[MUD-Dev] Those (in)famous EQ stories

[bubba at bubba.mud]

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/ooc WARNING!!! This post is NOT rated G, PG, or even PG-13. It's
rated R. Some don't like these kinds of posts, and this is your
opportunity to get out now while you can. Just realize the two
people involved are NOT nice, happy-go-lucky forest faeries. They
are mean, nasty Teir'Dal. Thank you and I hope you enjoy.

-----------------------------

The door closed with an audible click. Looking around, Mystere saw
the room was small, but sparse, giving it the illusion of being
larger than it really was.  The ceiling was dominated by the unHoly
visage of Innoruuk, his leering smile seeming to penetrate her very
being. There was a small altar, just large enough for a ritual
sacrifice. Very near the altar was a large table, its surface almost
as large as the altar itself. Upon it was an open book, which the
Prophet was currently engrossed in. His lips moved soundlessly as he
practiced the proper incantations.

>From a hidden corner, a servant's door opened, and several robed
figures walked in. They moved soundlessly, and each bore a necklace
with a symbol of Innoruuk on it. With surreal gracefulness, they
glided over the stone floor. They brought burning incense, and one
carried a tray full of steel surgical tools, light from the candles
mirroring off their surface. These were all placed carefully, almost
lovingly, in their proper positions around the room. A pair of
seeming identical twin robed figures broke off and approached the
necromancer. They carefully helped her out of her robes and other
equipment.

When one of them reached for her sacrificial dagger, she pulled it
out of reach. Hesitating only a moment, the nameless acolyte reached
for it again.  "This is my instrument to work with," she stated
flatly. "Unless ye wish to personally experience it in action, I
suggest ye back off." There was another hesitation, and the pair
looked over to Pravdameer, who had his own pair of nameless twins
helping him.

"Leave it," he said without looking over, "she will have need of her
instruments soon." The pair bowed and left the room.

Mystere waited impassively as the priest finished his own
ministrations. She looked up at the leering visage of the God of the
Teir'Dal people and shivered.  Even the thought of Him gazing down
on her while she was so vulnerable sent goose bumps over her
body. To pass the time, she began twirling her blade in her hands as
Morrigu had taught her. Although fairly dexterous, the necromancer
wasn't practiced in the maneuver, and nearly cut off her own finger.

"Easy with that weapon," the Prophet said suddenly. "This is a Holy
place. It is vital that the participants do not spill their own
blood, lest they too become sacrifices." She merely nodded in
response. The priest came over with a paintbrush and a small bottle
of ink. While another man would have stopped and admired the body
before him, Pravdameer had no such interfering thoughts. He sat on
the ground before her and began to trace the ritualistic runes on
her body. While he worked he talked idly. "These are protective
runes. They are to protect our essences from being infected along
with the Lightdwellers," she noted that he spat out the last word
with as much venom as he could muster.  "The paint itself is
relatively mundane, being a combination of Teir'Dal blood and
phosphorus."

The process took hours, and through it all she was silent. When he
had finally finished, her body was covered in the paint. Though the
bottle was small, it never seemed to run out of ink. Obviously a
minor enchantment. When the priest had finished, another cleric, of
relative power she noted, entered and began to do the same with
Pravdameer. Save for the Prophet's idle chatter, the process was
silent.

"Our cleansing requires a blood sacrifice to The Father," he said
when his own painting was finished. Mystere nodded numbly. "The text
indicates that The Father must be appeased in a greater amount than
normal for this ritual," he continued. "There are some indications
that only the most blessed are allowed to perform this. As a result,
I have called for Mrimm Jiv'elgg."

Mystere raised an eyebrow. It was almost unheard of to perform the
Mrimm Jiv'elgg, roughly translated to Common as ritual
sacrifice. But the words meant so much more than that. More along
the lines of divinely inspirational torture.

The Prophet eyed Mystere carefully. "Is there a problem?" he stated
flatly.

"Nay, none at all," she replied coldly.

"Very well, let us begin."

The servant's door opened again, and a pair of Koada'Dal were shoved
in roughly. One male and female. By custom, they would be a married
couple, with one or both being a cleric to Tunare. The necromancer's
blood turned to ice in her stomach. She wanted to call out against
the injustice about to be done. To scream at Innrouuk for this
cruelty, this sin against the Dark Goddess. But to do so would fail
in that same Goddess' wishes. She could only trust that for some
reason, these two were worth destroying to keep Lanneth alive.

She looked at the two lovers. The male was bravely hiding the female
behind him, calling to Tunare to protect them both. The woman, as
was her way, huddled in terror, screaming against the injustice of
the Teir'Dal nation. Mystere called upon her magics, surrounding the
male's mind in abject terror. He screamed and raged, clawing at his
own face to hide from his innermost terror.

The Prohpet looked impressed. "An interesting way to hold him
still," he said with a grin. "Most would have merely rooted them to
the spot."

With the male out of the way, he grabbed the woman and firmly
shackled her to the altar. Once she was firmly in place, Pravdameer
grabbed two scalpels from the surgical tray brought in
earlier. Mystere sensed her spell was about to fall, so she switched
to the more traditional root spell, so the male could be
immobilized, but fully aware of what was about to occur. The Prophet
nodded. He bent over the woman and placed the wicked looking blades
in front of her eyes.  "See this?" he said, his voice dripping with
malice. "As ye can see, there are two blades. One has been sharpened
to the finest point possible, using magics to temper the blade. The
other," he said, indicating the second instrument, "was one of my
first works as a smith. As you can see, I wasn't able to sharpen it
much, and the blade itself is pitted and dull. Your behavior from
here on in will determine which of these blades I use. Either of you
struggle or cause me trouble, I use the blade I made. Cooperate and
accept your fate, and I'll be merciful and use the sharper one. Your
fate lies in your own hands."

Mystere watched as the eyes of the Koada'Dal shot up, mad terror
filling their vision. "Excellent!" said the Prophet. "Now, I shall
give you a brief description of what lies ahead. The deadly beauty
beside me is a necromancer, well respected with The Dead. The honor
you are about to receive through myself, her, and indeed this ritual
is something you shall grow to appreciate.  I understand that your
primitive, bestial minds cannot fathom the greatness of Innoruuk,"
at this the priest's eyes glinted with religious fervor, "but
suffice it to say that this is an honor your worthless hides are
ill-fit to receive."

"Now, as for you my hairless dog-bitch," he said, indicating the
woman, "I am going to carefully remove each of your organs from your
ivory skin," at this, the female began to cry silently, shaking her
head as if to deny what was coming. "Oh yes," he said
continuing. "But do not seek solace in the confines of death, for it
is my assistant's job to ensure that you stay alive and conscious
through the process. She will do this by feeding you her very own
life essence. You will keep alive through the strength of a Teir'Dal
noble."

The cleric stood back and began pacing the floor, wrapped up in his
speech. He looked like an impassioned scholar trying to explain
magic theory to his idiot student. "You may well wonder how long she
can keep this up without killing herself," he stated. "I'm glad you
asked that question!" he said, as if rewarding an animal with good
behavior. "She is going to use your husband as fuel for her own life
force. So I suppose, in a way, your own husband will be the driving
force behind the pain that will befall you soon," he cackled at his
own irony.

"Now then, are there any questions?" The male responded by bellowing
with rage and struggling against his magical bonds. Mystere merely
sent another wave of terror surrounding him. "Aw, that's too bad,"
Pravdameer said, feigning disappointment. "For that little outburst,
I shall begin with the scalpel I made. Just think," he said with a
gleam in his eye, "if we do this -really- well, we'll reach your
brain before death approaches you!"

Turning to the necromancer, he said, "We shall begin with her
kidneys, moving on from there to her bladder and womb." Mystere
merely nodded.

It was a complicated, agonizing process. Discounting the atrocity
that was occurring, it took great skill to accomplish the
task. Pravdameer had to work at exactly the right pace, not too
fast, or the subject would die, nor too slow, or the healing would
close the wounds he was working on currently. For Mystere's part,
she had to chain cast, complicated spells, alternately slowly
drawing out the life of the male, while sending her own life into
the female.  All the while, she had to ensure the magical bonds that
held him would hold.

Three hours later, Pravdameer removed the woman's skull, finally
allowing her to expire. She uttered no sound, for both her lungs and
her voice box had been removed, and her eyes did not close, for they
too had been removed. The priest smiled widely. "We have done well."

Mystere staggered under the weight of what she had just
accomplished. Both her and the male fell to their knees, drained of
most of their energies. Summoning the last of her mana, she
channeled it into the Koada'Dal, draining him of the last of his
life, and healing herself. She stood wearily and looked to the
cleric. "It is done," she intoned formally.

The Prophet placed the organs and blood he had collected and placed
them into a specially prepared container. After securing the top, he
rotated the lever on the side, setting in motion the mechanism
inside. Within minutes, the organs that had until recently kept the
woman alive, were transformed into a thick paste. Pravdameer offered
up the paste to the visage of Innoruuk and blessed it in ritual
prayer.

After bathing in the mixture, the pair were rinsed and thoroughly
washed in water brought in by more servants. The corpses were
removed by more silent robed acolytes. After the servants had
finished bathing the pair, Pravdameer took Mystere aside and showed
her the tome and its contents....

....to be continued


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/ooc WARNING! The following story contains explicit scenes. Please,
if you are underage or offended by graphic description, please avoid
this story.

That said...I've no idea where this story came from. It just sorta
popped into my head and refused to go away until written. I think
the idea started out better than the ensuing story, but you shall
judge for yourselves....

-----------------------------

Xyth stalked into his bedchambers, a permanent scowl on his
face. The room was as he had left it. The immense oak desk in the
corner held little in the way of clutter. Being a warrior, the desk
was merely there to show his wealth, not his penchant for
studies. The bed dominated the center of the room, raised on a small
dais to attract attention. It was a large, round affair, with
pillows of soft griffin down. It was easily large enough for an
entire orgy of orgres, with room to spare.

And his prized possession chained next to it. She froze when she saw
him, large eyes already wet with tears. Her skin was dark and
rich. Xyth could already feel the burning need in his crotch. He
grabbed on end of the chain and tugged sharply. The needle-sharp
spikes on the collar dug into his pet. The bottle she had been
painting her nails with fell over and stained the white carpet like
blood. "Look at the mess!" he shrieked at her. "What is the meaning
of this?!"  His voice rose to a crescendo, shaking the very stone
around them.

The pitiful Teir'Dal girl, barely into her 14th season didn't even
try to resist. Xyth had bought her flesh 13 seasons ago, and long
ago she had learned the pain associated with even the appearance of
resistance. Though she had been willful in the past, the warrior
knew that she had given over winning her independence and instead
sought only to please him. It was all the more delicious knowing
that she willingly defiled her own body just to continue at his
side.

"I wished to make myself more attractive to m'Lordship," she
whispered, taking care to avoid eye contact. She showed him her
freshly painted nails.

Xyth grinned wickedly, then back-handed her with his mailed
fist. There was a loud crunch as the side of her face restructured
itself. Still, she emitted not a sound of pain, just merely removed
the rags he allowed her for covering. Her once soft, perfect flesh
was a chaotic pattern of burns, welts, and scars.  Brands of a dozen
House names (all those she had been "lent" out to, and those who
owed him favors) were burned in various parts of her anatomy. The
picture arouse the warrior all the more, and he motioned for her to
disrobe him and continue to service him.

He allowed her to lay him down, not moving as she struggled to
remove his clothing. When she had trouble removing some articles,
she bent to retrieve a knife. It was a wicked looking sacrificial
dagger that curved back on itself.  Like most of his prized
possessions (like the slave-girl herself), it was illegal to have,
but that made it all the more worthwhile to him.

There was a brief moment of suspense as she held the knife above his
heart, and Xyth felt his heart skip a beat. Then she was moving on,
removing the last stubborn pieces of cloth from his well-muscled
body. He knew she would never willingly harm him, he had her too
frightened and too well-trained. Still, it was the thrill that he
got off on.

When she had finished, he threw her down onto the bed and mounted
her. He took her savagely, and when she had trouble getting
lubricated, he used a knife to cut her labia, using the blood as
lubricant. She seemed to enjoy it all the more, and soon she was
screaming in ecstasy and clawing at his back. Xyth found the pain a
surprising addition, and found himself in the grip of orgasm sooner
than he had expected. His muscles in his abdomen contracted even as
his back and neck muscles did so. He arched back, and moaned in
pleasure as his semen burned into his victim.

But something was wrong. His muscles continued to contract and pull,
twisting his mouth into a rictus snarl. His heart pounded in his
temple, and his eyes saw nothing but red. His last vision was that
of his beloved slave smiling wickedly.

She easily threw him off of her and stood for the first time on her
own. Xyth's mind raced, searching for an answer to such inexplicable
actions. And then, as his back arched to near breaking, he saw
it. Lying on the floor, the paint his treacherous woman had
used. Poisoned!

Without a word, his unnamed slave claimed possession of the key and
unlocked the chain around her neck. With and audible click, she was
free at last. She stayed long enough to gather a decent set of
leather armor before closing the door behind her. There was a sharp
cracking of bone as she did so. She never looked back to see her
former master hewn in half by his own muscle spasms.

Thus was the Nameless Rogue born unto Neriak. May Innoruuk save you
all.

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