- Oct 4, 2009
- 164
Huakroataxa wandered around the dungeon complex, bitter and bored. The thought of the weasling diplomacy he had just committed with the vampires tasted sour in his mouth. Now, they had left for some frivolous, meaningless afair and left him to wander the dungeons.
He had been reaquainted with his war gear, and of that he was glad. The cold no longer bit at him, and his movements were back to their regular stolid pace rather than the moving-through-pecari-fat pace he had been forced to keep in the death chill of Sylvania.Xalot was stabled safely, and Mon-ti was draped over his shoulders, asleep.
He had mapped out the area in his head. It was primarily filled with cells, and there were various forms of torture equipment scattered around. He had inspected a few of these, and found them wanting; the tortured devices of the large-eyed, east-of-home humans were crude, and quite simple minded. The screaming he had heard earlier could feasibly be wrought with such devices, but the victim was likely to be to brutalised afterwards to be used as much more than salamander feed.
Now, the thin-eyed, west of home humans were the other extreme. Their devices and methods were much to elaborate, spanned multiple fields of the sciences and blacker disciplines, and had over time become more of an artform than an information process. To put anything in pain for entertainment was distasteful.
He peered into a cell, where a mother ghoul was nursing her young. The obscene creature bared blackened teeth to the Lizardman, who snarled back, before moving on. Innapropriate.
Now, he had only used one torture methods in his previous life as a scar veteran, normally on Thrall's or Necromancers, vampires generally being more valuable dead than anything and other forms of the dead being either too stupid to gain anything useful from or immune to pain. It was a simple one; he would merely milk the venom of the Swirling-sunblade frog (or rather have a skink attendant do it, he had a tendency to crush the rare frogs), and then applied a small portion of the poison to the eyes of his victim.
Anything man could do with his tools, the old ones could to thrice better with their creatures. The Swirling-sunblade frog gained its name from the sensation it caused when it sprayed its venom into a predators eyes. Never having experienced it himself, Huakroataxa could not vouch for its potency but judging by the way victims flayed around shrieking for, say, four hours trying to bash their own brains out on anything close to hand it was easy to assume its power. Thats why he had always had a Saurus warrior grasp the victim whilst the process occured (usually one in need of disciplinary action; holding a writhing screaming human is a tedious task).
After the Victim calmed down, they were usually ready to talk. However, the weakness of the process was that many mammilian species, humanity included, rapidly developed an immunity to the venom after five, maybe four applications, with each application getting weaker and weaker. Especially stoic victims had managed to wheather the full of the storm, after which Huakroataxa was inclined to end there suffering and sacrifice them to the old ones; such a brave heart would be received warmly, he felt.
Huakroataxa reached another filled cell, the inhabitant an old and whithered man, his grey beared falling to the floor despite being manacled to the wall. The poor wretch was nearly dead, so Huakroataxa moved on. Innapropriate.
Of course, as a Servant of Lord Gargoq he knew of other, more sacred methods. On the seventh ascention of the star of deep-fires, Lord Gargoq decreed thus "The predator becomes the prey."
As of that day, the servants of Lord Gargoq the Quaxocibiki had practised the Ritual of Feeding. Once the dust of the battlefield had cleared, and due sacrifice had been made, the warriors would pick the battlefield for the strongest warriors they had slain, before feasting on their flesh. Eat the limbs for strength, devour the heart for courage, drink the blood for vitality. Feast on the brain for intelect.
It was Edi-izard who had perfected the ritual, so that he would gain not only the intelligence but also the knowledge of an enemy. Many a time had Huakroataxa burst open a skull for the tiny mage, watched him savour the creamy texture before spurting out long lines of rapidly spoken prophecy, concerning enemy movements, location ect ect.
Of course, the practise was less common when fighting the undead. Eating rotted flesh soured the insides of the warriors, and though solid warriors of the old ones, fighting whilst incontinent would sap anyones morale.
Huakroataxa strode on, and a promising scent reached his nostrils. He quickened his pace slightly, arriving at yet another cell. There was a young human there, with its eyes removed. It had the look and scent of a fighter, eager for revenge. He would not achieve his own, but he would assist Huakroataxa's.
"Bonjour? Qui va là -bas?" The youth yelped, leaping to his feet. "Prendre la parole maintenant, fétide créatures mortes! Je ne serai jamais proposer!"
Huakroataxa grabbed two of the cells bars, and pushed them appart. They were not designed to hold creatures of his ilk.
"Je peux vous entendre! Vous en sortir, je suis\avertissement vous laisser maintenant! Je suis un Brettonian cavalerie, formés dans l'art de la guerre!"
The lizardman warrior grabbed the much smaller human, and in on rapid movement swept him up and slammed him into the ground, snapping his spine and bursting open his cranium. Huakroataxa watched the shocked, eyeless expression on his face gradually stop twitching, framed by growing pool of skull fluid mixed with blood and brain matter. He tore off the youths shirt, and made a deep incision down the youths stomach with his claw, exposing his viscera, before rousing Mon-Ti
The winged serpants lidless eyes began to move, and the serpant stretched its feathered wings and slid down the warrior, then slipped inside the Brettonian and began to feast. The hunter, or rather, he who had hunted the dead kneeled where the serpent was feasting, and inwardly debated whether he was fit to call upon the Gods.
If he didnt, though, he would never be suitable to call on them again...
He extended his left hand, and with his right raked his fore claw against his dark blue skin causing a deep cut, the physical pain dull in comparison to his inner turmoil. He let the blood flow into the spongy, convoluted flesh that Mon-ti was eating, allowing the snake to consume his cold blood along with the sacrificed flesh.
He descended to his knee, spread out his arms and raised his palms to the roof.
Sotek, deliverer of my people, Saviour of the lizardmen, devourer of our enemies, I beseech you. I am lost and alone in foreign lands, captured by my enemies. I am shamed and brought very low. I implore you; do not allow me to shame you, your servant-race nor myself anylonger. I request, knowing that I am undeserving, only one thing; Grant me death, or Grant me the means by which I may have my vengeance.
He had been reaquainted with his war gear, and of that he was glad. The cold no longer bit at him, and his movements were back to their regular stolid pace rather than the moving-through-pecari-fat pace he had been forced to keep in the death chill of Sylvania.Xalot was stabled safely, and Mon-ti was draped over his shoulders, asleep.
He had mapped out the area in his head. It was primarily filled with cells, and there were various forms of torture equipment scattered around. He had inspected a few of these, and found them wanting; the tortured devices of the large-eyed, east-of-home humans were crude, and quite simple minded. The screaming he had heard earlier could feasibly be wrought with such devices, but the victim was likely to be to brutalised afterwards to be used as much more than salamander feed.
Now, the thin-eyed, west of home humans were the other extreme. Their devices and methods were much to elaborate, spanned multiple fields of the sciences and blacker disciplines, and had over time become more of an artform than an information process. To put anything in pain for entertainment was distasteful.
He peered into a cell, where a mother ghoul was nursing her young. The obscene creature bared blackened teeth to the Lizardman, who snarled back, before moving on. Innapropriate.
Now, he had only used one torture methods in his previous life as a scar veteran, normally on Thrall's or Necromancers, vampires generally being more valuable dead than anything and other forms of the dead being either too stupid to gain anything useful from or immune to pain. It was a simple one; he would merely milk the venom of the Swirling-sunblade frog (or rather have a skink attendant do it, he had a tendency to crush the rare frogs), and then applied a small portion of the poison to the eyes of his victim.
Anything man could do with his tools, the old ones could to thrice better with their creatures. The Swirling-sunblade frog gained its name from the sensation it caused when it sprayed its venom into a predators eyes. Never having experienced it himself, Huakroataxa could not vouch for its potency but judging by the way victims flayed around shrieking for, say, four hours trying to bash their own brains out on anything close to hand it was easy to assume its power. Thats why he had always had a Saurus warrior grasp the victim whilst the process occured (usually one in need of disciplinary action; holding a writhing screaming human is a tedious task).
After the Victim calmed down, they were usually ready to talk. However, the weakness of the process was that many mammilian species, humanity included, rapidly developed an immunity to the venom after five, maybe four applications, with each application getting weaker and weaker. Especially stoic victims had managed to wheather the full of the storm, after which Huakroataxa was inclined to end there suffering and sacrifice them to the old ones; such a brave heart would be received warmly, he felt.
Huakroataxa reached another filled cell, the inhabitant an old and whithered man, his grey beared falling to the floor despite being manacled to the wall. The poor wretch was nearly dead, so Huakroataxa moved on. Innapropriate.
Of course, as a Servant of Lord Gargoq he knew of other, more sacred methods. On the seventh ascention of the star of deep-fires, Lord Gargoq decreed thus "The predator becomes the prey."
As of that day, the servants of Lord Gargoq the Quaxocibiki had practised the Ritual of Feeding. Once the dust of the battlefield had cleared, and due sacrifice had been made, the warriors would pick the battlefield for the strongest warriors they had slain, before feasting on their flesh. Eat the limbs for strength, devour the heart for courage, drink the blood for vitality. Feast on the brain for intelect.
It was Edi-izard who had perfected the ritual, so that he would gain not only the intelligence but also the knowledge of an enemy. Many a time had Huakroataxa burst open a skull for the tiny mage, watched him savour the creamy texture before spurting out long lines of rapidly spoken prophecy, concerning enemy movements, location ect ect.
Of course, the practise was less common when fighting the undead. Eating rotted flesh soured the insides of the warriors, and though solid warriors of the old ones, fighting whilst incontinent would sap anyones morale.
Huakroataxa strode on, and a promising scent reached his nostrils. He quickened his pace slightly, arriving at yet another cell. There was a young human there, with its eyes removed. It had the look and scent of a fighter, eager for revenge. He would not achieve his own, but he would assist Huakroataxa's.
"Bonjour? Qui va là -bas?" The youth yelped, leaping to his feet. "Prendre la parole maintenant, fétide créatures mortes! Je ne serai jamais proposer!"
Huakroataxa grabbed two of the cells bars, and pushed them appart. They were not designed to hold creatures of his ilk.
"Je peux vous entendre! Vous en sortir, je suis\avertissement vous laisser maintenant! Je suis un Brettonian cavalerie, formés dans l'art de la guerre!"
The lizardman warrior grabbed the much smaller human, and in on rapid movement swept him up and slammed him into the ground, snapping his spine and bursting open his cranium. Huakroataxa watched the shocked, eyeless expression on his face gradually stop twitching, framed by growing pool of skull fluid mixed with blood and brain matter. He tore off the youths shirt, and made a deep incision down the youths stomach with his claw, exposing his viscera, before rousing Mon-Ti
The winged serpants lidless eyes began to move, and the serpant stretched its feathered wings and slid down the warrior, then slipped inside the Brettonian and began to feast. The hunter, or rather, he who had hunted the dead kneeled where the serpent was feasting, and inwardly debated whether he was fit to call upon the Gods.
If he didnt, though, he would never be suitable to call on them again...
He extended his left hand, and with his right raked his fore claw against his dark blue skin causing a deep cut, the physical pain dull in comparison to his inner turmoil. He let the blood flow into the spongy, convoluted flesh that Mon-ti was eating, allowing the snake to consume his cold blood along with the sacrificed flesh.
He descended to his knee, spread out his arms and raised his palms to the roof.
Sotek, deliverer of my people, Saviour of the lizardmen, devourer of our enemies, I beseech you. I am lost and alone in foreign lands, captured by my enemies. I am shamed and brought very low. I implore you; do not allow me to shame you, your servant-race nor myself anylonger. I request, knowing that I am undeserving, only one thing; Grant me death, or Grant me the means by which I may have my vengeance.