrigan, quickly kicking off the undershoes, "I... I'm sorry. I will comply fully next time." The Scrutinier seemed unmoved, but withdrew his hand anyway with a cursory shake of his head, leaving poor Keka sobbing in pain and Morrigan feeling suddenly vulnerable. She despised this, hated the feeling of helplessness and nakedness that had accompanied her being barefoot for as long as she could remember. She'd rather he asked her to surrender her smalls than her under-shoes, for baring her feet made her feel more vulnerable and conscious of herself than anything else, and she did not know why. She shuffled sheepishly as the Scrutinier left her standing there for what seemed like minutes with the cold air whipping around her skin with suddenly renewed vigour. Finally, the pitiless Scrutinier moved to one of the doors and unbolted it, heaving it open on it's protesting hinges and revealing to her the chamber beyond. Morrigan's heart sank as she saw it, but she maintained what composure she could and made no show of her trepidation. The Scrutinier turned back to her from beyond the threshold, and allowed a smirk to purse his withered, grey lips as he beheld her chagrin.
"Grab some chains off the rack there, and come with me."
The poor girl. She'd been strapped there for hours now, lashed to the Pyre of Atonement since dawn this morning, increasingly frantic yelps and maddened pleas muffled by the Penitent Hood strapped upon her. She was a pretty one, he had to give her that, especially for a serf-girl; heartily built though far from portly, her frame was healthy and strong with well rounded hips and bosoms, her skin light tan, pristine and unblemished. Her legs and arms were long and lean, legs thrust in front of her and held fast at the ankles by Martock's heavy wooden stocks, arms pulled above her head to bare her armpits and torso to the sadistic whims of Shadowbreaker's trusted wizard. As was Martock's custom, and Shadowbreaker's preference, her hands had been tied palms-together, slender fingers restrained in prayer above her head. Her beautiful bare feet, amongst the most desirable Shadowbreaker had seen, were similarly restrained, each toe bound to an eyelet atop the stocks with silken thread and spread apart as wide as could be managed without causing stress. This was another of Martock's innovations in torment that the Lord found irresistible; thus restrained, the feet of his victims were completely immobilised and thus helpless to make even the most half-hearted effort to remove themselves from the torturer's grasp. In the case of Calinth, the girl with whom Martock was now amusing himself, this method was particularly appreciated and seemed to be yielding wonderful results. The lusciously sweet skin of her fleshy feet, tinged immaculate pink on the raised portions of the sole whilst maintaining a creamy white in her arches and between her toes, was exquisitely sensitive and luxuriously soft, having managed to retain it's smoothness and suppleness despite the girl's penchant for walking barefoot and the generally poor standard of footwear available to maids such as her. Every touch, every caress no matter how light produced a spasming jolt throughout her lithe form, wracking her body with convulsions of involuntary laughter and increasingly frenetic yelps. As Martock's long fingers began probing between the girl's toes once more, plucking at the soft flesh like some musical instrument to produce muffled screams, Margram checked the hour-dial. It was almost two in the afternoon, Mortigern would soon have the lady rogue prepared for him. As much as he delighted in watching this peasant girl suffer at Martock's hands, the hour was drawing near for him to inflict some torment of his own, and he would soon be forced to abandon the girl to Martock's whims. His mind then wandered back to the hour of this poor young lady's apprehension; she had walked across the road in front of his horse, he had had to stop suddenly to avoid trampling her and was most annoyed. She prostrated herself before him, apologising, saying she had just finished her morning wash; she was a beautiful girl, a true country rose, and Shadowbreaker would probably have allowed her to go home had she not been barefoot. She knelt, her pretty toes, painted red in spite of her lack of shoes, curled under her feet, stretching the dusty skin of her soles tight, and he could not take his eyes off her. She was arrested immediately on some trumped up charge, and he had been tormenting her since. At first she was knelt before his seat at his dining table, those luscious soles hanging helplessly off the end of the table just above his lap, her soft hands tied to them, arching her back so that no part of her was denied to him. He had scrubbed the dirt from her feet with glee, delighting in the helpless protestations and twitches of her feet, drinking in the forced, gulping laughter tinged with fear and bewilderment. Her tickled, plucked, sucked and licked every inch of her soft soles, sucking her toes and teasing between them with his tongue, slurping hungrily at the balls and blades of her feet even as she tried to move them, tried to stop the excruciating electricity that coursed through her veins, fogging her mind until there was only submission and pleading, hiccupping laughter. He carried on indulging himself with her feet, nibbling her toes and allowing his eager fingers to rake across her straining stomach, through the grooves of her ribs and up into her armpits, burying themselves agonisingly into the soft flesh there as his tongue continued to torture her poor, feeble feet. Eventually, some hour or two after he had begun her punishment, her laughter and sobbing had become so loud and riotous, her mind so frenzied and nerves so pushed to the edge that Martock came to warn him that several of the lesser nobles who bided above the dining room had been woken by the hapless girl's crying, and advised they place her in the Pyre. That was when her ordeal had truly become torture; despite her pleas, despite her broken resolve and her promises of pleasure and discretion, they continued with her punishment, applying balms and oils and potions to her already delicate skin, and it was then that Margram had stood aside and deferred to the master. Margram observed as Martock punished the poor girl, applying various obscure concoctions to her sweet body and watching the itching, that horrendous, tormenting itching dive her into a motionless paroxysm of sheer frustration and rage, before he applied some antidote and took matters into his own capable hands. Her delicious soles were paddled lightly with a riding crop, which the poor serf-girl did not appreciate, yelping with pain following even the lightest kiss of the flexible leather, before he finally produced two stiff, unyielding scribes from his robe. The scribes he gave life to through some clandestine art, while he himself kneaded her ribs enthusiastically, allowing his fast fingers and long nails to dance at speed across every inch of flesh, boring deep into her armpits and squeezing laughter from her stomach as the scribes magically traced insufferable patterns into her prostrate soles. Eventually her laughter gave way to sobbing, and so Martock reinvigorated her, placing the Penitent Hood over her head to heighten her terror as the scribes became soft feathered brushes, which danced over the poor girl's torso, whirled in her armpits like dervishes and caressed from the waistline of her briefs, across her stomach, between her bosoms and up to her neck with sensuous strokes as Martock himself took the tactile pleasure of torturing her feet with his long nails and ravenous lips and teeth. Helpless, beautiful and obscenely ticklish, the girl's toes trembled, her soles quivered manifestly and every inch of her body that had some movement shook to the rhythm of Martock's trained hands. She was helpless, completely alone and at their mercy, and all she could do was submit and accept her sentence. They had her, they desired to see her suffer, and thus she would suffer; that made Margram feel alive, and as he drank in her agony his mouth recalled the taste of her skin; musty toes, the sweet nectarine tang of the oils they had applied. He almost lost himself to desire and would have cast Martock aside to continue his depredation of the hapless peasant girl, had he not noticed that the dial indicated half to three. His lips cracked a beaming smirk and he got to his feet.
"Excuse me, I have matters to attend to", he announced, quite regally given the plight of the poor girl suffering mere feet away from him.
"Very well sire; what shall I do with this one?"
"She is yours, Martock", scoffed Margram, "Do with her as you will; though I would request another session with her before you dispose of her, if that is your intention."
"Never!", Martock scoffed excitedly, "This one is a rare find; a soft, sweet girl of peasant stock. Her mind will be easy to break, and the breaking will give me much pleasure."
"As you wish, Martock", replied Margram with a smirk, "In Illuvia's Name." Martock did not reply, having already begun plucking at the girl's soles once more as she fought desperately with her bindings and wracked her body with sobs and howls of laughter. As he left, he checked the dial once more; the shadow was many revolutions past the dawn mark, and a sadistic grin crept across his face as he made his way to the Catacombs.
Dawn had broken eight hours ago.
BE WARNED:
Might be some content that is judged as specifically adult. Although there's no sexuality or nudity alluded to, it's tickling at it's most sadistic. This bit isn't that bad, though it'll get worse as the story goes on.... but hey; that's why we're here, right? ;D
IN DEFIANCE:
A big barrell of poo by Headsnap
! This could not be what it seemed. Could it? Her mind raced as she sprinted through the blackened woods, darting from shadow to shadow, flitting through the shafts of moonlight as they pierced the boughs above her hooded head. If what she'd read was true, if the message that foul knave had been carrying was true.... No, she would not allow herself to believe it. Lord Margram Shadowbreaker, the greatest amongst the White Knights and hero of Schwarzkamp Bay, a traitor to king and country? Ludicrous. Nevertheless, he contents of the rogue's letter were sufficiently worrying to warrant the attention of Ithis, and to that end she headed, swiftly and silently, through Blackmoon Forest to her officer's cabin.
Her mind wandered back over what she had read as she ran, and as she mulled over a million thoughts in her head she did not notice the rope snap tight up ahead of her; at full speed she ran into it throat-first, snapping her head forwards and back with such force that it nearly broke her neck before flinging her violently to the floor. The girl sputtered and gulped in air, struggling to force it down her bruised windpipe as her attacker stepped triumphantly from his hiding place and loomed over her. He was a tall man, and even though he wore a grand suit of plate mail armour it was not hard to see he was powerfully built. His helmet was ornate, decorated with various spires and spikes, a steel mask of a stoic-set face covering his own to shield it from harm and conceal his identity from his prey. She writhed in pain for a few more seconds until her discomfort subsided and enough of her composure had returned to allow her to sit up.
"What the hell are you doing?", she seethed, "You could've killed me!"
"You reap what you sow Morrigan", replied the man. The woman was somewhat shocked; this was obviously not the voice she had been expecting, and she started slightly.
"What's wrong, girl?", he demanded, sliding a thick, concussive mace of some soft yet dense material from his belt.
"Were you not expecting to be discovered?" The woman tried to stand, but as she did the warrior brought his cosh down upon her shoulder viciously, the blow landing with such force that it slammed her face first into the floor. The woman groaned.
"Lord Margram.... Please....." Margram's lips pursed into a triumphant leer beneath his mask. He knew what she would ask.
"Fear not girl", he snorted, "I have no desire to kill you. You came here to betray me, and I would know to what end; you may know something that could be of use to me...."
Morrigan's blood ran cold; she could not reveal Ithis or the underground to Margram. The slaughter which would follow would be catastrophic, and she knew she could not live with that on her conscience. Her mind raced as she once again tried to stand, a million choices and courses of action swirling like a vortex in her brain. However, a second later the mace struck another blow, one of such force to her skull that it knocked her unconscious. The last thing she saw were two hooded lackeys, more Wraiths like herself, stepping out of the shadows towards her. As her world faded to black, the Wraiths gathered up Morrigan's prostate form, tying her legs and arms around a long pole before hoisting her up and carrying her off into the woods. As he watched them take her away, Margram smiled evilly, his gaze turning to the moon. Ithis wouldn't like this one bit....
Morrigan awoke to a world of swirling pain; her head felt as though it was about to explode, her brain thoroughly rattled to the point that it was difficult to fix her gaze or concentration for more than a moment. She groaned as a pain in her arms manifested itself, a dull ache that ran from the tips of her fingers to the base of her neck. She had been bound, the clank of chains abrading her wrists and upper arms indicating she would not be shuffling off these bonds; not as quickly as she was accustomed to, that is. Her legs were also bound, fixed tight around the thighs and ankles with Brigantine leather that had been fastened with thick metal clasps, embossed with Shadowbreaker's own seal. She tried to shake off the fatigue in her head and sat upright, looking around to find herself in a large obsidian room flanked by two of Shadowbreaker's Invincibles. These personal guardians, beings of living metal fashioned in the image of Shadowbreaker's own aegis, were said to have been gifted to him by an ancient sage from the North; a likely tale which led Morrigan's educated mind to liken them to the foul Revenants those wizened old villains employed to defend their clandestine mountain-fortresses. Few knew of the Invincibles, and she surmised that if anyone of import were to find out, the Great-Lord would probably find himself in hot oil. However, her concern at this moment was not for Shadowbreaker's well-being; it was for her own. She could not know where she was, although the Invincibles' presence suggested Shadowbreaker Keep, and had no way of knowing how long she had been unconscious for her cell walls were solid, the dank, musty room lit only by candles. The sole entrance was the thick oaken door in front of her, iron-hinged and spiked to prevent any attempts at barging it. Chance would be a fine thing, she though, tugging at her restraints.
Almost as if to answer her concerns, an image appeared before her; a spectral mist-like shape, seeming to find a masculine, heroic form out of thin air, floating like a mist before her startled eyes as it began to address her.
"My lady Morrigan", cawed Shadowbreaker's shade. His ethereal face cracked into a leering smile.
"Foul cur!", spat Morrigan defiantly, "Your treachery curdles my blood, and the blood of Empyrea! Release me!" Shadowbreaker laughed, the eerie cackle his wraith-visage emitted echoing chillingly from the walls of the cell.
"Is that where you were going, little one?", he mocked, "To betray me to your master?"
"I have no master but Illuvia!", she raged at the air.
"And what would a Fury know of loyalty?"
"More than you, traitor!", she spat derisively. Shadowbreaker snorted.
"Pathetic servant-girl", he snapped, "As if you could hope to understand the schemes We scheme! By the by, however.... by the by." His voice trailed into silence, which hung in the air like a pall for a few moments, before Shadowbreaker spoke once more.
"You know something of me; something I do not wish to have bandied about. For the good of my reputation, you understand; for the good of The Nation."
"Pah!", spat Morrigan, "Kill me, and ten more will take my place. Your evil-"
"I have already told you that I have no desire to kill you...." His voice suddenly dropped, his tone no longer haughty but now altogether more sinister and menacing, "I wish to know what you know, and to punish you to repentance for your betrayal of my trust. Lucius, Catiggia, take her to the chambers and have Mortigern prepare her for me. I will attend her at half to three."
The Fury made to speak, but before she could the wraith was gone. The door swung open with a hiss and the mighty steel hands of the Invincibles hauled her from the ground, dragging her backwards from her cell and into the fell corridors of the Catacombs. As they wound their way through seemingly endless rows of wooden doors guarded by numerous clanking abominations of nature, Morrigan's keen ears picked up sounds which chilled her soul drifting on the stark, musty air; forlorn sobbing and groans of misery mingled with bestial snarls and disconcerting whispers, interspersed by the inexorable clatter of the Invincibles as they went about their patrols. By the time the Invincibles stopped, Morrigan felt pricked by a sensation she had not known in a great many years. This place, it was hell incarnate, the vile dimension of Vilifis himself made stone and iron and brought to life with the pain and suffering of countless souls. She wanted to escape, to break her bonds and be free of this place, and not so that she could complete the task that Ithis had set for her. She was frightened, for the first time in years, fearing not simply for her life but for her soul and sanity; she had to leave. Yet even as she felt herself shivering, her gaolers stopped dead; she heard a door swing open, and suddenly she found herself thrust sharply to the floor, landing in a crumpled heap with a wince of pain.
"Is this her?..... What am I asking you two for, you're machines..... Go on, be on with you....."
Morrigan looked around; the voice had come from a spindly, nervous looking man at the far end of the room she was in. He wore a black hooded tabard emblazoned with the red sigil of the Scrutiniers and seemed to be manipulating some device, though she could not see it for his back was to her. However, a look around the room suggested that whatever it was, it was nothing good; the room was hexagonal, roughly thirty feet in diameter, with a thick metal door set into each of the walls. In the centre of the room was a small pool of what appeared to be water, directly beneath a hole in the centre of the domed roof which opened out to the sky. At the far end of the pool was an eight-pointed crucifix device to which a female form had been lashed. Her feet and legs were secured to the downward jut at the ankles and thighs with heavy metal loops which fastened around her, securing her feet to the bottom of the pool of water which lapped at her ankles. Further restraints around her waist and shoulders served to hold her upright against the circular body at the centre of the device, whilst her arms had been lashed to the diagonal upward juts in a cruel and almost unnecessary fashion; every joint was immobilised with metal loops, including her splayed fingers. Her head hung forward, stark white hair matted with sweat as it coursed down over her shoulders and obscured her face, reaching her knees at it's greatest length; Morrigan sighed for the poor woman, her long, pointed ears indicating Sildinan descent and the general debilitation of her demeanour betraying a lengthy ordeal at the hands of the Lord. She looked over the she-elf's slender form for signs of trauma and torture, strangely finding none visible; what she did see however were several tattoos on the woman's outer thigh. Interwoven patterns of white, gold and red staining her pale lavender skin and stretching from the waistband of her underwear, widening to form a complex Sildinan script across the width of her thigh, and then tapering down once more to a point just above the outside of her knee. The mark of a Gehennan; and not just any Gehennan. Morrigan's heart sank as she looked over the tattoo.
"Keka!" The Fury's voice smashed the silence like a thunderclap, startling the Scrutinier and seemingly bringing the poor she-elf to her senses. The man turned from whatever it was he was doing as Keka raised her head. She looked at Morrigan for a moment with pleading eyes, lips quivering pathetically as tears of desperation rolled down the tracks of tribal scars which ran from her hairline to her chin across both eyes.
"Oh Keka.... What have they done to you?....."
"You know her then eh?", said the Scrutinier half to himself, "God. Should make this more interesting." Morrigan looked into her friend's eyes for a moment; two silver orbs, usually flashed with life and alertness, now drained and welled with the suffering of whatever torment these beasts had subjected her to. They begged Morrigan to release her, to do something, ANYTHING to help her. Morrigan's blood boiled as she looked back at her friend apologetically, cursing her weakness and folly as she fought with her bonds to free herself.
"Stop that, it's very annoying", whined the Scrutinier as he held up an object to the light, squinting down it's length.
"Fiend!", screamed Morrigan, "You beast of hell! I'll kill you!"
"What did I just say?", crowed the Scrutinier again, placing the object back in it's rack and turning to Morrigan.
"Let her go you scum, or so help me I'll tear out your eyes and feed them to you!"
"Pff". The Scrutinier clenched his fists and stalked towards Morrigan, stopping in front of her and turning to face Keka as some arcane energy crackled in his hands. With a suddenness that made Morrigan jump the man seethed energy from his throat and thrust his hands forward, forks of arcane electricity cracking against the surface of the water in which poor Keka was standing barefoot. The elf-girl yelped in pain and her body convulsed within her bonds, wracking the device for a moment before slumping back to her defeated posture.
"Leave her alone!!", Morrigan howled with bestial wrath.
"You shut up", replied the Scrutinier, his whiny, nasal voice somewhat anticlimactic after the power he had just unleashed, "This is how this works; I'm going to cut you loose, and you're going to do exactly what I tell you. Every time you aggravate me, every time you fail to follow an instruction, every time you look at me sideways, your elf-friend gets a shock." Morrigan looked up at Keka, who looked back at her. Morrigan smiled as reassuringly as she could, but Keka just shook her head and let it drop once more. She'd had enough, she could take no more. The Scrutinier continued his ramble.
"I've been given the job of preparing you for examination by Stonebreaker or whatever his name is", he waffled, "But I'm on orders not to touch you, same as I am with elfy there. Prefer it that way to be honest, you humanoid lot make me skin crawl frankly. Not that I don't enjoy a bit of misery though; I mean, that's how I earns me bacon after all. Anyway, I'm off on a tangent; basically, if you so much as breathe out of turn, your mate gets hurt." He turned back to the rack, then suddenly back to Morrigan.
"One other thing; if, while you're untied, you get the urge to come over all Avenging Angel on me and go for me, gulp and swallow it. If you so much as touch me, she dies. Horribly. You ever seen an elf melt? I have, and it ain't nice. Stinks like a bugger as well, impossible to get the smell out of your clothes..."
The Scrutinier continued rambling to himself as he turned back to the rack. Morrigan thought for a second, looked at Keka, and then slumped her shoulders dejectedly.
"Fine", she sighed, "I will do whatever you ask of me; but please, if you have any mercy in your heart, please let my friend go."
"Point the first; I know you will, coz of what I just told you", he replied, "Point the second; I can't let her go. She's Lord Thingywotsit's now, his new little dolly. He's always had a thing for the elfies has old Doohickey, Lord bloke.... most of the time they love him, too, they're more than willin' to pop off wiv 'im. Only this one wasn't, probably because he wasn't payin' 'er to be; she spat in 'is face first she saw 'im, and he's been goin' at 'er ever since. She broke months ago, started sobbing, couldn't take no more, she said, promised 'im the world; but he's still down 'ere every other night, danglin' 'er by the ankles an' proddin' an' pokin'....." Morrigan was revolted; she had no idea what the grimy torturer meant, but her mind could draw only one conclusion, and in her heart she wept for poor Keka.
"Prolly end up doin' the same to you, I'd wager...."
"I would rather die!"
"That's no option", he replied curtly, scuttling over to free her from her bonds quickly before discarding them to one side. The thought of grabbing him, of throttling him to death and fleeing with Keka flashed through her mind, but as she looked up into his hooded face she could see only darkness beyond his visor; pierced only by the sickly green glow of inhuman eyes. He was Silvynai, one of the few living creatures from the land of the dead; the likelihood she could dispatch him before he could harm Keka was low, and thus she resolved to play along, for the moment at least.
"On your feet", he muttered, turning his back on her to fidget some more with one of the tools on his wall rack. Morrigan did as ordered, shaking the fatigue out of her limbs and the blood back in.
"Strip down" Morrigan stopped suddenly.
"I beg your pardon!", she said indignantly. Her only reply was the Scrutinier's arm shooting to his side, the lightning arcing from his fingers wracking Keka's body with more magical pain as she cried out pathetically.
"Stop! I am.... I... I will comply."
"Leave your undies on", he mumbled. Some small measure of relief caused Morrigan to sigh as she gingerly removed her night-blue leather tunic and discarded it meekly to the floor. Within moments she had removed the rest of her leather armour, and stood shivering with cold as a brisk gust blew into the room from the hole in the roof. The Scrutinier turned and looked her over, regarding with some annoyance the thin canvas under-shoes which she had neglected to remove.
"Erm, I said undies, not yer boots", scolded the man-thing, staring at her feet.
"These are under-shoes", she replied, her tone almost like a chided child; she had hoped he'd allow her to keep her under-shoes on. The Scrutinier said nothing, raking yet another burst of power across the water at Keka's feet, only this time allowing it to linger for a moment. Keka howled in agony.
"No, please!", yelped Morrigan, quickly kicking off the undershoes, "I... I'm sorry. I will comply fully next time." The Scrutinier seemed unmoved, but withdrew his hand anyway with a cursory shake of his head, leaving poor Keka sobbing in pain and Morrigan feeling suddenly vulnerable. She despised this, hated the feeling of helplessness and nakedness that had accompanied her being barefoot for as long as she could remember. She'd rather he asked her to surrender her smalls than her under-shoes, for baring her feet made her feel more vulnerable and conscious of herself than anything else, and she did not know why. She shuffled sheepishly as the Scrutinier left her standing there for what seemed like minutes with the cold air whipping around her skin with suddenly renewed vigour. Finally, the pitiless Scrutinier moved to one of the doors and unbolted it, heaving it open on it's protesting hinges and revealing to her the chamber beyond. Morrigan's heart sank as she saw it, but she maintained what composure she could and made no show of her trepidation. The Scrutinier turned back to her from beyond the threshold, and allowed a smirk to purse his withered, grey lips as he beheld her chagrin.
"Grab some chains off the rack there, and come with me."
The poor girl. She'd been strapped there for hours now, lashed to the Pyre of Atonement since dawn this morning, increasingly frantic yelps and maddened pleas muffled by the Penitent Hood strapped upon her. She was a pretty one, he had to give her that, especially for a serf-girl; heartily built though far from portly, her frame was healthy and strong with well rounded hips and bosoms, her skin light tan, pristine and unblemished. Her legs and arms were long and lean, legs thrust in front of her and held fast at the ankles by Martock's heavy wooden stocks, arms pulled above her head to bare her armpits and torso to the sadistic whims of Shadowbreaker's trusted wizard. As was Martock's custom, and Shadowbreaker's preference, her hands had been tied palms-together, slender fingers restrained in prayer above her head. Her beautiful bare feet, amongst the most desirable Shadowbreaker had seen, were similarly restrained, each toe bound to an eyelet atop the stocks with silken thread and spread apart as wide as could be managed without causing stress. This was another of Martock's innovations in torment that the Lord found irresistible; thus restrained, the feet of his victims were completely immobilised and thus helpless to make even the most half-hearted effort to remove themselves from the torturer's grasp. In the case of Calinth, the girl with whom Martock was now amusing himself, this method was particularly appreciated and seemed to be yielding wonderful results. The lusciously sweet skin of her fleshy feet, tinged immaculate pink on the raised portions of the sole whilst maintaining a creamy white in her arches and between her toes, was exquisitely sensitive and luxuriously soft, having managed to retain it's smoothness and suppleness despite the girl's penchant for walking barefoot and the generally poor standard of footwear available to maids such as her. Every touch, every caress no matter how light produced a spasming jolt throughout her lithe form, wracking her body with convulsions of involuntary laughter and increasingly frenetic yelps. As Martock's long fingers began probing between the girl's toes once more, plucking at the soft flesh like some musical instrument to produce muffled screams, Margram checked the hour-dial. It was almost two in the afternoon, Mortigern would soon have the lady rogue prepared for him. As much as he delighted in watching this peasant girl suffer at Martock's hands, the hour was drawing near for him to inflict some torment of his own, and he would soon be forced to abandon the girl to Martock's whims. His mind then wandered back to the hour of this poor young lady's apprehension; she had walked across the road in front of his horse, he had had to stop suddenly to avoid trampling her and was most annoyed. She prostrated herself before him, apologising, saying she had just finished her morning wash; she was a beautiful girl, a true country rose, and Shadowbreaker would probably have allowed her to go home had she not been barefoot. She knelt, her pretty toes, painted red in spite of her lack of shoes, curled under her feet, stretching the dusty skin of her soles tight, and he could not take his eyes off her. She was arrested immediately on some trumped up charge, and he had been tormenting her since. At first she was knelt before his seat at his dining table, those luscious soles hanging helplessly off the end of the table just above his lap, her soft hands tied to them, arching her back so that no part of her was denied to him. He had scrubbed the dirt from her feet with glee, delighting in the helpless protestations and twitches of her feet, drinking in the forced, gulping laughter tinged with fear and bewilderment. Her tickled, plucked, sucked and licked every inch of her soft soles, sucking her toes and teasing between them with his tongue, slurping hungrily at the balls and blades of her feet even as she tried to move them, tried to stop the excruciating electricity that coursed through her veins, fogging her mind until there was only submission and pleading, hiccupping laughter. He carried on indulging himself with her feet, nibbling her toes and allowing his eager fingers to rake across her straining stomach, through the grooves of her ribs and up into her armpits, burying themselves agonisingly into the soft flesh there as his tongue continued to torture her poor, feeble feet. Eventually, some hour or two after he had begun her punishment, her laughter and sobbing had become so loud and riotous, her mind so frenzied and nerves so pushed to the edge that Martock came to warn him that several of the lesser nobles who bided above the dining room had been woken by the hapless girl's crying, and advised they place her in the Pyre. That was when her ordeal had truly become torture; despite her pleas, despite her broken resolve and her promises of pleasure and discretion, they continued with her punishment, applying balms and oils and potions to her already delicate skin, and it was then that Margram had stood aside and deferred to the master. Margram observed as Martock punished the poor girl, applying various obscure concoctions to her sweet body and watching the itching, that horrendous, tormenting itching dive her into a motionless paroxysm of sheer frustration and rage, before he applied some antidote and took matters into his own capable hands. Her delicious soles were paddled lightly with a riding crop, which the poor serf-girl did not appreciate, yelping with pain following even the lightest kiss of the flexible leather, before he finally produced two stiff, unyielding scribes from his robe. The scribes he gave life to through some clandestine art, while he himself kneaded her ribs enthusiastically, allowing his fast fingers and long nails to dance at speed across every inch of flesh, boring deep into her armpits and squeezing laughter from her stomach as the scribes magically traced insufferable patterns into her prostrate soles. Eventually her laughter gave way to sobbing, and so Martock reinvigorated her, placing the Penitent Hood over her head to heighten her terror as the scribes became soft feathered brushes, which danced over the poor girl's torso, whirled in her armpits like dervishes and caressed from the waistline of her briefs, across her stomach, between her bosoms and up to her neck with sensuous strokes as Martock himself took the tactile pleasure of torturing her feet with his long nails and ravenous lips and teeth. Helpless, beautiful and obscenely ticklish, the girl's toes trembled, her soles quivered manifestly and every inch of her body that had some movement shook to the rhythm of Martock's trained hands. She was helpless, completely alone and at their mercy, and all she could do was submit and accept her sentence. They had her, they desired to see her suffer, and thus she would suffer; that made Margram feel alive, and as he drank in her agony his mouth recalled the taste of her skin; musty toes, the sweet nectarine tang of the oils they had applied. He almost lost himself to desire and would have cast Martock aside to continue his depredation of the hapless peasant girl, had he not noticed that the dial indicated half to three. His lips cracked a beaming smirk and he got to his feet.
"Excuse me, I have matters to attend to", he announced, quite regally given the plight of the poor girl suffering mere feet away from him.
"Very well sire; what shall I do with this one?"
"She is yours, Martock", scoffed Margram, "Do with her as you will; though I would request another session with her before you dispose of her, if that is your intention."
"Never!", Martock scoffed excitedly, "This one is a rare find; a soft, sweet girl of peasant stock. Her mind will be easy to break, and the breaking will give me much pleasure."
"As you wish, Martock", replied Margram with a smirk, "In Illuvia's Name." Martock did not reply, having already begun plucking at the girl's soles once more as she fought desperately with her bindings and wracked her body with sobs and howls of laughter. As he left, he checked the dial once more; the shadow was many revolutions past the dawn mark, and a sadistic grin crept across his face as he made his way to the Catacombs.
Dawn had broken eight hours ago.
