Topic [RP-Story] How a Demon Lost Her Voice
Edited by Dolingen on 2/24/13 8:52 AM (PST)
A little general house-keeping. This story will be canonical to Doli's history so feel free to ask her about what happened to her throat since she now wears the mask down around her throat instead of covering her full face whenever you see her at Feather's Tavern. Oh and while the events clearly outlined make full use of her being a lock, she still isn't forward with it in person.
That said, I hope you enjoy as I work on it and comment with critique.
She reached for her neck and felt something tight clinging to it. Her fingers ran over the cool, wet steel. The scratches from something with greater claws than her own leapt to her touch, emphasizing the wet sensation again.
The room suffocated sound and light, but encouraged the dank wetness that came from fresh carrion fodder. There was a small barred window twenty feet above letting in moonlight and Dolingen slithered over to the small pool against the far wall to hold her fingers up to the light.
A thick film clung to her fingers. She sniffed it and smelled iron. She tasted it and her heart sank. The taste of iron, of blood filled her every sense. It became the only sensation, masking the molds and rot. Her pupils widened and a switch flipped in her head. Panicked, she clawed at her neck under the steel collar trying to feel the scar on her throat. To feel its freshness. But it resisted her frenzied advances.
"You should save your energy girl. You still weak."
A blue skinned figure stepped to the edge of the moonlight, but not further. The voice was feminine but harsh. Dolingen tried to speak but no words came. Only pain.
"Save energy. You can no speak. Not no more."
Her eyes bulged and she tried to remember what happened. Remember the moments that led to this predicament. Remember how she got placed in a collar and stripped of her voice. But she couldn’t. The only thing she could remember was how she first got the scar when she was twelve. How an orc from the Redridge Mountains stole into the area surrounding Darkshire and slaughtered her family. How he smiled into his reflection on his blade before he slid it gently across her throat to let her die. Creating a smile that would look like a frown as it reached from the creases of her lips down. How she stumbled to the road with a blood soaked shirt clutched to her throat and fainted as a healer’s caravan rolled past. And finally she remembered the vow she swore at her family’s grave. To avenge with savagery.
That’s why she was here. She tracked the crag-riddened scar plastered orc to his camp and tried to catch him in his sleep since he escaped last time. Missing an eye, but alive.
Dolingen looked up at the figure in the shadows and saw a glimmer of tusk and red hair. Bright and vibrant like fire on a black sky. She wanted to ask questions but couldn’t speak. Her fingers fell from her collar and neck and laid in the sand at her feet where she slumped against the wall. She glanced up again and furiously began to write in the sand for the woman.
“You waste time. I read lips. Talk to me.”
Where are we?
“Near the marsh where blond mage once lived.”
“I don’t know name. Thrall like woman so she has respect.”
Dolingen squinted into the night to distinguish more about the tower to distinguish more about this abandoned tower she found herself imprisoned in, but the light was too sparse and her vision failed. If only she could summon her Eye to view through, but no words would escape her lips.
“You think too much child. You lucky to be alive. Normally, Gor’ek kill the assassins not save for slave trade in Ratchet.”
Slave trade? Fear and panic crept through her veins and under her skin, but as soon as the ripples in her skin appeared they gave way to burning hatred and seething. Dolingen could smell the heat in her hair and on her skin, like a sunburn. Without the voice to pronounce the words, she howled a silent scream of frustrated agony. The heat under her skin intensified and she could feel the purple shadows wrapping around her skin in a warm embrace. Fire in her eyes. She howled again, but this time she mouthed the words that were no longer hers and screamed the phrase in her head.
A voice, familiar but broken, echoed through her head. The brimstone and coiled iron scraping of his words filled her with more hope than ever before.
- Your wish master? -
Lend me your strength to break these bonds.
- As you wish, my lady. -
Edited by Dolingen on 2/24/13 8:51 AM (PST)
The voice faded from her head and rang through her body. Jerked upright, shadows swirled around and collected on her skin building up mass and giving shape to her new form. Wings sprouted from her back. Horns from her head. Hooves from her feet and talons from her fingers.
The collar bent and strained until it broke and she raised a claw to her throat to feel the rough scar. Then Dolingen looked at the troll that hid in the shadows and narrowed her eyes. The moldy dankness growing more intense as flames began to rise up her legs and spread out from her body. She gestured for the troll to follow her as she began to punch the heating and weakening stone. Each punch bore the demonic force now embued into her own flesh. Each punch bore the frustration and anger of being in this situation. Each damaging, punishing blow that reveal moonlight bore the decade of pent up grief awaiting exercising.
She cackled into the night air, free with a taste for blood on her lips and the laughter rang out from the tower. It wasn’t hers, but the brimstone, rust of her form. It wouldn’t last but it was enough for now.
Summon forth my pup, Norloth. And her demon presence obeyed, scribing runes into the earth and calling out to the fel creature. His spines sticking up in attention, breathing the air and collecting information about the surrounding region. As the demon receded into the shadows again, the pup sat by her feet and awaited her command. She smiled, licked her lips, and flashed her canines to the hound.
Find him. Sniff him out of his hidey hole. Tonight we send him to the wastes of time that he belongs to.
The hound jumped, jaw wide, grinning. The spines standing up again tasting the air for an orc, who had already died and needed to be told.