Relics (M+,F+,?+/F+)

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Coaldrone
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Relics (M+,F+,?+/F+)

Post by Coaldrone »

Hi everyone. Long time lurker, first time poster here. Have decided to attempt a fantasy-based story that's probably way out of my league, but I'll let you guys be the judge of that. Fair warning, I have an addiction to verbosity and struggle to get to the point. If you prefer stories that don't muck around with unnecessary description, I won't hold it against you if you choose to move on. Also I put choices you can vote on at the end because a) I love RopeBunny's epic yarns and b) I can't make decisions on my own. Enjoy!


Part One - The Crown

Pasfina Dejene gritted her teeth through sweat-caked lips as she poured the last of the alcosap onto the bandaged wound. It hurt like a demon’s tongue-lash, but at least it’d hold off tomb rot until she could get to a healer.

“Waste.” she muttered, staring at the thrice-looped circlet of gauze that was now wrapped taut around her exposed waist. Pretty much her whole supply. A crimson circle was already forming beneath the bandage at the side of her ribcage. Pasfina shuffled her crumpled shirt back into position with a sigh. It hadn’t even been a subtle trap trigger; just a raised flagstone, and not even a well-made one. But at this level? According to the records she was nearly at the final altar; most Althari ruins started the sneaky traps way before this. It seemed Pasfina had found herself inside the dumb runt of the dungeon litter.

“No excuse for being careless.” she sighed. Motes of ancient dust danced before her eyes, disturbed by her hot breath.
Pasfina grunted and clambered to her feet, one hand flat against the smooth tunnel wall for balance, the other pressed to her new-born injury. Hurt like hell, but nothing a good tankard of Kibbix Fire wouldn’t kill off later. The tunnel was small, refusing to allow her to stand her full five foot eleven. She bent back down to swipe her still-flaming torch from the dusty stone floor. Her other hand left the wall to reach behind her back and tap the underside of her small dungeoneering pack – a reflex movement born of habit that Pasfina was barely aware of.

She looked back the way she had come – a perfectly straight passage flooded with oppressive darkness that swallowed her torchlight after a short distance. She could still see the thin gap in the stonework the razor-sharp blade had swung through. Hell of a dodge, though, thought Pasfina with an idle satisfaction.

A few minutes of walking (and careful scrutiny of flagstones) later, and the tunnel finally opened up into a massive chamber. Ornate pillars lined the sides, stretching to unknown heights. Eternally burning sconces illuminated the area with unnatural light. Pasfina leaned her redundant torch against a nearby fallen boulder and took a moment to stretch her cramped back.

Dirty, sweaty, bloodied and bruised; in her current state, Pasfina cut a sorry figure. She wore loose fitting linen pants, sturdy leather boots and a dusty white shirt, unbuttoned to the navel and sleeves rolled up to the elbows. She had entered this place with slightly more protective apparel, but it had been systematically ditched as the temperature increased. This particular ruin was situated next to an active volcano, and at this depth the heat was smothering – her clothes were warm and damp, and beads of sweat congregated on every inch of her uncovered skin. A small scabbard containing a narrow dagger hung tight at her belt.

Physically, Pasfina was full-bodied, but her movements were lithe and sharp, her body travel-toned and tanned. Her newly created medicinal corset shaped her into a slight hourglass figure, accentuated by her ample chest that pressed insistently against the thin fabric of her shirt. Her eyes were large green half-moons with a determined glint to them, housed within attractive features framed by a simple steel band that kept her flowing shoulder-length black hair pinned behind her ears.

Grabbing her torch once again, Pasfina made her way further into the huge chamber. She walked with care, but not paranoia. Her studies had shown that the Althari rarely, if ever, populated their final atriums with traps. Perhaps it was an unwillingness to taint their leaders’ resting places with crude mechanisms – she knew not the minds of the ancient civilisations, only her own experience. At twenty-six years old, she had been a relic hunter for only four years, but by the profession’s standards that made her a veteran. It was a ridiculously dangerous vocation – the old world guarded its secrets mercilessly - but Pasfina had thus far proved equal to the challenge. A stringently maintained physique, a scholarly mind, and an aptitude for mid-level magic had kept her alive in balanced measure. Alone, these traits were enviable in a harsh landscape – together, they made a professional.

Finally, wiping the sweat from her eyes with the rolled sleeve of her sodden shirt, the relic hunter spied ahead in the gloom a large plinth. Atop the plinth, a fragile obsidian altar, embedded with beautiful, painstaking motifs and illustrations.

And atop the altar, a bronze crown; jagged, asymmetrical and brutal, unfettered by gems or luxury embellishments of any kind. The crown of the Last King of Sykrane.

Pasfina took a deep breath, her chest rising to the occasion. The air was cooler and clearer here in this wide space. She held out her arms, twisting them into a somewhat odd, yoga-like contortion. Bright blue dust floated from her hands, from nowhere, and coated the altar. She felt the Weave push against her, an invisible outcry against the profanity of sorcery, but Pasfina figured it was worth the risk to check for arcane traps, rather than springing another surprise right at the close.

The blue dust dissipated silently. No traps. Pasfina nodded to herself, and ascended the plinth. She was now standing over the altar, the crown within arm’s reach. She carefully leaned her torch against the corner of the altar.

Then, a voice behind her, feminine and sibilant: “Ms Dejene. We finally meet.”

Pasfina froze. Female, young, followed me, knows my name. She slid her hand down her torso, attempting to conceal the movement towards her dagger.

A ratchet, then a decisive click. Crossbow. “Please stop moving, Ms Dejene. I have my weapon aimed at your lower spine. A shot won’t end your life, just your career. Now turn around.”

Pasfina paused, but only for a moment. If she wanted me dead she’d have done it. No, it’s the crown she wants. Okay. Okay, let’s see what we’re dealing with.

She turned. Below, a foot or two from the base of the plinth, stood a striking young woman. Blonde hair, full smiling red lips, impressive cheekbones, she wore an alluring outfit. A single length of sequined blue silk hung over her shoulders, crossing over her generous breasts in an X shape at her front before wrapping around her waist, the two ends securely tied at the small of her back, revealing her pale belly, sides and upper chest. Her legs were shrouded in loose white silk, and her feet were encased in the most outrageous winklepicker shoes Pasfina had ever seen. True to her word, she was currently aiming a crossbow at Pasfina’s gut.

She was not alone, either. Standing next to her was a giant brute of a man, wearing a dark tunic and leather pants, no footwear. He was bald and bronzed, with dark, malicious eyes. The lower half of his face was covered with a black bandana; under that a large golden medallion could be seen hanging from his thick neck. His right hand held a wicked looking scimitar. His left hand held a sizeable coil of coarse rope.

“My name is Shana, Ms Dejene.” said the blonde woman, smiling radiantly. She shifted her gaze to the altar behind Pasfina. “Congratulations seem to be in order – it would appear your reputation is justified.”

“Thank you, Shana.” replied Pasfina. “Now care to tell me what the hell you’re doing following me here?” Pasfina demanded. She kept her eyes on Shana, but her peripheral was focused entirely on the man-brute, sizing him up. Must just be muscle, I guess. Looks strong, possibly fast as well. For some reason, the rope he was holding kept occupying her attention.

“Gladly,” continued Shana, adjusting her outfit primly. “I am here to ensure that that crown ends up where it belongs. You have a knack for seeking out great treasures, Ms Dejene, but what you do with those treasures remains questionable. Now be a dear and toss that cute little dagger you have on the ground over there, then lie down on your stomach. Slowly as well, preferably.”

Pasfina hung her head for a moment. She was exhausted, a little giddy from the heat, and her side was burning from her recent injury. No way of knowing whether this bitch had more cronies along the way. This was big tier trouble, no mistake. But was she really going to just give up her score like this?

A) Pasfina submits to the unknown duo’s demands, the crown is stolen and Pasfina is tied up.
B) Pasfina resists, but is subdued and bound more securely. However, the ruckus attracts unwanted attention…
C) Pasfina resists. The brute is killed, but she and Shana are captured by a new adversary.
D) Pasfina resists and overpowers the duo. She ties up Shana and takes her somewhere to be interrogated. (WARNING – option requires use of magic)
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slackywacky
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Post by slackywacky »

Option B for me will do fine.

> first time poster here
Welcome to the club.

> Fair warning, I have an addiction to verbosity and struggle to get to the point.
Your writing style is beautiful, I wish I had some of your 'verbosity'.

> Enjoy!
I did, keep going...
Thanks for reading. Feel free to comment.
Slackywacky, also @DeviantArt

My active stories: Updated story catalog: All my stories
redlukas
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Post by redlukas »

I want them both tied up, so my vote is for C. :twisted: :P
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Post by RopeBunny »

Firstly. Loving this. Great writing style, it has a great flow to it.

Secondly. Thanks. However much, or little, my own stories inspired you I'm glad.

I'm for D. Always could use some magic, something I neve tire of using in my own stories. Also Pacfina (great name) deserves the early win, having done the legwork to get to the crown.

Keep it up, I'll be reading x
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Post by Dpsiic »

Going for c, two girls tied are always better than one :D
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Post by Tapebot »

Loving it so far. Your writing is exquisite.

I pick B.
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Post by Coaldrone »

Thanks for the warm welcome everyone. It looks like B and C are tied, so to speak. I didn't have a contingency for ties, so after a bit of panicking, I've decided moving forward that in the event of a tie I will go for the option that I feel I can do a better job with, and that has less likelihood of writing me into a corner - in this instance I am going to go with C.

Thanks for your votes. I've done about half of Part 2 so will aim to post the whole thing by Saturday evening at the latest. I'm very flaky though so please don't hold me to that!
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Post by Coaldrone »

Part 2 is incoming. Not sure if this is necessary, but just as a trigger warning, Part 2 contains descriptions of physical violence, both male on female and vice versa. I believe that the context justifies it, but am happy for changes if needed.
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Post by Coaldrone »

Part Two - Together in the Gloom

Pasfina made her move swiftly, but not suddenly. It was an important distinction. Pasfina had once read of an old crusader general: “Your enemy will oft allow you to shank his ear clean off, so long as you do it obediently.”

She dropped her dagger. Onto her boot. Then, in a surrealistically casual manner, she fell backwards onto the altar, grabbing the Last King’s crown as her back hit the surface. Flipping heels over head onto the other side of the altar, she felt her dagger fly off her boot further into the chamber. Then she ducked.

She heard a ping, a fwip, and a womanly “shit!”.

Pasfina sprinted down the opposite side of the plinth, denying vision to her interlopers. She heard the frantic mechanical sounds of Shana reloading her crossbow combined with thick, thudding footsteps she assumed belonged to the brute. Those footsteps were unbelievably fast. Pasfina channelled the adrenaline to charge ahead, sweeping up her still-spinning dagger off the ground with one hand and stuffing the crown into her pack with the other.

But she had gone no further than fifty feet before a surge of agony electrified her pelvis, as her previous side wound courtesy of the dungeon trap tore open like a maw, bleeding anew beneath her gauze corset. Her running pace halved as the pain pulsated through her like a secondary dark heart, her hand racing to clamp over the injury. “Fuck.” she growled as she tried to head towards the next pillar to at least gain some cover from crossbow fire. But the brute’s pace behind her sped up, spurred onward by the prey’s weakness. She could hear his heavy, throaty breathing, even and focused. He would be on her in seconds; no time for even a basic spell.

The blade of her dagger was between her stiff fingers as she scraped to a halt and turned to face him. Loose-shaken strands of her dark hair swayed momentarily before her eyes as in a split-second she lined up her attack. His sword arm was up high, the intention to kill etched in his muscle tension. He was less than his own height away from Pasfina when she let fly the dagger, sending it towards his neck. It struck true, piercing flesh and, more crucially, blood. There was just enough time to set her feet as he staggered within sword’s reach.

Pasfina jumped; not away, but towards. It was like hitting a God, but a God caught unawares. Before his sheer bulk slammed her into the ground, Pasfina felt her ramming shoulder drive the dagger’s steel deeper into his throat, adding cartilage to blood and flesh on the rupture register. His sword swipe slapped against her back, and she heard a metallic ting as his twitching fingers dropped the weapon.

He fell on top of her, and the compression in her lungs caused her to exhale violently. Her pancaked breasts fired their hurt throughout her whole chest, met halfway by the pain of her waist wound. Pasfina tried to curse, but her lungs rebelled. The brute was raising his head, blood now gushing from the neck wound. He gurgled like a sun-baked swamp as one of his massive hands wrapped around her neck and thumped her head to the ground. Her vision swam as skull struck stone, but she had time enough to see his other hand move towards the dagger, his mortality manifest.

No hesitation. She grabbed his would-be saviour arm at the wrist with both her hands and dug her fingernails in, searching for precious tendons. He made a noise that a lifetime ago may have been a roar of outrage. His other hand released her throat, curled into a fist, and pounded into the side of her face. Pasfina’s mind dissolved as her head pivoted and whacked into the floor once more; her jaw made an almighty crack that seemed to echo inside her brain, and her sight dimmed alarmingly. But she did not let go. She felt the brute fall off her, then heard an almost conversational grunt as his punching hand tried to take over dagger-retrieval duty. It was the last thing he did on this world.

Pasfina heard fading gurgles, then light footsteps. Shana. She tried to get up and every single part of her body angrily vetoed the action, but they did allow her hands to release the now silent brute’s wrist.

Pasfina watched from her prone position, helpless, as the woman stood over her, crossbow aimed directly at her heart. Though her vision still ebbed and flowed, Pasfina could swear that the only emotion visible on Shana’s pretty face in that moment was sheer hatred. The relic hunter closed her eyes and waited for the kill.

Then, out of the darkness, two smooth round stones, connected by a long length of grey vine flew towards Shana. The centre of the vine hit her in the back between the shoulder-blades, and the twin stones spun around her body like planets in a rapidly decaying orbit, causing the vine to bind itself tightly around her upper body and trap her slender arms against her sides. She cried out in surprise and dropped the crossbow, its triggered bolt whistling past Pasfina’s ear. The echo of a high pitched cackling made itself known to the two women’s ears.

Breathing heavily, Shana strained against the bindings, trying desperately to pull an arm free, but the vines seemed to have an adhesive quality that secured them against her clothes and skin. Then another vine, another set of stone twins, flew out. This one hit Shana in the thighs, and within a second her legs were hooked together, one ankle awkwardly crossed over the other. She toppled over, shoulder bashing into the stone floor, causing her to cry out in pain. She squirmed like an eel on the floor, arching her back and shaking her shoulders, but the vines held firm.

Then they came, cackling all the way. Short, stout, humanoid creatures, their pale porcine faces obscured by a chaotic mess of indiscriminate red facial hair. They wore the multicoloured skins of unknown subterranean beasts, and in their hands were spears and ropes. Though rotund in body, they scampered towards the women with impressive speed, hooting and cawing all the way. Shana screamed as five of them swarmed over her, obscuring her entire form from Pasfina’s eyes. The relic hunter managed to crook her elbow and lift one shoulder before the rest were upon her. She could feel their hands, pudgy and hot, grasp at her body all over to gain a purchase, whether on a limb or a loose fold of clothing. She tried one final time to summon the strength to resist, but it was useless.

The last thing she remembered was feeling them flip her onto her stomach, ripping her trap wound once more. The pain exploded her mind, and as she sensed her arms being hauled behind her back, blissful unconsciousness swept her into oblivion.

*

Oblivion proved a fickle host. The world returned to the relic hunter, bit by bit. A cloying and solid heat against her back. A sense of gravity, of being upright. The copper of old blood in her mouth. And finally, before she opened her eyes, a sensation of being tightly held in place. Something was around her neck.

“Uaghhhh…..” she managed. A gasping sound, directly behind her. Then a high pitched, frantic whisper…

“Thank the godsblessed Pyre you’re awake! Listen Pasfina, we need to keep quiet, I think they’re finally asleep….”

As if excited into anarchy by the order to stay quiet, all of Pasfina’s injuries awoke at once, raced to her spine and brain and started raising merry hell.

“FffffffuuuuuUUUUUU…..!”

Face, side, head, tits, arms, back, you name it, all battered. Pasfina could feel her raw exclamation of pain growing larger and louder, and she welcomed it. Screw being quiet, she was a busted girl right now, and it was time to let the world know...

But then she felt the thing around her neck suddenly squeeze, and then pull, forcing her head back, eyes staring upwards. It cut off her airway, replacing oxygen with panic. She ordered her arms to reach up, to pull the neck-thing off, but her arms didn’t move – they were trapped behind her, clasped tightly around some kind of soft pillar.

The neck-thing mercifully released its grip, and Pasfina gulped air into her shaking lungs.

“No fucking noise!” came not a whisper, but a hiss, filled with barbed ire. “Or I’ll do it again. They tied our necks together, so unless you want a strangling match, keep your groans to yourself, woman.”

Something about the content and delivery of those words brought Pasfina back to herself fully. She blinked, groaned, and for the first time became aware of her strange sitting position. She was inside a large, dimly lit tent of some kind. Looking down, she could see her legs pointing directly forward. They were secured together at the ankles, knees and thighs with thin brown twine wound many times over and cinched between the limbs.

Looking down further, she was momentarily nonplussed to see two thin pale arms wrapped around her midriff, tucked snugly under her bust. It took a moment for Pasfina to notice the same thin twine was wound taut around the wrists at her belly, binding them in position. Shana, she thought, these are Shana’s arms. Her eyes also picked up a blossom of crimson around the wrist skin. Welts. She’s been trying to pull her arms free.

More ropes were tied above and below Pasfina’s breasts, keeping her bound to the pillar behind her (which her addled head began to understand was not a pillar). She also noticed that a button had gone astray from her shirt at some point, giving her cleavage a clearer view of the unfolding drama. With a breath of discomfort, Pasfina slowly cranked her head around to the left. The twine around her neck (she assumed it to be more twine) issued a threatening scratch, but she managed to look behind her. Suspicion became certainty - it was not a pillar she was tied to; it was Shana.

They were back-to-back, their arms forcibly entwined around each other in a strange, inverted embrace. Pasfina could feel her own wrists bound tightly at Shana’s naked belly, her forearms pressing gently into the girl’s warm flesh. The ropes around their chests kept their spines flattened against each other, and where their arms crossed at the sides, more twine had been bound, further restricting movement. Finally, they had been joined at the neck by a crude twin noose. Too much movement of heads would cause both nooses to tighten and throttle their prisoners.

Automatically, Pasfina started to squirm, her body’s desire to be free demanding she test the bonds for weaknesses. “Don’t bother.” whispered Shana bitterly. Her voice shook the more she spoke. “If I haven’t managed it by now, you sure as hell won’t.”

“Wh…….what do you….mean?” Pasfina asked. Her own voice sounded old, husky and drained. The discomfort from her injuries and restraints was ubiquitous. Busted girl. “How long was I……ughhh…….how long was I out?”

“About three hours.” came the reply. “They dragged us here, roped us up, then ran off to do something or other. Your head kept falling forward. It sounded like you were going to choke so many times I…..I thought……anyway, I’ve been arching my neck back for three…..damn…..hours…….making sure you don’t garrotte yourself.”

Pasfina started flexing her hands, trying to get some feeling back into them. “Hey, wow, well, thanks for saving my life, girl. Guess I owe you that crown now, huh?”

Fuck you!” hissed Shana, turning as best she could to face the relic hunter. The twin noose scraped skin, but that was all. Pasfina was surprised; Shana sounded – and looked – not angry, but tired and upset. Her previously immaculate blonde hair was now a tattered sprawl cascading from the top of her head. “You’re a brigand, a vulture, a……a……you wander over our ancestors’ bones in search of capital. Every one of your ‘scores’ is an insult to history.” Then a slight smile crept over Shana’s face as she looked back at Pasfina, making those exquisite cheekbones stand to attention. “You know, Henesy’s given you quite the black eye.”

“Yeah?” said Pasfina, showing off her best screw you grin. “That your boy’s name? Don’t worry, I gave him quite the tracheotomy.”

Pasfina watched the tendons spring out of Shana’s neck and shoulders, and realised too late what her plan was. Without warning, Shana threw her head forward as hard as she could, snapping Pasfina’s head back as before, neck arched almost at right angles, the noose squeezing her windpipe closed. She bucked and writhed in her bonds, unable to breathe, kicking her legs out again and again, adrenaline demanding her body seek an escape that did not exist. “St……ST…….” was all she could manage before animal choking sounds took over.

Shana held her cruel position for twenty, thirty seconds, as long as she could hold the tension in her neck. Pasfina’s vein-streaked face went red, then purple, and finally purple with awful blotches. Then, feeling the relic hunter’s desperate struggles start to weaken, Shana relented and returned to rest. Pasfina’s breath returned to her in short, strained gusts. The twin noose once again allowed its captives to draw breath, but both ends had been drawn irreversibly tighter, chafing permanently.

“…god.….c……..crazy…….bi……..bi…….” gasped Pasfina, her complexion transitioning to radish red, fresh perspiration fornicating atop her forehead. She was still struggling against the ropes. To be at the mercy of this little cow, to have her own fate helplessly governed by the mere lowering of a head, filled Pasfina with indignation. Her tied wrists twisted this way and that against Shana’s waist, vainly seeking escape; her ample chest quivered up and down with each shallow breath.

“Save your energy, Ms Dejene.” said Shana coldly, shifting her body in time with Pasfina’s squirming as best she could. “There’s no way out of this. But talk about Henesy like that again and I’ll give you a way out.”

“Y…..you were the one who brought him u……”

Sssshhhhhh!

There was genuine fear in Shana’s shush, giving Pasfina enough pause for her to notice a shuffling sound. It was coming from behind her, and therefore, in front of Shana. Pasfina fell silent, and forced her body to still. In doing so she became acutely aware of how hot and slick with sweat their backs were, clamped together by their mutual bondage.

Footsteps. Inside the tent. She barely heard Shana: “….close your eyes……”

Pasfina did so. In the darkness, she heard quick, heavy thuds. Then high pitched alien jabbering, right by her ear.

“Ekth! Da’ori fuy ne ne! Mu’un ne ne welp fuy gouth-ja….”

On it went, foreign to her ears. She felt like she could discern two separate voices, but it was difficult – every utterance sounded like a small child’s petulant argument. Suddenly she felt those thick hands on her once more, pawing at her legs, her arms, lingering across her bosom, a wayward nail scraping across one nipple that sent her teeth clinching. She felt the hands go over her bonds, checking knots, making sure the captives were still secure.

The hands departed. More jabbering. Fading footsteps. Then nothing.

The two women sat in silence for a moment, their position and breathing perfectly symmetrical.

Another old crusader quote floated into Pasfina’s mind: The enemy of my enemy is my friend. She sighed quietly.

“Truce?”

Shana sighed quietly. “Truce.”

a) Pasfina and Shana, through a convoluted amount of wriggling written in excruciating detail, manage to free themselves from their bonds just as the two guards return.
b) Pasfina and Shana try and fail to escape their bonds. Shana is taken away, and Pasfina is left hogtied in the tent.
c) Pasfina and Shana try and fail to escape their bonds. Pasfina is taken away, and Shana is left hogtied in the tent.
d) Pasfina and Shana just about manage to get Pasfina’s wrists free before the guards return. Pasfina casts a spell to put the guards to sleep. (WARNING - option requires use of magic)
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Post by Dpsiic »

Hard to choose between b & c, let the majority to decide.
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Post by RopeBunny »

I think C, take Pasfina away, maybe for questioning (?) it sounds like the right thing to do.
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Post by Coaldrone »

Thank you, I will lock in C. I'm about 2/3rds done, and I'm posting this mainly to force myself to commit to completion soon. Also I wasn't particularly happy about the choices I offered last part - think I did them in a bit of a rush once I had finished the main text. My plan is to either improve them or ditch them altogether, depending on my instinct and feedback (if any).
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Post by Coaldrone »

Part Three – The Horseshoe

Pasfina let herself just sit in the ropes for a couple of minutes. Eyes closed, fingers flexing, heart slowing. She coaxed her mind into processing the three hours “rest” she had had, realising (or imagining) the physical benefit. She let her survivor’s soul speak to her body, felt it sail through her internal vessels and create a new accord between her bruised kingdoms. Then she took a deep, cleansing breath that brought Shana with it. She whispered.

“Alright, let’s get out of this. Shana…”

“I told you!” came the weary but tart reply. “I’ve been trying for hours, and now the rope’s like cheese wire around my hands! There’s no….”

“Listen to me!” urged Pasfina. She twisted slightly, her left shoulder pressing into Shana’s right. “I’m not sitting here sharing moisture with your ass until they decide what to do with us! We can escape this together, but I’m gonna need your help. Are you in?”

Silence, but only for a moment.

Pil’ru. Alright, how do we get out?”

“First of all, thank your gods they didn’t strip us. There’s a thin pouch in the pocket of my shirt, left side. Obviously I can’t reach it, but you can. So…”

“Are you mad?” whispered Shana. “I can barely move! How am I going to reach high enough to get my hand into a pocket!?”

Pasfina took another deep breath as Shana whinged. This girl is hard work. “You won’t need to get your whole hand in there.” she said calmly, as if to a bashful toddler. “All you need is a finger or two to pull the pocket open. I can see those ridiculous nails of yours, Shana, this should be child’s play for you.”

Shana shuffled uncomfortably. “But….you mean the breast pocket, right? So, I’d have to…I mean…not that I….so I just touch…I mean I’d have to…..you know….”

“Touch my tits?” Pasfina asked in exasperation. “Hey, I know this is only our first date, girl, but I really feel there’s a strong bond between us, you know? I know, how about this?”

The relic hunter stretched her bound hand upward and gave Shana’s boob a playful squeeze through the silk drape, drawing out a shocked squeak so high-pitched that Pasfina’s ear started buzzing. She felt their bodies vibrate from the indignity.

“You…..you dare……” breathed Shana. Her voice had a lot of breath in it. Pasfina sneaked a look behind – she couldn’t see Shana’s face, but her neck sure was bright red. “Come on now, girl.” smiled Pasfina. “Your turn for a cheeky grope, I insist. But be careful; don’t drop the pouch or we’ll be in big trouble.”

“Ugh…..disgusting…….you’re……you’re just….so……so…..fine!” complained Shana. With that, Pasfina peered over her chest to watch as the girl’s crossed wrists began to rotate. The fingers on Shana’s left hand stretched upward like new spring shoots aching for the sun. Then they began their awkward ascent up Pasfina’s midriff and the swell of her breast, using the shirt’s fabric for purchase. Pasfina tried to ignore the growing warmth inside her as those delicate fingers (and long nails) pressed and probed against her, and instead focused on drooping her shoulders and sucking her gut in, to give Shana more room to manoeuvre. Despite both their physical contortions, it was slow going.

“Sorry.” muttered Shana between grunts. “So, what are those…..sorry....those ghastly creatures that captured us? I’ve never….sorry…..never seen them before. Shit, sor….”

“If you say sorry one more time, girl, you and I are……ngggh…..going to have a pinching competition, and I will win. In answer to your question - they’re dwarves.”

“What? Don’t be so……ow, cramp…..those aren’t dwarves!”

“You’re from Hakalar, aren’t you? I’m not talking about those shaved, glassy-eyed slaves you people cart around like animals. These are real dwarves. Native. Okay, you’re nearly there, your…..ugh…….your middle finger is just beneath the opening, you just…..”

“I’ve got it, I’ve got it!” snapped Shana. “Just….just…..give me a moment!”. With an elongated groan, Shana pushed her rigid finger up the final quarter-inch, her bright red nail just catching on the edge of the topstitching. Now with a purchase, she was able to drag down on the shirt pocket opening, inviting two more nails to join the throng. Pasfina bit her lip hard and sucked air through her nose – Shana was having to squash her chest a fair bit to get this far.

“Good.” said Pasfina. “Can you....hmhh...can you reach in at all?”

“I really don’t think so, it was all I could do to get this far.”

Pasfina looked at the veins and cords straining along Shana’s forearms. Her outstretched, vertical fingers were trembling with stress. Somewhere outside the tent, a faint but growing cacophony of voices echoed. This was the end of the line.

“Shit. Alright, listen, my shirt’s already open a ways, but these chest ropes are holding it in position. Try to tip the pocket down so the pouch falls out. If not, you’ll have to tear it. Carefully.”

“But what if I drop it, or miss it?” Shana’s voice was shaking from the sweet taste of freedom’s promise.

“If that happens, it should just fall into my lap. As long as you’re careful. Come on, we’re this far, you can do this, girl…”

“Stop calling me ‘girl’.” said Shana irritably. Pasfina fell into silence, letting Shana work. She watched Shana’s fingers tease and scrape at the pocket, their only salvation. A minute dragged by. Another.

Then…

“Pasfina, I think…..I think I can geaaaAAAFFUUUU!”

Pasfina watched in dull horror as Shana’s grip suddenly yanked down hard, far too hard. She watched another button ping into the darkness as her shirt ripped open even more between the torso bindings. Finally, she watched the precious brown pouch tumble from the torn pocket, slide across the back of Shana’s flailing hand, bounce off the outside of her muscular thigh, and land with a light thump on the stone ground a foot to her left.

Pil’ru, shit, fuck, fuck!” cried Shana, still flapping her hands around. “Cramp, oh gods, cramp. Pasfina, I…..where…..”

The dwarf-voices outside grew more tumultuous, the volume more inconsistent. The dim glow within the tent seemed to fade slightly. Pasfina stared at the pouch, a foot away, a trillion miles away. A weird hypersensitivity overcame her; an acute sense of the coarse twine that was snaked tightly around her. It felt like it was starting to constrict her body even further, mocking her futile struggles to escape.

They were coming. They were coming.

Pasfina tossed her weight to the left, throwing both of them to the ground. She ignored Shana’s exclamation of surprise and stretched her bound legs out straight. As she did so her heels encountered resistance – a large makeshift barrel in the corner of the tent. Solid. Heavy. Perfect.

No time to explain the plan. Using the barrel for leverage she humped her torso forward three inches, dragging Shana’s entire weight with her. Her body’s weary protests went ignored. The pouch was right there. Right under Shana’s hands.

“Shana!” barked Pasfina. She felt the flesh attached to her back brisk with attention. “The pouch is on the ground; reach around, quickly!”

And beauty bless her, she did. Not only that, but her palm slapped the pouch on the first try. She lifted it in a crazed, triumphant deathgrip.

“There’s a small horseshoe inside, get it out and then drop the pouch.”

She watched Shana do so, with incredible poise given the circumstances. Her slender hand held the tiny silver horseshoe tightly between thumb and forefinger, eagerly awaiting instructions.

“Alright…” was all Pasfina managed before Shana screamed and dropped the horseshoe. The edge of it struck the stone with a tink, and Pasfina watched it roll away, coming to rest against one of the tent poles. A large hand grabbed her dark hair and pulled, hoisting her back upright, forcing her legs to quickly twist back to their original right-angle position. The twin noose squeezed once more. Angry voices flooded her hearing. Then a massive hairy face filled her vision. The male dwarf looked furious.

“Ekth-giandi! Maka fuy solispo ne klaq’a poi cuemo lius!”

The dwarf gripped her face by the cheeks, shouting all the while. His breath was unbelievably sour. As he spoke his unknown tongue, Pasfina could feel touches upon her, and a swift loosening of her bonds. She felt sliced ropes cascade from her skin, her back separating from Shana’s. A couple more dwarves cut her legs and neck free, but then lifted her over Shana’s head and started to drag her out the tent. Her hands remained tied behind her.

“Pasfina!” cried Shana, voice soaked in fear. Through the throng, Pasfina could see yet another sour-faced dwarf hoisting the young girl face-first onto her stomach and bending her still-bound feet towards her backside.

“Shana! It’s esmede!” shouted Pasfina, making herself as much of a dead weight as possible to slow the dwarves’ progress in carting her off. “Esmede! Es….

But then the relic hunter’s head was pulled back by the hair, and a thick grey vine wrapped around her mouth and the back of her head, gagging her. The gummy texture pressed against her tongue and she almost retched – it tasted like wet ashes marinating in sewer water. The last thing she saw before being hauled out the tent was Shana being gagged with the same type of vine.

The moment she was out the tent, Pasfina felt a wave of heat course over her – wherever they were, it was hot. As the strong hands that were hooked under her armpits dragged her forward, she took in her surroundings. Simple hovel dwellings, made of an uncanny mixture of clay and obsidian, arranged seemingly randomly. The cavernous area was illuminated by a warm orange glow, the untold roof hidden in darkness. She could hear the bubble and rumble of nearby magma.

She tried to gain purchase with her now-free feet, but the short stature and strong grip of her captors made this impossible. The grey matter trapped in her mouth kept threatening to prod her gag reflex, and so she herded her tongue away from it as best she could. She forced herself to focus on her bound hands; no longer squashed against Shana’s stomach, she had more play to test the twine. She quickly found the single knot holding the loops together, but it had been pulled tight as a bullet. Regardless, she started picking at it hurriedly, hoping to make some headway before…

A hoot went up between her two dwarven escorts. Pasfina raised her gaze, to see where they were headed with her.

Oh, shit, she thought.


*


Shana screamed through the disgusting gag as the vicious dwarf somehow pulled her hogtie rope even tighter. One end was tied to her bunched blonde hair in a clumsy knot. The creature had threaded the other end through her knee ropes and was now pulling, pulling, pulling. She was on her side, body arching inexorably into a hideous longbow position. The tendons on her neck were pulsing, shoulders twitching. After an eternity, the dwarf tied the rope off at her knees, locking her helplessly into the bind. Another rope was wrapped in a large loop around her ankles and the tops of her thighs, trapping her legs into a hammerlock position. She could hear his excited, heavy breathing as he worked on her. Yet another rope was threaded through her wrists and around her waist, pinning her hands to the small of her back.

A flood of raw, animal panic then sloshed through Shana as she felt those thick hands start pushing her elbows together behind her. GODS, PLEASE…..he’s going to break my shoulders!!

And perhaps, here and now, in the antediluvian bowels of the world, those Gods were somehow listening. Another dwarf pummeled through the tent opening, yelling something gruff. Her assailant grumbled, then relented, releasing her elbows and giving her ample behind a hearty slap. Shana squeezed her eyes shut as she listened to them both leave. Diminishing hollers, then quiet. She was alone. Her hands groped vainly along the hogging line, searching for the knot that unbeknownst to her was safely nestled between her knees. Small tears grew in the corners of her eyes – her scalp and spine were already starting to burn.

Esmede, she thought. That was what Pasfina had said, but what did it mean? It wasn’t any word in Hakalarin, nor Common. So why had she…?

Magic. A Word. The horseshoe…..gods…….where is it!?

A thin reed of logic permeated the deluge of pain messages invading Shana’s frazzled mind, telling her that the relic hunter, whilst brash and stupid, wouldn’t have revealed a Word of Actuation for no reason. The trinket – no, the relic – it must still be in the tent! With a moan of effort, Shana rolled across her bound arms to land on her other side, giving her a view of the majority of the tent. She angrily blinked away her tears and forced her gaze to focus, searching for the treasure.

It took a couple of minutes of wriggling, rolling, sweating, and looking around with wide wet eyes; the major problem was that Shana had never actually seen the damn thing – only held it in her fingers. Finally, she spotted the silver bauble, resting casually against the far tent pole. She channelled her newfound hope into ignoring the increasing pain in her back as she humped and wormed her limbless way across the stone floor, cold to any skin it touched. She rolled over once more with her back to the pole, scrabbled with her fingers and finally grasped the horseshoe with a sigh of relief.

Then, a horrific realisation, inexplicably unconsidered until this moment. She was gagged. How was she to speak the Word?

She tried, once. “Efth……efffth…..” Each time her tongue touched the revolting foreign matter peeling back the sides of her mouth, her throat somersaulted. Frantic and desperate, Shana tried biting down hard, hoping to break through the vine with her teeth, but this proved a colossal mistake. The pressure caused some unknown, oily fluid to ooze from the plant material and slide to the back of her throat. A minor biological miracle stopped her from all-out vomiting, and instead her tied up body convulsed into a fit of choking. Her hogtie binding began the grim job of ripping weaker strands of her poor hair from their very follicles, punishing the exertions of its prisoner. By the time the rank liquid had been more or less purged, her chin and neck were soaked in colourless rivulets of drool, the whites of her eyes filled with red vessels.

Shana lay still for a while, on her side, sobbing quietly in the gloom. Chest heaving, arms and legs and hair trapped uselessly behind her. It was hopeless. What was to become of her? Would they rape her? How many times? How badly would they hurt her? Would they keep her tied up while they did it? Would there be any chance for her to kill herself? Might they offer freedom in exchange for the unspeakable? Slavery maybe? How many days? Weeks? Months?

……years?

And out of nowhere, the sheer fucking indignity of it all hit Shana straight in the heart. She thought of Pasfina’s dismissive comments and insults, of the dwarves’ lecherous groping and slapping. Her immense pride, born of privilege and status, broke free from its moorings of decorum and etiquette and started a feral rampage in her blood. Her body shook and rolled onto its stomach. Her eyes blazed the tears away.

Do they know……do they even understand who the FUCK I AM!?

Esssthmedhe…..” she gargled through the toxic gag. She was pushing the horseshoe against the hogtie rope. Nothing.

Esshmede……essmedhe…..

Still nothing…..still nothing. She steeled herself and pushed her tongue as hard as she could against the vine gag. Something of a newfound resistance to its taste enabled her to push the vine ever so slightly out of her mouth. Working in tandem with her tongue, her teeth carefully gripped the vine once more. She could feel it fight, trying to slither back into its new lair, but she did not allow it.

Essmedhe……esmhede……FUGHH…...ESMEDE!!!

Had Shana not been angling her head slightly to the right when it happened, she would have broken her jaw. There was a sharp pop, and her head crashed into the stone below, sending stars into her eyes. A whiff of burning sulphur. Her scalp no longer sang with pain.

No time for anything else. Fingers twisting like ballerinas, she pressed the horseshoe as best she could against her infernally tight wrist ropes.

Esmede!”

This one hurt. Another pop, and a sensation of singed skin. One loop of twine remained stubbornly curled around her – she wriggled it off quickly and brought her exhausted arms around to her front. Nasty red welts criss-crossed along her wrists, embellished now with an equally nasty burn mark. She reached up, gripped the hated vine gag with both hands, and with alarming strength tore it from around her head. She spat and spluttered, then hurled the vine into the far corner, wiping the filthy drool from her face and neck. Deep breath. She switched attention to her tied legs. Logic tried and failed to convince her to take the time to just undo the knots. She shoved the horseshoe relic against each loop and invoked the Word. She could now see that each time she did so, a miniature fireball blossomed at the gap between the two horseshoe ends, incinerating the twine into dust.

A minute later, and she was finally free from her agonising bondage. Massaging the skin where the twine had chafed the most, Shana set about searching the tent for anything useful. A small spear found its home in her right hand. A half-filled skin of water, all of which she drank greedily, accidentally soaking her silk drape a little. She found a dwarven cloak made of a scratchy leather, which she donned. It did not fit properly and only came down to her midriff, but the hood covered most of her face and hair, and the colour blended with her surroundings better.

She even found Pasfina’s small adventuring backpack tossed in the corner, though it had been looted empty. Quickly she gathered up the longer pieces of cut twine on the floor and stuffed them in the pack, which she then hoisted on her shoulders. Finally, dragging her hands once through her somewhat tattered hair, she tucked the precious horseshoe into her pants, pulled up the hood of the cloak and left.

A neutral observer might have found Shana’s exit from the tent almost comical in its caution. She eventually summoned the courage to make her way through the alien hovels. She could hear far away cheers and heckles, and not a soul seemed nearby. The intense heat coated her in a sheen of perspiration. She found another waterskin along the way, took a swig, then hooked it around her waist. She gripped the spear like a vice at all times. A dark part of her wanted a dwarf to show up, to give her an opportunity to thrust the tip into its throat, see its life drain away like Henesy’s had.

The angle of the obsidian valley that enclosed the….village, hamlet, whatever….was forcing her to approach the yelling crowd. She kept low and soft footed. She could see some sort of massive fire in the distance, illuminating some kind of spacious central communal area. The hovels were more closely bunched here. Thinking quickly, she used her relative height to clamber up a nearby wall, then traversed the low rooftops one by one. Trying to pin it on paranoia, Shana could not shake the nagging intuition that someone....something was watching her.

She sneaked closer to the fire. There they were, at least twenty to thirty dwarves in a circular crowd near the communal fire, possibly the whole community. She could discern females too – no facial hair, sharper features, some topless. No children. Shana was about to scout an escape route when suddenly, within the epicentre of the tribe’s focus, she saw her….

a) Pasfina, stripped to her underwear, bound into a strict strappado position beneath a strange grey tree with a dwarf behind her, holding a mean looking whip.
b) Pasfina, naked, hanging by shackled wrists to a vertical outcrop of stone with an ancient dwarf before her, holding a jug of liquid and some kind of sacrificial dagger.
c) Pasfina, shirtless, arms tied behind her back, standing in a deep circular pit opposite the largest, longest snake Shana had ever seen.
d) Pasfina, mummified from head to toe in tight grey vines and recognisable only by her dark hair, being slowly carried towards a boiling lake of lava in the distance.
e) Pasfina, fully clothed, frogtied into a tight little ball and having all manner of squishy objects being thrown at her by the baying crowd
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RiggerTom
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Uh yeah, so......not the most dedicated poster, I know. Apologies to [mention]redlukas[/mention] and [mention]RiggerTom[/mention] who had to wait this silly amount of time for their votes to bear fruit.

Part Four – Gharharla

The pit itself was around thirty feet wide, nine feet deep, a sheer tub-shaped indentation in the earth. Shana could just make out the pit's single occupant through the excited crowd of dwarves that circled the edge of it.

At the furthest side of the pit stood Pasfina. At some point her tattered shirt had been stripped from her, leaving her upper body clothed only in a plain cream brassiere. Her waist bandage had also been unwound and removed – the wound looked ugly and dark but did not appear to be bleeding. The relic hunter’s arms were hidden behind her back – from the way she was shaking her torso and shoulders, Shana assumed her arms remained bound, though she did not appear to be tied by any other ropes.

Shana then stifled a loud gasp, not that she would have been heard over the hooting crowd. Slithering out from an area of the pit hidden from Shana’s line of sight came an enormous snake. As thick as her calf and at least ten feet long, it boasted a vibrant green skin pocked with blotches of grey and white. It moved slowly, almost sluggishly, towards another side of the pit. Shana watched Pasfina step carefully towards the pit-side directly opposite the beast, her hurried attempts to wriggle her hands free making her breasts bounce around rather ungracefully.

Oddly, the serpent seemed unmoved by the nearby prey, and began to coil itself into a loose spiral. The crowd, however, had other ideas. From the front rows of onlookers came boos, then jeers, then finally a wave of small stones aimed at the snake. Shana gritted her teeth as she watched the stones batter the animal, dealing no real damage but inflicting the desired effect. It reared up into a defensive position, hissing viciously. As the snake’s furious emerald eyes locked onto Pasfina and its jaw stretched open, both of them could see that its once great fangs had been forcibly removed, whittled down to pale stubs.

It began slithering towards Pasfina.

Pil’ru,” cursed Shana, looking around. She had no love for the boorish relic hunter, but with Henesy dead, her only real hope of navigating out of this hole now lay with a serpent’s supper. Even if she felt confident enough to escape alone, the pit and the throng of dwarves were between her and any kind of physical exit, owing to the oppressive mesas of obsidian and dark rock surrounding the dwarves’ hamlet. Far into the magma-lit distance ahead, Shana fancied she could just make out the ornate columns that had flanked the Sykrane Crown’s altar.

Her hand unconsciously thumbed the small horseshoe tucked into her pants pocket, and as she did so, a vague idea coalesced in her mind. Scanning once more around the area, she turned and clambered her way off the roof.

*

A snake. Why did it have to be a snake?

Pasfina sidestepped to the right yet again, her eyes locked on the serpent’s gaze as it swayed carefully in tandem with her movements. Around the pit they went, both dancing to the same ancient steps – the dance of potential prey and actual predator. It was a dance the serpent knew implicitly, genetically. Pasfina’s limited familiarity with the dance came only from her academia – no running, no sudden movement, no fear.

Let the predator sense that the meat holds no risk and become just that – meat.

And so Pasfina stood tall in the shadow of the beast, shoulders back, chest thrust out, back straight, legs poised but not tense, and eyes forward. Behind her back, hidden from the serpent’s gaze, her wrists twisted and her fingers groped, searching for escape from their hempen prison. Another wayward (or perhaps not) rock tossed by the crowd sailed through the air and bounced off her shoulder. She barely felt it - all focus devoted to her leviathanic opponent as the dwarves chanted their champion’s name, their screeches echoing off unseen dimensions.

Gharharla! Gharharla! Gharharla!

As if spurred on by the mob’s support, the beast suddenly dived at her leg like an overwound grappling hook, jaw tall and narrow, but Pasfina was ready. She skipped a half step to the left, pulling her right foot up flush with her hip as it bit at nothing right next to her. Within an instant its head changed course to the right and started to curl behind her left thigh, attempting a quick wraparound, but Pasfina released her taut breath and brought her raised foot down hard onto the snake’s passing coil. A titanic hiss scratched her eardrums. The green skin was thick and unyielding, but the gambit paid off - Gharharla’s head whipped away (lightly spanking Pasfina’s rear along the way) and reared back up in retreat, the offensive abandoned.

Pasfina took no more than a single step away. You might be hungry, Gharharla, but you know now. The meat has spikes.

Gharharla rallied. Its gaze returned, narrow and wary. The dance resumed, but Pasfina could already feel her adrenaline reserves running low, the razors in her mind rusting from the exertions of the day. Her uncovered waist wound was making her whole torso throb. Her hands now hung limp and useless at the base of her spine, unable to squirm free from their bindings. It would only be a matter of time before her concentration slipped. Despite the ubiquitous heat of this place, Pasfina felt her glistening skin grow cold as her subconscious furiously debated whether it would be better to be crushed to death within the snake’s strangling coils or eaten alive and suffocated within its gullet.

There was still one hope, though. Shana. She knew the Word, and with any luck the relic was still with her. There were so many other dots that needed joining, but maybe, just maybe…

Their dance continued for a minute or so more, Pasfina keeping the lethal reptile at bay through sheer projection of will. The crowd noise shifted in timbre, becoming impatient and frantic. A fresh wave of stones peppered Gharharla’s body, and it reacted, advancing on Pasfina and swaying its great head in a wide arc, patrolling all possible escape routes. Pasfina backed her way up until the sheer wall of the pit was a mere two feet from her back.

Then it all happened at once. A massive explosion outside the pit, powerful enough to shake the very stone underfoot, sent dwarves shrieking and scurrying away. The burst of sound from the blast hooked Pasfina attention for only a moment, turning her head to the side in surprise. Gharharla, however, lived in the deep places where the earth shouted all the time. It struck without hesitation.

Gah!” yelled Pasfina as the green serpent clamped its fangless maw around her knee. In a moment of madness, she tried lifting her other leg to stamp on it once more. Gharharla simply heaved its whole body back in response, and with both legs airborne, Pasfina crashed to the stone ground, her full bodyweight landing on her trapped arms.

“Fuuuuuck!” came Pasfina’s agonised outburst as a fresh pulse of pain swept through her muscles. She felt the snake’s grip on her knee tighten, and as her whole body was dragged several feet forward, it was all she could do to stop her shoulders from dislocating as her bound arms, pinned by gravity between spine and stone, were scraped higher and higher up her back from the friction of the passing ground. More and more shrieks and outbursts from the spectators above, combined now with a familiar crackling noise.

The forward motion came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the pit. Pasfina made an aimless, desperate attempt to somehow stand up, but it was too late. The snake thrusted and coiled, spinning Pasfina’s body on a horizontal axis. When the motion was complete, she could feel something heavy and dry wound tight around both thighs, sealing them together. She looked down just in time to see the shining green scales below her hips before her body was violently spun around for a second time. As the spin completed, an impossible mass weighted itself around her waist, pinning her hands to her backside and squeezing her gut towards the underside of her ribcage.

As a second explosion blasted out from above, Pasfina gathered enough sense to take the deepest breath possible before the third spin set in motion. This one birthed another crushing coil around her midriff, almost flush with the second one. As the coils squeezed and set like concrete, her breasts bulged upwards, displaced but mercifully avoiding the snake’s full embrace. Her mind aflame with raw dread, Pasfina channelled every mote of concentration into locking that precious air into her lungs as the fourth spin began. Another coil, this one around her chest, sealed her whole upper body inside the tight snakeskin prison. The next coil slid around her neck, and as it did so, Pasfina felt Gharharla’s forked tongue fondle her cheek like an enthusiastic lover. She shuddered involuntarily, and even this small show of weakness was abused as Gharharla squeezed harder and tighter around her body for every millimetre of space yielded. The coil around her neck was snug, but not quite deathly. Gharharla slithered its face to within an inch or two of Pasfina’s, perhaps a gleam of triumph in its visage. The tongue flickered across her forehead and chin.

The snake’s tail now curled gently around Pasfina's shaking calves, drawing them tightly together and completing the full bind. She was nothing more than meat now, ensnared within a deadly scaled helix. For two hellish minutes the great snake shifted and humped its bulky coils against her defenceless flesh, and with each shifting motion, the constriction around her body somehow increased further, trapping blood flow, putting nerves to sleep, and turning limbs into vestigial, pointless growths. Trapped within her shrinking, writhing, living prison, Pasfina sweated, squirmed and endured for as long as she could. Her solitary breath churned and boiled in her chest. Every sinew tingled sharply. Shifting amoebas of brilliance danced inside her eyes as dizziness infected her brain. She could sense her own bones creaking, like a sinking vessel’s joists suffering under endless ocean pressure. The relic hunter had been in some tight spots before in her life, but never in her most feverish nightmares had she imagined this to be the end of her.

And finally, the last remnants of oxygen in her compacted chest expired into her system, and her body begged for breath denied. She tried to scream, and succeeded for a moment, until the coils rushed to overwhelm what little space her lungs once occupied. She felt her entire ribcage compress around her fragile innards. She couldn’t breathe.

“….eih….” she squeaked through bright red lips. Purple cheeks. Bulging eyes. To be consumed by such panic while so completely immobile was an almost hallucinatory experience for the woman. As a third explosion, somehow even bigger than the previous two, once again trumpeted Pasfina’s doom, her vision suddenly went completely black - a warm and wet sack had pulled itself over the top half of her head. Gharharla had begun feeding.

The coil around Pasfina’s neck opened up in tandem with the snake’s mouth sliding effortlessly down to her bare shoulders, consuming her entire head. Inside the gulping membrane, she could feel her dark hair being plastered against her face by viscous, pungent juices. The walls of the throat seemed to mould perfectly to her every contour like a vacuum seal as it continued its descent over her shoulders and chest, the serpent’s lower coils unravelling just enough to allow progress unimpeded. More of the unspeakable fluid slid down her neck and back. And as Pasfina sank into the merciful freedom of unconsciousness, listening to the muffled noises of an outside world she would never see again, she could feel the snake’s mouth unknowingly peeling her brassiere down as it enveloped her bust, her waist, her arms, her hips….

Black time passed with no beginning. Then. A slap to the face. Light. Blinking digestive sap from her eyelids. Shallow breathing, tingly muscles, weak limbs. Looking up, a girl, a hooded angel for sure, glaring down at her in righteous judgment.

Shana.

“I know you’ve been through a lot, but you need to get up, NOW!” the angel yelled, pulling at Pasfina’s flopping arm. The relic hunter’s heavy head lolled to the side. She saw the great serpent, dead, sliced in twain like a half-opened pea pod, and the deep core within her fired up. She reached up and gripped Shana’s forearm. “You……nnggh…… you actually did it, girl.”

“Stop….calling me……girl!” Shana hissed, channelling the indignation into strength and hauling Pasfina to her feet. “Lean on me if you must, but we need to go!”

Like two drunken partygoers, the women staggered their way to the side of the pit, Pasfina’s arm slung around Shana’s shoulders for support. The dwarven spectators were all gone from the crest of the sunken arena. She could still hear their outcries, but they were much fainter now, as if crowded some distance away. Shana hooked her fingers together next to the pit wall, and Pasfina got the message. Though still trembling and aching from her recent ordeal, she allowed the very real prospect of escape to fuel her muscles, lifting her leg into Shana’s makeshift foothold and launching herself up to the jagged threshold of the pit.

Pasfina sucked breath through teeth as her breasts slid against the rocky edge during the ascent, realising that at some point her bra had been fully ripped away by the snake’s dining habits, or possibly by Shana’s rescue. Once topside, she spun around prone and reached her arm down to Shana, who leaped with impressive agility and caught Pasfina’s wrist. Together they hauled Shana up the side, and once more dragged themselves to their feet.

“Quick, this way!” said Shana, hurrying in the direction of the distant altar of the Sykrane crown where the two had first met. Pasfina looked around instead. Far away in the opposite direction, she could see a towering plume of thick black smoke rising from a raging inferno that seemed to consume an entire block of distant dwarven buildings. Below the smoke, dozens of thronging dwarves running and stumbling to and fro, screeching unknown outbursts. Then she turned to her right, to the large conical dwelling overlooking the pit. Pasfina spotted a familiar dwarven mark carved into the entrance – the mark of an elder - and started running.

Shana turned to check Pasfina was keeping up, and cursed. Not only was Pasfina not keeping up, she was actually running away, towards the stupid phallic house near the pit. Reshouldering the relic hunter’s bag on her back, she hurried towards the house Pasfina had just entered. As she moved to enter…

“Stay out there and keep watch!” came Pasfina’s command. Shana could hear a cacophony of glass breaking and wood cracking inside. “What in the Hells are you doing in there!?” Shana cried, her frustration and fear boiling over for a moment. “We’re going to get caught again!”

“Not if you keep watch.” came the sour reply, followed by the sound of tossed cloth. “Tell me when they start coming back.”. Shana sighed and peered out towards the distant crowd of dwarves. They remained enthralled by the flames consuming a large part of their home, but a few of them were starting to amble aimlessly in different directions. That strange feeling felt on the rooftops returned to Shana, an unshakeable intuition that something, somewhere, was watching her. So distracted was Shana that she almost didn’t notice the lone dwarf emerging from a nearby hovel, a hide-clad female with pinched features. It was only when the female started running full pelt towards Shana that she realised they had been spotted.

“Pas…!” Shana began, before she was bundled over by the relic hunter racing out of the hovel. Shana watched the female come within a height before Pasfina lunged forward and drove something deep into the dwarf’s chest. The female sputtered and collapsed, painting Pasfina’s bare chest with gleaming crimson before slumping to the ground.

Shana righted herself and dragged the blonde hair from her face. She heard a high-pitched call and turned to see several distant dwarves pointing and gnashing at the two of them. “Loir’zhu. Now can we get out of here?”

Pasfina wiped her newly rescued dagger on her pants and turned to Shana, her face without expression. “Not without that crown.”

As Pasfina and Shana flee from their captors through smoke and searing heat, our eye sweeps away from this subterranean theatre and up into the sky, to seek other events unfolding. As we descend and close in on a different stage, we see our new player (please vote):

a) A slim, petite interloper with short red hair, clad in taut black leather and hood, sneaking through the night-time shadows of a stately home in an affluent district of an affluent city. Her name is Keiri, a professional intruder, here to steal the most valuable treasure in this estate – a duke’s daughter…

b) A bikini clad warrior maiden with chaotic jet-black hair and piercing blue eyes, standing tall in the middle of a large circle formed by her hooting, whistling war sisters. Dozens of esoteric tattoos cover her athletic, muscular body as she pads the forest dirt underfoot. Her name is Xatine, and as she sends a murderous stare to her male opponent across the proving ground, she prepares her body for the bout to come…

c) A pert young woman with curly blonde hair and a stunning smile, wearing an immaculate tuxedo replete with spotless white shirt, black bowtie and sequined jacket. Her name is Luci, but here on the hastily constructed stage of her travelling theatre company, in front of a modest crowd of warm applause, she is “The Great Lucibella”, and her act is approaching its finale…

d) A bookish, round-cheeked student, not three days from her nineteenth year. Wearing ill-fitting glasses, dark blue robes that hang off her modest frame and a nervous expression, she hurries down a candlelit stone corridor with reams of parchment clutched in her arms. Her name is Jade, an apprentice of the arcane arts, too busy hurrying to her destination to notice the three girlish figures following her…
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Tapebot
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Post by Tapebot »

A!
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RiggerTom
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Post by RiggerTom »

A
SinfulSloth
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Post by SinfulSloth »

A sounds good
Tenuous
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Post by Tenuous »

I know I'm outvoted, but B.
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Post by Caesar73 »

Just discovered that story! A it is!
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Post by Coaldrone »

Thank you to [mention]Tapebot[/mention] , [mention]RiggerTom[/mention] , [mention]SinfulSloth[/mention] , [mention]Tenuous[/mention] and [mention]Caesar73[/mention] for your votes. You'll be pleased to hear you don't need to wait another year for the next instalment - should get something up within a few days.
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Post by Coaldrone »

Part Five – The Kidnapping of Therese Wrenshaw

My “Lord” Duke Leonar Jukun III,
Your latest correspondence heralds yet another new low for my estimation of you as a vassal of our liege, as a noble, indeed as a man. Not only do you labour under the comic misapprehension that you hold the assets and sway necessary to threaten my estate’s authority, you also labour under a second misapprehension – namely, that the inbred, lover’s-pox-ridden hunchback colony you call your family could ever mistakenly lurch within even a catapult’s distance of the esteem of the GRAET House Wrenshaw. I daresay there should be a new paragraph here but to waste such decorum on pigs would leave me feeling soiled. Your petty quarrel with my son holds as much interest to me as does the urine-soaked straw in the beds of the lepers that rut in the cellars of your Bontir City mews. I tell you this once more and never after - insist upon spreading more of your wicked lies among the court of our liege and I will


Keiri’s eyebrows bumped together in mild disappointment. The cluster of ink spots next to the last word on the paper suggested that the GRAET Duke Wrenshaw was struggling to devise a reprisal horrific enough for his addressee before he passed out drunk over his escritoire. Keiri looked down at the sleeping duke, slumped over his magnum opus. He was a fat man, as if that wasn’t obvious from his writing style. Bushy moustache, ruddy cheeks, and a monocle of all things, his pudgy body stuffed into a spherical dress shirt and funnelled trousers. His breathing was surprisingly gentle, not the clogged huffing she was used to hearing from unconscious men of his build.

Her black-gloved hand whisked the unfinished letter from the oak surface. No signature, no seal, and it’s the handwriting of a drunk, she thought, but it’s got the house letterhead, so you never know. Keiri turned away and looked once more to the gigantic bed on the other side of the bedroom. Duke Wrenshaw’s wife was still fast asleep, huddled at the edge of the bedding like a cold mouse. Keiri drifted to the door and slipped out, unseen, unheard. Her true quarry lay elsewhere this night.

Stained glass and spotless hallways. Tall, polished vases housing beautifully arranged flora. Painstaking portraits of dour men. Towering white buttresses. Bored nightwatchmen on predictable patrols. Keiri drifted past all; a silent, unseen spirit within the stately grounds of House Wrenshaw. Her short, fiery red hair was hidden inside a black hood, her smirking mouth behind a black mask, and her lithe, petite frame within a skin-tight black catsuit. Only her sharp brown eyes were uncovered, and they darted around in an almost chameleonic fashion. Her nickname among acquaintances was Kapsize Keiri, owing to her ability to make most people feel seasick after a few minutes of watching those ceaseless eyeballs spin and twirl, even when not on the job.

Her catsuit had two distinct features. The first, a tight bandolier circling from right shoulder to left hip, attached to which were several tiny flasks filled with a spectrum of different coloured liquids and a single narrow pouch at the hip. The second, a series of twenty or so thin leather straps, buckled taut around her biceps and thighs. Such accessories would seem cumbersome and pointless on an average person, but an average person Keiri was not.

The dark trespasser eventually reached her final guardian – a single male guard in ringmail armour, standing relaxed but alert outside an ornate mahogany door. There was no need for hesitation – Keiri’s eyes and ears had set out her plan long before this moment. She walked, upright, down the plush corridor as if she were Duke Wrenshaw herself. It was not until she was close enough to spit at him that the guard turned his head her way.

As he did so, Keiri’s hand flew from her side, up past her bandolier, and out towards the guard’s head. A single green vial had disappeared from the bandolier as if by magic, and now flew towards the guard’s mouth as his lips rushed to sound the alarm. The vial spilled its green contents directly into his throat before bouncing off his jaw. Keiri slid forward on one knee, catching the falling vial first, then setting her feet as the unconscious guard followed the vial into her waiting arms. She pivoted as if teaching the tango to a clumsy student, bringing the armoured man to rest in a sitting position against the door he was guarding. Barely a clink of metal at any point.

Twelve to thirteen minutes, Keiri idly thought as she opened the door and hauled the comatose guard through the threshold. Entering the room herself, she reached behind her and swiftly closed the door, now safe on the other side.

Through the arched window on the opposite side of the new room, the moon was huge tonight. Its pale glow rested on a four-poster bed containing a single flowing figure beneath the silk sheets. Keiri floated her way to the window and looked out. Four stories below, a vast floral garden decorated with immaculate flagstones, ornamental hedges, and a completely unnecessary number of marble fountains. Beyond that, the imposing outer wall of the Wrenshaw estate. And beyond that, the glimmering surface of Lake Ryone.

Keiri turned back to the occupied bed and removed her hood, her eyes resting into focus for a moment. The sleeping beauty’s face was half-covered by the white sheets, but it was her for sure. Shoulder-length chestnut hair. Full dark lashes that quivered with every breath. Elegant, youthful features. Therese Wrenshaw, nineteen-year-old daughter and only child of the Duke and Duchess of House Wrenshaw, and current quarry of Keiri Quillian - sworn associate of the Guild of Dusk.

With practiced movements, Keiri removed several of the leather straps encircling her arms and placed them on the bedside cabinet. She then leaned carefully over the sleeping woman, gripped the edge of the bedsheet between fingers and thumbs, and began folding it down with the poise and grace of a seasoned chambermaid. As the sheet slowly revealed more of its tenant, Keiri eyes widened slightly. Pert, pink nipples, ripe for the summer harvest as they undulated atop a pair of modest but firm pale dunes. Further down, a pair of slim arms flanked a small waist, an inward bellybutton. And below that, a fertile mound of curled dark hair that boasted evidence of expert manicuring. As Keiri completed the sheet’s grand unveiling of the young woman’s slender body, rendered near colourless by the pallid moonlight, her mind idly recalled the ancient fable of a ghostly siren that spirited away each and every woman in a harbour village, so that no babe would ever be born there again.

Keiri felt a small furnace stoke up behind her face, readying fresh troops of perspiration to lay siege to her forehead and neck. She tried to extinguish it. When that failed miserably, she tried to ignore it. Her right hand made a motion, and a small stiletto was somehow held inside it now. She pulled a tiny purple vial from her bandolier with her left hand, took a very deep breath, and jumped onto the nude form of Lady Wrenshaw.

As their bodies connected and sank into the mattress beneath, Keiri felt her separate limbs fulfil their duties, as though she had fully handed the reins of control to pure flesh and muscle. Her knees landed either side of the girl’s legs and quickly clinched them in a tight grip together. Her left hand moved up and released the purple vial just above Therese’s face, while her right hand dropped the stiletto onto the pillow, practically teleported towards the noble’s face and gripped her lower jaw hard. The sudden pressure on the cheeks popped open her victim’s mouth, allowing the vial to drop through unimpeded.

Therese’s bright blue eyes flew open. Keiri’s right hand abandoned the jaw and grabbed the stiletto again whilst her left hand clamped down onto the noble’s mouth and nose. Now fully alert, the naked young woman struggled mightily beneath Keiri’s weight, as hard and as concerted as any man in her position, though it was surely a dark truth that a much more varied assortment of heinous fates awaited women awoken in the dead of night by such an assailant, and so perhaps the ferocity was understandable.

Therese tried to scream through the black gloved hand, but the purple vial’s esoteric alchemy was already doing its work, and less than a high-pitched mewling emerged. Keiri positioned her arms carefully as the squirming of her quarry increased; her leaning elbows jammed themselves against the arms of the noble at the corresponding elbow joint, pinning Therese’s arms against her own ribs and preventing any notable resistance. Her right hand pressed the blade of the stiletto against Therese’s shoulder near the clavicle bone, creating tiny lacerations with each effort to escape – not enough to damage permanently, but enough to create a subconscious deterrent.

Their creaking, oscillating embrace upon the bed continued for less than a minute, growing more slothful by the second. The vial’s secondary property was taking hold. And when Keiri felt some unknown unit of time expire, she pushed herself off the bed, standing once more as a dark silhouette in the frame of the moon-filled window. Therese Wrenshaw didn’t move or speak. She couldn’t move or speak. She lay on her back, arms by her sides, bare chest heaving and knotted muscles straining against an invisible force of lethargy. Her huge unblinking eyes turned towards Keiri, tears coalescing in the corners.

“It’s a paralysing agent.” began Keiri, who to the terrified woman in the bed, was no more than a pair of brown eyes floating in the dark. “It will only last for a few minutes, although it does have the unpleasant side effect of affecting your eyelids, too. I’m afraid you’ll have to do without blinking for a while, my dear. Your eyes may sting quite a bit until you get used to it.”

Therese made a wet noise in the back of her throat, and her bulging eyes whipped over to gaze at her bedroom door, desperately seeking aid of any kind. Another throat noise, strangled and despairing – Keiri assumed she had noticed the unconscious guard next to the door.

“I’m here to take you away, Therese.” Keiri said. At this, the young noble’s eyes flicked back to her, and Keiri watched, genuinely impressed, as Therese managed to clench her right hand into a slight fist. “It’s important you know that our contractor provided significant recompense to acquire you. Whatever I am to you, Therese, I promise that I am not your murderer, rapist or mutilator.”

Keiri stepped over to the bedside cabinet and scooped up a fistful of the narrow leather straps left there. She closed her eyes for a moment and let the unwelcome yet familiar feeling of regret pass through her.

“I am, however, your abductor.”

Keiri remounted the bed atop the helpless Therese and flipped her onto her stomach. No resistance. She stole a glance at her quarry’s peachy, smooth rump before grabbing Therese’s wrists and bringing them together at the small of her back. In a fluid, practiced motion, Keiri wrapped the first leather strap around Therese’s wrists and buckled it, fastening her hands behind her back. Four more straps were applied – around the thighs, above the knees, below the knees, and around the ankles, each one firmly clasped and fusing the legs tightly together.

“I’m going to strap your elbows now, dear.” Keiri whispered into Therese’s ear. There was no more than a whistling breath in response. “It can be quite uncomfortable depending on your flexibility, but you’re a young thing – it’s unlikely to cause any real pain so long as you relax.”

She gently looped the strap around the arms just above the elbows and started tugging. The elbows came fully together with only a mousy whimper from their owner, and Keiri buckled the strap, her eyes languishing for a moment on the creased skin the strict elbow tie created between Therese’s shoulders. Reaching into her hip pouch, Keiri produced yet another strap, but this one was different. It had a large, waxen black sphere embedded in the centre of it. “I need to put something in your mouth now, Therese.” Keiri whispered. “It will force your jaw open quite a bit, and you’ll have to breathe through your nose, so I suggest you start now.”

As Keiri reached over and began pushing the bulky black ball past Therese’s shaking teeth, she felt her quarry’s body shift beneath her. It was a weak motion, but ever-so present, and it sent alarm bells clanging in Keiri’s head. That’s crazy, it’s wearing off already!? Her mind reeled with possibility – had the Wrenshaws suspected a kidnapping and begun getting their daughter to ingest poisons as an immunity tactic? Or had that rat Gavinn scammed her with his watered-down toxins again? Keiri pushed the ball a little too forcefully past the quivering lips, and as it finally popped fully into Therese’s mouth, there was an unpleasant gagging noise and her body bucked once more, stronger this time. Keiri quickly secured the gag's buckle behind her victim’s head, then reached over for more straps on the side – she had to work quickly.

Crawling to the foot of the bed, Keiri slipped a new strap through Therese’s foot bindings. She used this to haul the naked noble’s feet toward the backs of her thighs, bending her legs at the knees. She barely managed to wind the ends of the loose strap through Therese’s thigh bindings before the noble’s legs, now seemingly free of all paralysis, started kicking against the restraint. Using all her strength and positional advantage, Keiri just about managed to pinch the leather loop closed long enough to lock the buckle in place, permanently folding the writhing woman’s legs in half.

Therese was full-on shrieking now, but the ball gag – at least – was doing its job, the moisture from its captive’s mouth causing it to expand and fill every cavity remaining within her open jaw, rendering her frantic exertions barely audible. But in a moment of complacency, Keiri moved over a little to remove a much longer strap from one of her thighs, and when she turned back, she almost dropped the strap in shock. Therese, tangled in a half dozen secure straps, managed to roll herself over once, twice, towards the far edge of the bed and the waiting hardwood floor below. Keiri dived across the bedding as if shot from a cannon, and somehow managed to reach out and hook a solitary forefinger around the elbow strap, barely stopping her captive from tossing herself to the floor and creating the ruckus that would lead to her rescue.

Grunting and swearing, Keiri dragged the squirming woman back to the centre of the bed. “Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen again.” she growled. Hooking her arm underneath Therese’s chest, she pulled her whole torso off the bed, and with her other hand whipped the long strap underneath. She brought the ends together just under Therese’s shoulder blades and buckled it, the whole strap simply encircling the chest just above the breasts. As she produced yet another lengthy strap, Keiri considered giving her quarry a warning as to what was about to happen. Then she gritted her teeth, fed the new strap through the wrist bindings, and then fed it under the chest harness recently attached.

Keiri completed the loop and started pulling. As the loop shrank, it hauled her poor prisoner’s wrists inexorably towards the chest strap - towards her shoulder blades behind her. In combination with the strict elbow tie, this punishing manoeuvre forced Therese’s arms into an incredibly awkward chickenwing posture. As her bound elbows were slowly pushed higher and higher into the air, the palms of her hands were suddenly forced to separate and spread flat against the flesh of her back as the new distorted angle of her forearms threatened to sprain both her wrists. An elongated wail of fear and discomfort floated beyond the ball gag, almost loud enough to give Keiri pause. Then she tied the loop off, sealing her prisoner’s shaking body into the extremely tight bind.

Keiri sat at the edge of the bed and wiped her forehead with her glove, taking a moment to catch her breath. The young woman behind her twitched and wriggled within her rigid web of straps for a little while, until traditional, non-alchemical exhaustion seeped in. Therese’s outbursts of sweaty panting slowly receded, replaced by lonely, scared sobbing. Keiri’s internal chronometer told her she still had a few minutes grace despite the unforeseen complications, and so she laid on the bed next to her trussed-up quarry like a newlywed partner. Both on their sides, facing each other. Twin rivulets of tears and drool fell from Therese’s eyes and mouth, her eyes blinking rapidly now that the receding toxin had afforded her the luxury once more.

“For a moment I thought you would have me caught there, dear.” whispered Keiri. She reached out and lightly stroked a gloved hand across the noble’s bare hip. Therese’s nasal exhalations intensified, and Keiri fancied she could see a bright red hue forming at her neck. “I’m curious – did your parents used to make you drink things that made you sick?”.

At this, Keiri detected surprise from her helpless captive. The blinking slowed; the breathing became somehow contemplative. Then, a single affirmative nod.

“They were just trying to protect you.” Keiri whispered, and she could not look at Therese as she said those words. “No matter what happens, try to remember that.”

Therese Wrenshaw's entire body shivered in her bonds. She tried to mumble something through her oppressive gag, and Keiri needed no telepathy to understand. Please let me go. Whatever they’re paying, my father can double it. You don’t have to do this. I’m scared. I’ll do anything, just please don’t do this to me. Et cetera.

“I’m sorry, Therese. This is my job, and it’s time for us to go now.”

Keiri stood up off the bed, as her desperate prisoner continued to beg and plead in the language of the gagged. She reached into her hip pouch for a final time, and revealed a small brass fishing hook from within. Unremarkable to the ignorant eye, but then that was the way of all relics, was it not?

(please vote)

a) Keiri uses the strange relic to escape from House Wrenshaw with her captive. She travels with the bound and gagged Therese for a time, but through that, Keiri learns a stunning truth…
b) Keiri uses the strange relic to escape from House Wrenshaw with her captive. She is on her way to her contractors, but is attacked by unknown aggressors, resulting in both her and Therese being captured.
c) Keiri uses the strange relic to escape from House Wrenshaw with Therese, but the relic malfunctions at some point, transferring Therese’s bonds onto Keiri’s body. Far outside the Wrenshaw grounds, Therese interrogates the newly strapped up Keiri about the abduction attempt.
d) As Keiri is preparing to use the relic, someone enters Therese’s bedroom, resulting in Keiri being captured and finding herself at the mercy of the Wrenshaws.
Tenuous
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Post by Tenuous »

I'm voting A.
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Tapebot
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Post by Tapebot »

Also A.
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