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GrandChildren |
Ce'Leste D'Riel
Va'Lan D'Riel
An'Lin D'Riel
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For a while it seemed that everything would be all right, it was a simple matter of reversing the spell and returning 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 was sucked in, settling in strange world where light never penetrated. Bands of Orcs, trolls 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 defense, 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.
The one blessing they had left was the young Prince Y’Roden, his magical gift was much like his sisters, and even at such a tender age it was easily tapped. Female Magi could use him as a conduit, magnifying their spells, lessening the drain on themselves and the natural well of magic. At ten years old he was terrified, the strange and dark surroundings beyond his scope of understanding, and the use of his magic draining. The King and Queen attempted to sooth him, to protect him, but he was vital to the survival of their people, and as their Prince, it was his duty... no matter how young.
When Y’Roden 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.
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 Orcs and trolls. 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, 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 honored him by wielding it in battle.
It was on such a foray that he finally saw her, a ghostly figure in the background. The Orcs were obviously under her command, bent to her will by an immense power. Her crimson 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 in 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 his loins. 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 who dared to stand in her way. Her laughter filled his senses as she bent to him, ice-cold lips claiming his in a kiss that sealed his fate. Hands of steel 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, "So much power yet to be tapped..."
Y’Roden stared up at her, unable to move, unable to speak... fear 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 her 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 into her with a lust belying his innocent state. He was hers... totally and completely hers....
He let out a wild cry as he filled her with his seed, the cry turning to one of pain as she slashed her jagged sword across his abdomen, his blood seeping out to coat her 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 cold, or perhaps it was just him. Pain, it was a familiar enough thing, but not like this. Y’Roden woke with a scream, curling in on himself as unbidden tears streaked his face. Techno colored light sparked in his minds eye, explosions of color 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 wound reminded him of its presence. Samara loomed above him, and he realized he was lying on a bed in a torch lit chamber. Her face was 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 fear. 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 he could make no sense of what she intended.
Samara's second hand snaked out and tore his tunic from his wound. Unbidden his body jerked up from the bed, a cry of agony on his lips. Straddling him she held the implement to the jagged wound, bringing a shriek of pain from the Elven Prince as she slowly dragged it across him, the wound burning itself 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, 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 earsplitting to an elf. "Clean him up."
The bonds disappeared, but the Prince made no effort to escape. He was too weak, and with shame he realized he was afraid. She would hurt him again if he tried, and he knew it. The two men dragged him roughly from the bed; supporting Y’Roden as his feet gave out under, pain blinding the elf for several moments.
Taken to a bathing room he was shoved into a stone bath of hot water, steam rising off its surface in the cold. The heat was welcome, although it nearly scalded him, and the elf relaxed into it a bit, closing his eyes and letting the heat seep into chilled skin. Two females joined him, cleaning him with surprisingly gentle hands. The water turned red with his blood, a crimson tribute.
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