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.
A prisoner of pain
A serpentine hiss whistles throughout the room, ending in an anticipating
slap of braided cord upon unprotected flesh. White light fills her vision
as agony courses throughout her being. Cries of anguish spill forth from
her broken form, eliciting a laugh of pleasure from the female form behind
her. Zelrina tugs helplessly at the chains holding her aloft, tears of
resignation and pain streaming down her scarred, olive colored cheeks.
Despite the pain, her body responds to her expectancy of the next
flesh-rending slap. Instead, she feels the warm heat of breath upon her
neck, and hears the drowish whisper of promised pain. A wild, absurd
thought forms within her mind. Pain? Can there possibly be any more pain?
Arcane words follow the whispering. With a wince of pain, she cranes her
neck to look over her shoulder, fear of the unknown momentarily dominating
the pain coursing through her frail form, subduing the intensity of her
torments to allow her brief control. The air beside her tormentor shimmers
and twists, slowly culminating in the form of a bestial, devilish imp. With
a shudder of recognition mixed with revulsion, she knows instinctively that
everything that has come before will pale in the face of the impending
Rough, seemingly scaled hands run across her flesh, raising the small hairs
on her neck and acidic bile to her mouth. Try as she might, she cannot
escape from the image of the devilishly grinning imp, appearing before her
minds eye even as her body clenches reflexively, her eyes clamped shut in
complete repulsion. The hands behind her caress the recently opened wounds,
pinching, poking, prodding and pulling. It elicits further cries of
anguish. Breathing heavily, insanity threatens to overwhelm her. Her legs
are forced apart, and she feels the last of her youth ripped away as the
archfiend penetrates her body, piercing her to the heart of her being. She
collapses into the depths of her mind, her formerly cohesive thoughts
disseminating into incomprehensible wails of misery. Oddly, no further
sound escapes from her lips.
She will only recall in the darkest of nightmares the events that followed
the rape of her entire being. Spells further bend and break her body, but
she knows no pain. Tortures are visited upon her entirety by imp and drow
alike, but she will recall only in fractured dreams. When her body offers
no further sport, dominance of her mind and spirit no challenge, she is
discarded like the remnants of a feast, thrown among other refuse and left
for whatever scavengers happen upon her 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.
Darkhaven - what a beautiful sight
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 imp 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
her faculties. One thickly scarred eye opens, blurred vision slowly finding
the definition of her strange surroundings. She 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 she knows will
remain with her forever, she crawls to her feet, staggering towards the
She approaches the pinpoint, animosity slowly growing into a cry of feral
rage as she realizes she cannot escape through the narrow opening before
her. As her anger builds, something in her 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 her, directed towards the small
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 she limps among the city streets, meandering aimlessly around the myriad
market stalls, taverns, and brothels, she marvels at the uniqueness of it
all. Her hitched step leads her towards a fruit stall, leaning into it to
pluck some food for her grumbling belly, but she stops short. The weight of
a hand, made heavier for the trepidation it instills within her, slowly
turns her away from her task. She turns to meet the penetrating gaze of an
elderly man, jauntily garbed in the trappings of an assasin.
'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 her. She works her thickly
scarred tongue about her suddenly dry mouth, afraid she will be unable to
'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, she nods, daring against all odds of her
existence, everything she knows against hope, that some truth can be found
within the words of this capricious stranger.
An unimposing, seemingly broken figure stoops before you, bent at the
waist and clearly bow-legged. Her spindly, discordant legs, ending in
pidgeoned, nearly ossified feet, appear incapable of bearing any weight, yet
she remains aright despite their tremulous and anemic semblance. Although
she appears burdened by some invisible weight, her head is lifted in
apparent defiance as her piercing gaze roving endlessly about her
surroundings. Dark almond eyes shift frantically, wildly, not unlike a
cornered beast. A multitude of thin scars crisscross the soft, olive skin
of her face, culminating in a ragged line that could once have been a proud,
distinguished nose but now lies twisted in ruin. Her thin, blood-red lips
attempt to hide two small, yet sharp fangs protruding from her mouth. The
dark, damaged skin circumscribes her thin face, ending in slightly pointed
and scar-thickened ears. Her breath comes in ragged gasps, as if even the
act of living exerts a great toll upon her body. A bundle of pouches and
vials slung about her thin waist adding to the weight of the world that
continues to bear down upon this young drow, their make and purpose
concurrent with those held by many of the poison-users in the lands, albeit
second or third hand by their worn, clearly deteriorated condition.