Tenobrous 3640 Years Ago

Tenobrous 3640 Years Ago

Three Thousand six hundred and forty years ago…

Post Battle with Tallin Grendorin Modar.

For a while it seemed that everything would be all right, it was a simple matter of reversing the spell and returning the city to Whispin, from there they could track Tager and An'Thaya's location. What had not been counted on was the rift -- a tear between dimensions that had been rent into the fabric of space and time -- by the conflicting magics used when Tallin had made his grab for the Princess.

Without warning the Castle and city were sucked in, settling in an unfamiliar world where light never penetrated. Bands of Nuru’Kh-ai, Orcs, and other creatures of the night attempted repeatedly to breach the castle walls, and the never-ending darkness threatened to drive the denizens of Corin mad. The army was hard pressed to keep the invaders at bay, and food became a scarce commodity. Magic resources were used to create enough light for green houses and defence, the natives of the world seemed sensitive to light, even of a magical nature, and anyone with Magi ability was pressed into service to keep them out.

At ten years old Y’Roden D’Riel, Corin’s Crown Prince, was terrified, the strange and dark surroundings beyond the comprehension of a child. When he was fifteen the dreams started, surreal images of a woman with pale white skin and crimson eyes. She whispered into his thoughts and coiled herself into his soul, a dark succubus that left him gasping, writhing in damp sheets in the middle of the night. He would wake screaming her name, Samara, and no amount of sleeping potion or spells would make the dreams – nightmares -- go away. It came to a point where he was terrified to sleep, yet desired it more than anything, the taste of her on his lips a palpable and intoxicating thing.

At the same time, he came into his D’Riel heritage, the conduit deep within his soul blossoming into power. His responsibility to his people became all-important, the magic being tapped to provide light, heat and healing. So young an age to take on so much responsibility, childhood was fading in the daily struggle for survival.

Years passed, and the dreams only increased in intensity. Unable to resist Y’Roden felt he must be going insane, he was still a child in the Elven sense and his innocence was slowly being stripped away.

The resources of Corin were slowly depleting, and as a people they were being forced out into the countryside in search of food and supplies. Such forays often resulted in skirmishes with the denizens of the place, bands of marauding Nurus and worse. Everyone was expected to join these hunting parties, down to Y’Roden himself. By twenty years old he was a seasoned warrior, blooded hundreds of times over. He wore his chestnut hair long in the S’Hean fashion, his emerald eyes often hidden beneath its fringe. A bastard sword that had once belonged to General Tager was his chosen weapon; he had worshiped the man as a child, and now honoured him by wielding it in battle.

It was on such a foray that he finally saw her, a ghostly figure in the background. The Nuru’kh-ai’ were obviously under her command, bent to her will by an immense power. Her blood-red eyes flashed with something beyond evil, and she wielded a sword with a cruel, jagged edge. She cut through Corin's soldiers like wheat, bathing in their blood with wanton abandon. Those eyes seemed to follow Y’Roden.... to beckon him to her. The Prince faltered, ensnared as she stirred within his soul... she owned him; he had been her willing slave for years.

Come to me my pet, be one with your desire... Her voice whispered into his mind, icy fingers that pierced him, invaded his psyche, penetrated his body and stirred a dark desire. Shamed, he fell to his knees, hating himself for wanting her, yet begging for her to come claim him.

And come for him she did, like a dark wind through the ranks of his people, cutting down those brave enough to stand in her way. Her laughter was mocking as she bent to him, ice-cold lips claiming his in a kiss that sealed his fate, fingers tangled in lengths of chestnut hair. Hands with iron strength pushed him to the blood-soaked ground, unmindful of the carnage around them as she tore at the laces of his trousers. "My sweet boy," her voice hissed in his head, "So much power yet to be tapped..."

The Prince stared up at her, unable to move, unable to speak, agony gripping his heart as he realized what he had done. His hands reached up for her, beyond his control, closing on her waist as Samara lowered herself onto him, claiming his innocence with a cry of triumph. The scent of blood and death whirled around him as he arched up into the female’s cold form, a sudden heat emanating from her as she bore down on him in return. He cried out despite himself, hating her, yet thrusting with a lust belying his innocent state. Hers... totally and completely hers....

He let out a wild cry as control ripped from him, the sound turning to one of pain as she slashed her jagged sword across his abdomen, his blood seeping out to trickle beneath the Demoness’ thighs as she shuddered in release atop him. "Sleep now sweet Prince.... we have a world to conquer."

Darkness gave way to flickering torch light, it was freezing, or perhaps it was just him. Pain, it was a familiar enough thing, but not like this. Y’Roden jolted awake with a scream, curling in on himself as unbidden tears streaked his face. Techno-coloured light sparked in his minds eye, explosions of colour that marked his agony. The half-elf could feel Samara twisted into his soul, like a piece taken from one jigsaw puzzle and jammed into another. She didn't belong, but she had made herself fit, tendrils of darkness twining through his synapses and nerve endings, like a parasite latching on to its host.

His abdomen burned like fire, the soft tunic he wore sticking to the dried blood in such a way that when he tried to move it pulled at the torn skin around the edges of the wound. He kept screaming till his voice gave out, and even then his body rocked with the soundless effort of it. He didn't know, or care for that matter, where he was. He barely hung on to consciousness, terrified and alone. It seemed an eternity passed before his body gave in and passed out, closing out the pain by shutting him down.

Some time later he was wrenched into consciousness again, a cold trickle down his spine telling him he wasn't alone. He tried to move, but found himself restrained. Panicked he writhed against the invisible bonds, only to scream in pain as the open gash made its presence tortuously evident. Samara loomed above him, and he realized he was lying on a rack in a torch lit chamber. Her features were as cold and impassive as he remembered, the burning-crimson eyes the only sign of real life in the woman's face.

Laying still he gazed up at her, his breathing ragged as his soul shrank away from her in terror. Now, now my pet, I've only come to help. The words were punctuated as she lifted her hand, something akin to a fire poker, but somewhat smaller, held in her pale-white fingers. Y’Roden stared at it, the pain dulling his senses so that at first, he was blissfully unaware of what she intended.

Samara's free hand snaked out and tore his tunic from his wound. Unbidden his body jerked up from the cold wood, an agonized cry ripping from his lips. Straddling him she held the implement to the jagged bloody slash, bringing a shriek of pain from the Elven Prince as she slowly dragged it across torn flesh, burning it closed in a blazing path of misery. Miraculously he remained conscious, unable to even scream as she continued her ministrations. He gazed up numbly at her when she drew away, oddly feeling nothing as Samara smiled in pleasure. There now... that wasn't so bad now was it. Her laughter assailed his senses, driving his soul deeper into hiding. Oh come now my love... you will come to enjoy the pain eventually... even embrace it. I guarantee it.

The door opened behind her, but Y’Roden barely acknowledged it. Two males that somewhat resembled Samara entered, their eyes a cold, dead black in contrast to hers. "Take him." She spoke aloud for the first time, and suddenly Y’Roden wished he could cover his ears... its was a piercing sound, shrill and ear-splitting to an elf. "Clean him up."
The bonds disappeared, but the Prince made no effort to escape. He was too weak, and with stark shame, he realized it was fear paralysing him. She would hurt him again if he tried, and he knew it. The two men dragged him roughly from the rack; supporting the elf as his feet gave out, pain blinding in intensity for several moments.

Taken to a bathing room he was shoved into a stone pool of hot water, steam rising off its surface in the biting cold. The heat was welcome, although it nearly scalded him, and the elf relaxed into it, closing his eyes and letting the warmth seep into chilled skin. Two females slipped in to join him, cleaning him with surprisingly gentle hands, eyes never meeting those of the Prince as the water turned red with his blood, a crimson tribute to his Mistress even as a rare moment to slip beneath its surface stirred the S’Hean in him. The real wounds, however, were on the inside, and deep within the Prince’s Soul… something started to die.

Tenobrous 3630 Years Ago

The blood on the rack was fresh, and the youth had grown into a young man of twenty odd years. There was fear in emerald eyes, but the expression on the half-elf’s beautiful face was implacable, stubborn, long locks of chestnut hair sticking to his sweat-slick face as he kept a defiant stance towards the pale skinned Demoness.

On the floor, shaking and terrified was a young human girl, her red hair a stark contrast against the backdrop. Naked and defenceless, she wept in fear, the words falling from her lips pure gibberish.

“Kill her.” The order was clear, demanding, and insistent.

Waves of chestnut hair tumbled down the young Elf’s back as he shook his head, denying her. “I will not. I won’t kill for you… not again.” He made a violent attempt to shrug off the two male Demons that gripped his arms, holding him prisoner between them.

A talloned fingertip scraped under his chin, drawing a line of blood as Samara leaned in close, a forked tongue flickering through the blood. “Oh? Then you enjoy what the guards do to you when you refuse? I know they certainly do.” She gestured to one of them, and he grabbed Y’Roden by the hair at the crown of his head, dragging the half-elf backwards and bending him over the rack. “You will kill for me, or it will be your screams creating music instead, your body that is invaded and used for pleasure, then broken. Make your choice.”

The chestnut-haired elf said nothing, face pressed in a congealed pool of his blood, emerald eyes focused on the girl. He fought at first, then went still, refusing to feed the Demon’s need for fear and pain, holding stubbornly silent.

Dissatisfied with her prey’s reaction, Samara grabbed the girl by the hair and hauled her up off the floor. “When will you learn?” she snarled, “They die anyway, whether by your hand, or by mine. By yours at least, would have been far more pleasurable for her.”

“NO!” Adrenaline surged, and the Elf threw himself backwards, setting his tormentor off balance, fighting free and lunging forward… seconds to late.

Samara let the wounded girl fall forwards into Y’Roden’s arms, her blood smearing down the front of his chest in crimson streaks. It was a wound he couldn’t heal, and one that would slowly, inevitably, kill her. He slumped to the floor, the redhead cradled in his arms, weeping openly in frustration and guilt.

The Demoness straightened and dismissed the guards. “Snap her neck, if you have any compassion. Otherwise… you are free to keep her company as she dies.”

The room was empty, aside from the pair on the floor, the elf choked out a sob, his bloodied fingers stroking the girl’s hair. She was in pain, he knew she was, but the moment he killed her, he would be alone again.

Delicate fingers twitched around his arm, the look in her eyes too much for him to take. The Elf cupped the human’s face and gently kissed her. “It’s alright,” he whispered softly, “I’ll make it go away, everything will be ok… I’m so sorry.” He was not as well muscled as he would be, not nearly as heavy, but the young Y’Roden was beginning to come into his strength, and the redhead’s neck snapped easily with a sharp, brutal twist.

He sat there, rocking, holding her to his chest for a long while, the light in his eyes deadening. After awhile, he took a sharp piece of metal and cut a lock of her hair, curling it into a tight spiral and tucking it away beneath the table.

Sometime later, the guards returned, but Y’Roden never looked up as they roughly kicked at him, then gripped well-muscled arms and hauled him from the floor. Blood-soaked chestnut hair fell into dead-emerald eyes, as the half-elf’s head fell forward, unresisting as they dragged him from the room into the bathing chamber.

“Hold him for me.” The words worked into his mind as they paused near the door, one guard laughing and slamming the Prince face first into the wall as the other tugged at his own trouser laces. Reality came crashing back in, cold and hard as the male Demon pushed up against his naked, bleeding back, sweat stinging the lash marks that crisscrossed his flesh. Not again…

With a wild snarl of protest, Ro’s mind finally snapped. A heave of his shoulders and he pushed sharply back from the wall, catching both males off guard and sending one hurtling into the pool. A roar of frustration that had been building up inside for longer than he cared to contemplate exploded outwards and he launched himself at his attacker, adrenaline enhanced strength slamming the guard’s head into the wall with a crack that left him dazed. Weapon callused fingers gripped the Demon’s hair and he twisted, sharp and hard until a satisfying snap echoed through the chamber.