Ill Fated (The Birth of a Dhampir)

Spittle drips from his cracked and crusted lips, spread wide in a malicious, fang-bearing grin of ecstasy alloyed with insanity. His breath comes hot and heavy as he stalks his whimpering, petrified prey. Calling upon he innate strength of the truly wicked, he bunches his muscles and springs upon her lithe, half-starved elven form. Chained as she is, with nowhere but small circles to run about the stake that anchors her within the grimy cell, she cowers, shuddering not unlike a mouse hearing the shriek of an owl overhead at the darkest hour of the night. He pounces upon her, his human weight lending force to his maniacal rage. Her face is masked in terror, though the tenancy of that visage quickly fades into a defeated, expressionless resignation before her eyes roll back into her head and she fades into the welcome embrace of nothingness. She will know what happened, but will never remember it. The fates are unusually kind, this time. Heavy footsteps echo down the dark corridor, rousing her from fitful sleep. The rattle of keys and the turn of the lock cause her to open a swollen, blood-crusted eye. She stares warily towards the entrance, feigning sleep even as her body begins to convulse in abject terror. The termagant shaking causes her chains to rattle, belying her awareness of the intruders within the small, dank cell. The muttering of the beast, for he is certainly that, escalates into screams of rage and fear as the forms that have entered the cramped space remove his chains and utter the indecipherable incantations of the arcane, bending him to their will. As he is lead away, his face a mask of terror even the strongest magics cannot constrain, a smile spreads across her lips. Murmuring quietly to herself as the door closes and the lock turns, her hand settles upon the growing lump of her belly, gently stroking. Slowly, the pains ease into a constant throb. Soon, she thinks, this aberration will be drawn from her. If it does not consume her, first. Pain. Dark rivers of undulating, unrelenting and unremitting pain course through her lithe body, culminating in backbreaking, jaw clenching, teeth crushing convulsions. Her cries of agony do not go unnoticed. Even as the last throws of agony erupt between her legs, crowning in a pool of mucous and blood, she feels something break within her. As the placenta encased form slides out from within her, a wave of darkness, interminable eternity, slowly consumes her consciousness. She will never be aware of the dark, distinctly feminine form standing over her cooling body, uttering unintelligible phrases that lift the still form from between her wretched thighs. She will never know the road her progeny will travel, that its twists and turns will be more vile, by far, than her own deplorable existence. Standing over the corpse of her recently expired slave, the newcomer nods her head with a smirk of dark satisfaction, turning to exit even as the small form begins to wriggle in the cool, damp air, carried out before her on the winds of magic. "Perfect," she thinks to herself with a wicked smile. The fates have swung to new lows, the depths of evil saturating the beginning of another miserable life.

Shaping a Life (Bound With The Imp, Dhampir Hungers)

A serpentine hiss whistles throughout the room, ending in an anticipating slap of braided cord upon unprotected flesh. White light fills his vision as agony courses throughout his being. Cries of anguish spill forth from his broken form, eliciting a laugh of pleasure from the female form behind him. He tugs helplessly at the chains holding him aloft, tears of resignation and pain streaming down his scarred, olive colored cheeks. Despite the pain, his body responds to his expectancy of the next flesh-rending slap. Instead, he feels the warm heat of breath upon his neck, and hears the drowish whisper of promised pain. A wild, absurd thought forms within his mind. Pain? Can there possibly be any more pain? Arcane words follow the whispering. With a wince of pain, he cranes his neck to look over his shoulder, fear of the unknown momentarily dominating the pain coursing through his frail form, subduing the intensity of his torments to allow him brief control. The air beside his tormentor shimmers and twists, slowly culminating in the form of a bestial, devilish imp. With a shudder of recognition mixed with revulsion, he knows instinctively that everything that has come before will pale in the face of the impending torture. Rough, seemingly scaled hands run across his flesh, raising the small hairs on his neck and acidic bile to his mouth. Try as he might, he cannot escape from the image of the devilishly grinning beast, appearing before his minds eye even as his body clenches reflexively, his eyes clamped shut in complete repulsion. The hands behind him caress the recently opened wounds, pinching, poking, prodding and pulling. It elicits further cries of anguish. Breathing heavily, insanity threatens to overwhelm him. His legs are forced apart, and he feels the last of his youth ripped away as the archfiend penetrates his body, piercing him to the heart of his being. He collapses into the depths of his mind, his formerly cohesive thoughts disseminating into incomprehensible wails of misery. Oddly, no further sound escapes from his lips. He will only recall in the darkest of nightmares the events that followed the rape of his entire being. Spells further bend and break his body, but he knows no pain. Tortures are visited upon his entirety by fiend and drow alike, but he will recall only in fractured dreams. When his body offers no further sport, dominance of his mind and spirit no challenge, he is discarded like the remnants of a feast, thrown among other refuse and left for whatever scavengers happen upon him first. Hours pass by unnoticed. Slowly, one eyelid opens. A broken finger bends. The belly growls. A hunger has come. A hunger no mere food could ever sate.

Awakening (Finding the Guildmaster)

Dark whispers echo within the heavy black cloak of darkness, murmured promises of seduction commingling with veiled threats of wickedness and depravity, one crackling, rustling winged beast as nearly indecipherable from the next in a cascade of unseen telling. Slowly, as if crossing the vastness of a desert, another sound emerges from the shadows. The steady drip of water echoes within the lightless tunnel, carried upon a cool, steady breeze. "Odd, winds here", crosses the mind of the tortured being slowly regaining his faculties. One thickly scarred eye opens, blurred vision slowly finding the definition of his strange surroundings. He begins crawling up the slight incline, reaching desperately towards a bend in the rocky tunnel. The other eye snaps open as a small pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel reveals tiny dancing motes of dust. With an agony he knows will remain with him forever, he crawls to his feet, staggering towards the lambent glow. He approaches the pinpoint, animosity slowly growing into a cry of feral rage as he realizes he cannot escape through the narrow opening before him. As his anger builds, something in his mind begins to draw upon the unspent energy of a lifetime of torment. With a final shove of anger and hatred, the build up of energy explodes from him, directed towards the small hole. With ear shattering force, the tiny hole explodes, casting debris in every direction. Where the small pinpoint once penetrated the bowels of the land, a gaping, jagged tooth hole the size of two men stares openly, unblinking into the depths. Unnoticed by the unconscious form lying prostrate at its feet... As he limps among the city streets, meandering aimlessly around the myriad market stalls, taverns, and brothels, he marvels at the uniqueness of it all. His hitched step leads him towards a fruit stall, leaning into it to pluck some food for his grumbling belly, but he stops short. The weight of a hand, made heavier for the trepidation it instills within him, slowly turns him away from his task. He turns to meet the penetrating gaze of an elderly man, jauntily garbed in the trappings of a versed priest. 'You appear old, but you are not. Your eyes betray an awareness that does not meet with your appearance. And I sense something within you that can be cultivated into worth. If you are willing to make sacrifices.' Astonishment and curiosity threaten to overwhelm him. He works his thickly scarred tongue about his suddenly dry mouth, afraid hell be unable to respond. 'Do not answer me yet, child. Simply nod if you wish to learn more about yourself, and perhaps, in time, escape from the tortured frame that contains your spirit.' Slowly, almost imperceptibly, he nods, daring against all odds of his existence, everything he knows against hope, that some truth can be found within the words of this capricious stranger.

Direction (A Sacrfice for Darkhan)

Weeks and months pass, each day bringing with it trials and pains. They are readily dismissed as Sobaen, named so by his master for his epic poor luck, continues to grow in his abilities, despite the haunting and daunting history resulting from his many tortures at the hands of planar beasts and the malcontents of The Unlit City. It quickly becomes apparent that his grasp of the magics will never permit him the control of a true mage. Instead, like his guildmaster, he has grown enough in his proficiency to become adept in communing dark spirits to aid him in the shaman-priest guilds. On a rainy day, his body dripping sweat and trembling with exhaustion, threatening to collapse, his guildmaster turns to him, the gleam in his eye reflected in the knowing smirk upon his lips. "Your day has come, and it is time for your sacrifice," he utters with no small hint of malice. Craning his tortured, misshapen neck to observe his master, Sobaen ponders his words, offering no immediate response. "I told you that you would make sacrifices. That time has come. " "I have not taught you thus out of some sense of compassion. No, you have been molded to fit my own designs, and the designs of a faction many only speak of in fearful whispers. " It crosses the young priest mind to prepare to defend himself, but morbid curiosity compels him to remain and hear out this man who has given much. How much will he demand? "There exists a cabal of sorts, known as the Legion of Darkness. And you have been chosen to serve the goals of the Princess of Chaos. You have no choice in the matter, yet must strive to gain their acceptance." "You will give up your life to the Legion of Darkness and the Princess. You will raise an army for the Princess of Chaos, formidable enough to reign Serin" "That is your sacrifice, and payment to me for the teachings I have offered you." "Go forth and learn of them, then find their members and prove to them that you have enough value to warrant their attention and teachings. And take this book, which will forever be bound to you as it will reveal you your beginning and your end." "Do not fail me, Sobaen the Dhampir. Trust in the runes and do her bidding." All things considered, with hatred and anger running rampant in his blood, Sobaen silently revels in the task at hand, though His face never betrays his glee. "Very well then."

The Runes Have Been Cast (An Unfathomable Lust for Power)

Long past are the lightless subterranean days with the seemingly unending tortures that simultaneously crippled and molded a young half-breed into a ball of hatred and anger. Despite the passage of time, and the dissemination of harbored hatred upon the innocent and foolhardy, Sobaen's capacity for anger has not diminished. If anything, those that have stepped before him in opposition have added fuel to a fire that will burn eternal, merely furthering his drive for the obliteration of everything that is life on this world. Often, he thinks back to the stranger of his past. A guildsman who took him under wing for no other reason than to further the ambitions of his fold of sordid, maniacal demons of apocalypse. Well, perhaps a few proved merely fodder, meat shields from behind which the true workings of dark magic could be properly woven. He thinks back to the education he received, of the powers innate, and of the prophecy he was to fulfill. The book has never lied, all that was prophesied came to be... Something remains lacking. The irony of this notion is not lost upon Sobaen, who smirks when considering that he should want for anything beyond exacting revenge upon a world that scorned him from birth. But the taste of power has a way of changing things. Just as the rape and pillaging of a youth sparks the first molecules of hatred deep within the recesses of his consciousness, the fine wine that is power tickles the roof of the mouth, sends a shiver of delight through the body, and curls the toes in ecstasy. Unlike hatred and anger, power remains frustratingly ethereal, tangible and retainable for only fleeting moments of time. Among the fold, carrying always his sinister and dark purpose, Sobaen has found a way to gather that power. With the addition of powerful new runes, and knowledge from which to temporarily escape the confines of his tortured body, now even permitting him to truly take flight as he visits his pain upon others, life has offered new options. Where many would find hope for something better, anger annihilates the notion, not unlike a wall of razing fire erupting over and down a hillside, eradicating everything living in its path. No, this new power, which must grow, must ever increase, will bring about the nightmares this cruel, unfair world deserves and serve as a conduit to the rage burning within this tortured soul.