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
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,
"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
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
'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
"That is your sacrifice, and payment to me for the teachings I have offered
"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
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
"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.
An unimposing, seemingly broken figure stoops before you, bent at the
waist and clearly bow-legged. His spindly, discordant legs, ending in
pidgeoned, nearly ossified feet, appear incapable of bearing any weight, yet
he remains aright despite their tremulous and anemic semblance. Although he
appears burdened by some invisible weight, his head is lifted in apparent
defiance, his piercing gaze roving endlessly about his surroundings. His
dark almond eyes shift frantically, wildly, not unlike a cornered beast. A
multitude of thin scars crisscross the soft, olive skin of his face,
culminating in a ragged line that could once have been a proud,
distinguished nose but now lies twisted in ruin. His thin, blood-red lips
attempt to hide two small, yet sharp fangs protruding from his mouth.
The dark, damaged skin circumscribes his thin face, ending in slightly
pointed and scar-thickened ears. His breath comes in ragged gasps, as if
even the act of living exerts a great toll upon his body.
One arm remains ever present before him, a nearly desiccated, skeletal claw,
with a small book covered in indecipherable runes hovering above it. A bundle
of pouches and vials slung about his thin waist adding to the weight of the
world that continues to bear down upon this young half-breed, their make and
purpose concurrent with those held by many a priest in the lands, albeit
second or third hand by their worn, clearly deteriorated condition.