EZ_Nezzeric
05-18-01, 06:19 AM
Hey all,
Let me know what you think of this and if I should write more. I would love to hear comments even bad. Though if you don't like it some reasons why would be appreciated not just it sucked ass.
Thanks
Nezzeric
Anndazzadarian removed the leather belt from her waist and slipped the pouch off of it, tossing the belt to the bedding in the corner. There was a strange anticipation, like opening a secured box, not knowing what treasures might be contained with in. She licked her lips and pulled the strings open to the black leather pouch, her young face spread with a wide grin, amethyst eyes sparkling with pride as she looked upon the shiny black statuette inside. Reaching into the pouch she pulled the figurine out with long dainty fingers, and stroked the cool ebony surface. It tingled against her flesh, there was something magical about it, but it was not why she stole it.
        Such material things meant little to her, she did not care about magic or riches, she liked it and now it was hers. Pressing it to her pink lips, it tingled more on the soft flesh of her mouth, but she always kissed her winnings, such prizes were the affection of her heart and deserved such treatment. Anndazzadarian dropped it back into the pouch and went to the make shift blankets and worn out feather mattress that was her bed. She tucked it into the folds of some of the blankets and sat cross-legged on the bedding.
        The smile remained wide, her white teeth in contrast to her blue-black flesh, of her Teir-Dal heritage. A mirror did not speak kindly to Anndazzadarian, she was told she was ugly, and unfit by her family, yet every eye that fell upon her coveted her beauty. A pretty face with slender, fine features, her nose a slight point, lips soft and full, the blush color seemingly brighter against her dark supple flesh.
Nearly out of her teens, she was one of the most desirable females in the city of Neriak, a firm tight body and full breasts that in the right clothes would catch every man’s lustful glance and every woman’s jealous stare. Though her clothes did little to flatter her body. Black leather and full sweeping cloaks were her choice of wear. Black as the shadows she embraced as friend and protector.
        Anndazzadarian pulled the leather cap from her head and a storm of waist length white locks spilled from underneath, covering her shoulders, back and chest, like a snow-white shawl. Though no more than five and a quarter feet tall, there was strength in her long limbs, her back and shoulders. Not the strength of bulging muscles a warrior possesses, but a more subtle strength of muscle endurance. Muscles that could keep her poised on the face of a wall, unmoving for times the strongest warriors could not even comprehend.
She kicked off her boots and tossed them to the side of her crypt like room of stone. Meagerly decorated, with little more than a wash bin, bed and, of course a stash of acquired items, it was all her parents would allow her to have.
        Too tired to remove the rest of her clothes, the night had been long, the task trying, she flopped to her back to sleep. The mission had been trying, but now in the glory of her success of her greatest theft, it was all worth it. To have the black statue of Innourok she had coveted since a young girl was now a reality. It almost seemed a dream, the whole event, sneaking into the temple of the @#%$ of hate and stealing the precious ebony statuette. Past guards, clerics and worshippers, lost in the shadows of the underground city, moving in the gloominess, stepping with grace and silence and always patient.
        The effigy had little value to her, as did Innourok. What had the @#%$ of hate ever done for her? For all she was concerned he did not even exist and if he did there was no worth in worshiping his hateful ways. Hate killed and Anndazzadarian was tired of all the death.
        Her leather halter dug into her flesh, the clamps burrowing into her skin, but she had suffered with the discomfort for hours this night, falling a sleep with it on would not be so bad. Tomorrow she would sneak to the bathhouse and relax in its steamy waters and refresh her tired muscles, and bruised flesh.
        The smile on her face did not fade as she closed her eyes, lying upon the bed, one of the fallen, a Teir’dal that did not believe in the @#%$ of hate. Sleep was becoming an over whelming force, but a most welcome one. Anndazzadarian was content, she won her prize and it did not matter, at this moment that her parents forced her to live in squalor while her brother had a room in the main house, with a bed, books and even an armoire filled with fancy clothes. Stealth was her skill and she was its master she thought, as sleep came over came her.
        The abruptness of it was the worst part, not the crushing blow to her mid-section, but the suddenness of it coming as she slept. Anndazzadarian gasped in pain and for breath and for a moment, the blackness consumed her. It was a darkness like that of having her eyes closed, even her superior vision could not see in complete darkness, though the faint glow of a phosphorus lichen was more than enough to light the way for a dark elf.
        She heard the hiss of a woman cursing, and then another blow struck and her world spun away. The blow this time was to her head, splitting her flesh, warm blood trickled into her eyes.
        Panic swelled in her breast, and the desire to curl into a ball and cry, excepting the beating, began to overwhelm her. Fitting she should die in the dank cellar, the thick musty order of a crypt had made her feel macabre in life as if she was already dead among her people, now she would be.
        “You little despicable whore,” a woman cursed slamming a staff into her stomach again.
        She knew that voice, knew it all to well, but catching her breath was all that mattered as she flailed about trying to suck in air. Her heart was pounded and tears rolled down her cheeks, her vision clearing as the blows had stopped. The statue Anndazzadarian thought, she had been found out and the high priestess of Innorouk came for her.
        “Ann you have been a disappointment to your family, but this is intolerable. Give me the statue and you shall die only once. Lie and you die slow and painfully every day for as long as I live.” The Priestess hissed.
        Ann began to wail, she knew the horrors of her people, their evilness truly not understood by most of the other races of Norrath, or they would strive to destroy every last one of them. Her death would be long and hard but if it only came once it would be a blessing.
        “It is here,” Ann croaked out between gasps and sobs.
        “Then give it to me.” The priestess demanded.
        Ann, as quick as her shocked and battered body would allow, found the statue and handed it to the high priestess of Innourok. The woman slipped it into her robes and then handed her staff to a handsome young man at her side.
        “You think you skills are good, your pride has brought this on you. I shall be honored to serve the great Innourok and end the miserable existence of another unbeliever.
        The young man handed the priestess a whip, its length woven with sharp barbs along the flexible length, barbs meant to tear the flesh. Ann wept, there was nothing else to do, but weep and hope for a swift death. She tried to remember where her dagger was, so that she might take her own life, but what good would that do. They would just raise her from death and it would be worse.
        “Terrin strip her. I want her to enjoy the whip on her flesh.” The woman grinned as she gave the order.
        The young male went to the duty in silence. The high priestesses orders were not to be questioned and it was not like he had to seen torture before, he had administered such punish even as a young boy, but this was somehow different.
        The room was silent, except for the sobs of Ann and the crunching of leather as she was stripped bare, waiting for the inevitable pain that would come. Lashes that could rip flesh, cut muscle like a sword, and even break bones.
        As a child Ann had seen many enemies fall to such punishment. The high elves had always seemed to suffer the most, but how could any such suffering have ever been considered lenient, it was all the worst it could be to the one receiving it.
        It was an ordinary event, children taken to an execution, to see the power of hate, what it could do, how enemies would fall to it, and the terror it would sow across the lands of Norrath. Ann still remembered the first death she had ever seen. It had been a halfling caught in the Nektulos woods. A prisoner’s execution was a social event for dark elves, cheering on the death of their enemies, praising their dark @#%$ for bestowing superiority on the Teir-Dal. Ann was sickened by it, she was not suppose to be, she should have been cheering it one like the other children, but could not, instead cried, seeing the poor creature being forced to eat his own flesh. What could have been done so horrible that he deserved such a fate.
        It was the first time her parents told her she was an embarrassment to the family, the first time beaten for her weakness, beaten because they wanted her to be strong, as Teir’Dal should be. The only lesson learned was to hide her feelings; her true self in the deep shadows of her soul and never allow others to see it.
        Ann let out a sudden moan, jerked from the floor by her hair. She had not even noticed being stripped naked and bound with rope, but now felt the nakedness, not the nakedness of flesh to eyes, but nakedness to the bite of the whip. The rope was fastened to a steel bracket, so she would remain upright even when no longer able to stand on her own.
        “May Innourok take your soul,” the priestess said and the first snap of the whip struck.
        Ann screamed, she did not want to scream, but could not refrain. The barbed leather tore flesh and wracked her body with so much pain her knees crumbled.
        “Ha! What weakness. One strike and you fall.” The priestess hissed.” You never were worthy to be Teir’dal. Now I shall take that honor from you.”
        Again the whip snapped and split the flesh of her back. Blood ran from the first wound, slick and wet on her back, running over her buttocks and down her legs. Blackness was overwhelming and she felt consciousness escaping her. They would never allow that, but she hoped for it, prayed for it to any merciful @#%$, that would listen.
        A third strike, this time across her hamstrings, only the rope holding her upright. Her mind whirling, in blackness, her body throbbing with pain, she could take no more, flesh torn, muscle split she did not want to beg, begging would only make it worse, but how could she not.
        “Mother I beg you, stop.” She weakly cried out.
Let me know what you think of this and if I should write more. I would love to hear comments even bad. Though if you don't like it some reasons why would be appreciated not just it sucked ass.
Thanks
Nezzeric
Anndazzadarian removed the leather belt from her waist and slipped the pouch off of it, tossing the belt to the bedding in the corner. There was a strange anticipation, like opening a secured box, not knowing what treasures might be contained with in. She licked her lips and pulled the strings open to the black leather pouch, her young face spread with a wide grin, amethyst eyes sparkling with pride as she looked upon the shiny black statuette inside. Reaching into the pouch she pulled the figurine out with long dainty fingers, and stroked the cool ebony surface. It tingled against her flesh, there was something magical about it, but it was not why she stole it.
        Such material things meant little to her, she did not care about magic or riches, she liked it and now it was hers. Pressing it to her pink lips, it tingled more on the soft flesh of her mouth, but she always kissed her winnings, such prizes were the affection of her heart and deserved such treatment. Anndazzadarian dropped it back into the pouch and went to the make shift blankets and worn out feather mattress that was her bed. She tucked it into the folds of some of the blankets and sat cross-legged on the bedding.
        The smile remained wide, her white teeth in contrast to her blue-black flesh, of her Teir-Dal heritage. A mirror did not speak kindly to Anndazzadarian, she was told she was ugly, and unfit by her family, yet every eye that fell upon her coveted her beauty. A pretty face with slender, fine features, her nose a slight point, lips soft and full, the blush color seemingly brighter against her dark supple flesh.
Nearly out of her teens, she was one of the most desirable females in the city of Neriak, a firm tight body and full breasts that in the right clothes would catch every man’s lustful glance and every woman’s jealous stare. Though her clothes did little to flatter her body. Black leather and full sweeping cloaks were her choice of wear. Black as the shadows she embraced as friend and protector.
        Anndazzadarian pulled the leather cap from her head and a storm of waist length white locks spilled from underneath, covering her shoulders, back and chest, like a snow-white shawl. Though no more than five and a quarter feet tall, there was strength in her long limbs, her back and shoulders. Not the strength of bulging muscles a warrior possesses, but a more subtle strength of muscle endurance. Muscles that could keep her poised on the face of a wall, unmoving for times the strongest warriors could not even comprehend.
She kicked off her boots and tossed them to the side of her crypt like room of stone. Meagerly decorated, with little more than a wash bin, bed and, of course a stash of acquired items, it was all her parents would allow her to have.
        Too tired to remove the rest of her clothes, the night had been long, the task trying, she flopped to her back to sleep. The mission had been trying, but now in the glory of her success of her greatest theft, it was all worth it. To have the black statue of Innourok she had coveted since a young girl was now a reality. It almost seemed a dream, the whole event, sneaking into the temple of the @#%$ of hate and stealing the precious ebony statuette. Past guards, clerics and worshippers, lost in the shadows of the underground city, moving in the gloominess, stepping with grace and silence and always patient.
        The effigy had little value to her, as did Innourok. What had the @#%$ of hate ever done for her? For all she was concerned he did not even exist and if he did there was no worth in worshiping his hateful ways. Hate killed and Anndazzadarian was tired of all the death.
        Her leather halter dug into her flesh, the clamps burrowing into her skin, but she had suffered with the discomfort for hours this night, falling a sleep with it on would not be so bad. Tomorrow she would sneak to the bathhouse and relax in its steamy waters and refresh her tired muscles, and bruised flesh.
        The smile on her face did not fade as she closed her eyes, lying upon the bed, one of the fallen, a Teir’dal that did not believe in the @#%$ of hate. Sleep was becoming an over whelming force, but a most welcome one. Anndazzadarian was content, she won her prize and it did not matter, at this moment that her parents forced her to live in squalor while her brother had a room in the main house, with a bed, books and even an armoire filled with fancy clothes. Stealth was her skill and she was its master she thought, as sleep came over came her.
        The abruptness of it was the worst part, not the crushing blow to her mid-section, but the suddenness of it coming as she slept. Anndazzadarian gasped in pain and for breath and for a moment, the blackness consumed her. It was a darkness like that of having her eyes closed, even her superior vision could not see in complete darkness, though the faint glow of a phosphorus lichen was more than enough to light the way for a dark elf.
        She heard the hiss of a woman cursing, and then another blow struck and her world spun away. The blow this time was to her head, splitting her flesh, warm blood trickled into her eyes.
        Panic swelled in her breast, and the desire to curl into a ball and cry, excepting the beating, began to overwhelm her. Fitting she should die in the dank cellar, the thick musty order of a crypt had made her feel macabre in life as if she was already dead among her people, now she would be.
        “You little despicable whore,” a woman cursed slamming a staff into her stomach again.
        She knew that voice, knew it all to well, but catching her breath was all that mattered as she flailed about trying to suck in air. Her heart was pounded and tears rolled down her cheeks, her vision clearing as the blows had stopped. The statue Anndazzadarian thought, she had been found out and the high priestess of Innorouk came for her.
        “Ann you have been a disappointment to your family, but this is intolerable. Give me the statue and you shall die only once. Lie and you die slow and painfully every day for as long as I live.” The Priestess hissed.
        Ann began to wail, she knew the horrors of her people, their evilness truly not understood by most of the other races of Norrath, or they would strive to destroy every last one of them. Her death would be long and hard but if it only came once it would be a blessing.
        “It is here,” Ann croaked out between gasps and sobs.
        “Then give it to me.” The priestess demanded.
        Ann, as quick as her shocked and battered body would allow, found the statue and handed it to the high priestess of Innourok. The woman slipped it into her robes and then handed her staff to a handsome young man at her side.
        “You think you skills are good, your pride has brought this on you. I shall be honored to serve the great Innourok and end the miserable existence of another unbeliever.
        The young man handed the priestess a whip, its length woven with sharp barbs along the flexible length, barbs meant to tear the flesh. Ann wept, there was nothing else to do, but weep and hope for a swift death. She tried to remember where her dagger was, so that she might take her own life, but what good would that do. They would just raise her from death and it would be worse.
        “Terrin strip her. I want her to enjoy the whip on her flesh.” The woman grinned as she gave the order.
        The young male went to the duty in silence. The high priestesses orders were not to be questioned and it was not like he had to seen torture before, he had administered such punish even as a young boy, but this was somehow different.
        The room was silent, except for the sobs of Ann and the crunching of leather as she was stripped bare, waiting for the inevitable pain that would come. Lashes that could rip flesh, cut muscle like a sword, and even break bones.
        As a child Ann had seen many enemies fall to such punishment. The high elves had always seemed to suffer the most, but how could any such suffering have ever been considered lenient, it was all the worst it could be to the one receiving it.
        It was an ordinary event, children taken to an execution, to see the power of hate, what it could do, how enemies would fall to it, and the terror it would sow across the lands of Norrath. Ann still remembered the first death she had ever seen. It had been a halfling caught in the Nektulos woods. A prisoner’s execution was a social event for dark elves, cheering on the death of their enemies, praising their dark @#%$ for bestowing superiority on the Teir-Dal. Ann was sickened by it, she was not suppose to be, she should have been cheering it one like the other children, but could not, instead cried, seeing the poor creature being forced to eat his own flesh. What could have been done so horrible that he deserved such a fate.
        It was the first time her parents told her she was an embarrassment to the family, the first time beaten for her weakness, beaten because they wanted her to be strong, as Teir’Dal should be. The only lesson learned was to hide her feelings; her true self in the deep shadows of her soul and never allow others to see it.
        Ann let out a sudden moan, jerked from the floor by her hair. She had not even noticed being stripped naked and bound with rope, but now felt the nakedness, not the nakedness of flesh to eyes, but nakedness to the bite of the whip. The rope was fastened to a steel bracket, so she would remain upright even when no longer able to stand on her own.
        “May Innourok take your soul,” the priestess said and the first snap of the whip struck.
        Ann screamed, she did not want to scream, but could not refrain. The barbed leather tore flesh and wracked her body with so much pain her knees crumbled.
        “Ha! What weakness. One strike and you fall.” The priestess hissed.” You never were worthy to be Teir’dal. Now I shall take that honor from you.”
        Again the whip snapped and split the flesh of her back. Blood ran from the first wound, slick and wet on her back, running over her buttocks and down her legs. Blackness was overwhelming and she felt consciousness escaping her. They would never allow that, but she hoped for it, prayed for it to any merciful @#%$, that would listen.
        A third strike, this time across her hamstrings, only the rope holding her upright. Her mind whirling, in blackness, her body throbbing with pain, she could take no more, flesh torn, muscle split she did not want to beg, begging would only make it worse, but how could she not.
        “Mother I beg you, stop.” She weakly cried out.