Kleptomaniac1
TMF Regular
- Joined
- Apr 1, 2004
- Messages
- 158
- Points
- 0
Warning: Some violence and nudity. All characters are of legal age.
Author's Note: For sake of story, not everything is 100% accurate to the Warcraft universe. In fact, while I did play Warcraft 3, I really only remember the lore and geography from World of Warcraft. If you're a stickler for perfect details, well... too bad! Pffffbtt! By the way, did you know how annoying it is to run spellcheck if you've typed out someone's laughter?
The Abyssals – Part 1
Ashenvale. A sprawling, lush forest nestled in the heart of Kalimdor. Populated by old ruins and a wide assortment of creatures, the area thrived under the watchful, caring hands of the Night Elves. The morning sun's cast through cracks in the canopy, causing little pools of light sporadically around the area. It was paradise.
It was also boring.
A figure sprinted through the thick foliage on the forest floor, dancing effortlessly around any obstacles that stood in her way. Leaves brushed harmlessly against her amethyst-colored skin and leather jerkin.
Booted feet guided her up a leaning, dead tree before she halted and perched herself delicately at the very top. Gloved fingers brushed a few rebel strands of white hair out of her face as silver eyes scanned into the distance. Even her tall, tapered ears were poised to catch the whisper of even the quietest mouse.
Nothing.
She let out a deep and relaxed her shoulders. “This is a wild goose chase...”
“I don't care if it turns out to be a wild goose chase, I want you to head south and check along the border of Ashenvale and Horde Territory,” Coruon bellowed at Winterstrike. Several traders in discussion at the nearby fountain glanced their way. All it took was one look from the druid to cause them to return to their quiet discussion.
Winterstrike rolled her eyes. Rather than respond immediately, she let Coruon stew in his anger longer while she stretched herself out further upon the stone bench. Her fingertips traced an invisible path along the surface of the small pond.
Finally, she responded, “As a Nightwatcher, you know I would gladly scout the borders for any incursions, and deal with any threats, but this,” she sat up and turned to stare at him intently, “Looking for a Priestess who's probably just sneaking off with her lover does not interest me nor concern me!” She laid back down, turning her head away from the druid.
If Coruon's face weren't already purple, it would've been that shade at that moment due to his anger. He practically sputtered as he stepped in closer and continued to berate her. “Now see here! Tyrande is asking for all spare forces to search for our missing ones when there is no larger threats. Do you dare disobey an order from the High Priestess herself?!”
“When our efforts could be put to better uses, then yes, I do,” Winterstrike said calmly.
“Bah!” cried out Coruon, and in frustration he threw his arms down, however a peculiar thing happened. The ceremonial feathers on his bracers happened to brush up against a patch of bare skin upon the Nightwatcher's lower back as he moved. In an instant, she squealed and shot up to her feet, both ands clutching the area her blouse had failed to conceal. Coruon stared at her in a mixture of confusion, bewilderment, and interest.
As a smirk began to grow on the druid's face, Winterstrike leaned in until their faces were only inches apart. “Fine! I'll go! ...And don't you dare touch me ever again.”
The night elf brushed over the jerkin where her blouse had failed to conceal the previous day. Coruon was the last man she wanted knowing about her childish weakness. She prided herself on being stoic even in the face of danger, not by someone who could so easily break down into-
A distant, high-pitched giggle reached her ears.
“...Laughter?” muttered Winterstrike, brows furrowed. She braced herself on the log and leaned forward, straining to listen.
There it was again. A distant giggle.
The Nightwatcher was about to pass it off as two lovers learning each other's bodies when she quickly remembered where she was. No couples would dare venture so far south. Though the Alliance held a loose Non-Aggression Pact with the Horde, there were always small incursion parties who decided to break the rules for “honor” and “glory.”
She leapt off the log to the forest floor and took off in a sprint the moment her toes landed. Every few seconds she stopped in her tracks, poised, listening for another squeal or giggle to help guide her in the right direction.
As she grew closer, the laughter grew louder, and louder, and took on a distinctively desperate tone... when it suddenly ceased. However, there were now other voices that Winterstrike could hear. Ones which she recognized as a language that could strike fear and anger into many of her kindred.
Orcish voices.
Winterstrike dropped to one knee by a cluster of bushes and carefully peeked around the side, but what she saw nearly caused her to attack right then and there.
There were two Orcs, and they were hard to miss. All of their kind, even the youngest ones, possessed powerful muscles and greenish skin. They appeared lightly-armored in leather. Their crossbows laid near the edge of the small clearing beside several slain Faerie dragons; creatures which resembled dragons with certain fairy attributes, thus the name. They were hunters seeking to gain rare materials. But, while that alone would enrage her, it was what laid beneath them which truly caused her blood to boil.
Pinned under their combined weight was a young night elf. Her pure-white gown, which signified her as a priestess of Elune, shredded to a point that it barely covered her at all. One Orc was situated on her arms, the other on her thighs, forcing her stretched out on the ground. Her bare chest rose with heavy breaths, lavender skin tinged with red as though she were exerting herself.
Winterstrike's anger gave way to confusion. She heard laughter, not screams for help. Her questions were soon to be answered.
“Gul'nath regas, aaz,” said the Orc on her arms, grinning up to his comrade. He held his grubby hands in the air and slowly lowered them towards the priestess, thick fingers wiggling. “Taykelz taykelz...”
The priestess shook her head weakly, vibrant blue hair matted to her forehead with sweat. “No.. please.. no more! J-Just let me go! No! Stay away! Not there agaahaahahaaaain!” Pleas gave way to frenzied laughter as the Orc's fingertips scratched along her unprotected underarms.
Winterstrike didn't know whether she should have been upset or relieved. Generally, any of their kind caught by poachers or raiders suffered far worse fates. On the other hand, the priestess seemed to have been going out of her mind. Her hair was whipping wildly as her musical laughter filled the forest.
“Stahahahahaap eeheheeeit! Ahahaha'm dieeheheeng! Heeeeheheeeeheee!” The second Orc seemed that he couldn't resist and joined the fray, his hands grabbing a hold of the young woman's sides and squeezing them randomly. Her back arched slightly and she screamed before collapsing into a more frenzied, hysterical state. “NOOOHOHOAAAHAAAHAAHAAAA!”
Hold on, priestess, Winterstrike thought to herself, watching carefully. She wanted to run out and stop her suffering quickly, but a Nightwatcher was not rash. She needed to make sure that they were not part of a larger party that could return any moment, or else they would both be captured. And she would've rather taken an execution than this kind of fate.
Her line of thought was broken when the priestess's laughter died down again, reduced to deep breaths for much-needed oxygen. The Orcs were apparently enjoying turning her into a screaming mess at random moments, rather than driving her insane all at once.
“Please...” panted the priestess, “...take me prisoner... kill me... just no more. I can't... take anymore... someone... anyone...!”
“Mog thrak, zug?” spoke the Orc on her thighs before he reached up into the quiver on his back and withdrew a crossbow bolt. He turned it so that the feathered end was pointing down and lowered it towards the priestess, but at a pace so slow she would clearly see it coming and be helpless to stop it.
If there's one thing that holds true for Orcs, it's that they're cruel, even with tickling, noted Winterstrike.
The priestess squirmed weakly, wide silver eyes staring at the feathers as they lowered. “Please, not... no! Not there! Anywhere but there!” The Orc, either not understanding her or not caring, continue to lower it, until finally he flicked the wispy tips along the tip of one of her nipples. The results were explosive.
“HeeeeEEEEHEEHEHEEEEHEHEEE!! STAAAAHAAAAHAHAAAAAP!” With newfound strength, the priestess howled with laughter as her sensitive nipple was teased by the feathers. The Orc on her arms, following example, retrieved one of his own bolts and quickly applied the feathered end to her unattended nipple. With both being tortured, she shrieked like a banshee. A thin trickle of tears escaped out of the corners of her eyes. “AAAHAAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAAHAAAAAAA!”
The Nightwatcher had enough. If she waited until they were finished, the priestess would no longer be sane at the end. Her hands dropped to the two daggers sheathed at the back of her belt...
Harg'thos grinned. Though he would've preferred if they brought the young night elf back with them and sell her, this torture was just as preferable. Able to turn her into a screaming mess and leave no proof to be traced back to them.
As he twirled the bolt in his fingers, making sure to trace it around the edges of her vulnerable nipple, he noted that it had stiffened.
Hah, he thought to himself, not as pure as they claim to be!
The priestess's laughter was beginning to turn hoarse as they continued their efforts, but it covered up the approach of their watcher. It wasn't until he caught movement out of the corner of his eye did he turn his head.
Just in time to watch a dagger pierce his head between the eyes.
The dagger had been thrown with the skill that only a Nightwatcher could achieve. Before the second Orc could realize what had happened, Winterstrike was behind him. In one swift movement she grabbed the beast's topknot and forced his head back while her dagger sliced across the front of his exposed neck, spraying the grass, and subsequently the tortured night elf, with black blood.
Only the sound of the priestess's heavy breathing remained.
Winterstrike released the Orc, letting his lifeless body slump to the side. She sheathed her dagger and dropped to one knee beside the other, shoving it off of the night elf. “Come. There may be more. We have to move quickly,” she whispered.
“Book,” the priestess panted. One arm raised, pointing towards the poached faerie dragons. “Must show... Tyrande...”
Winterstrike looked over with a puzzled expression. A book? She was expecting the priestess to be begging to be carried back, not worried over some writing. Not wanting to get into an argument when time could be against them, she strode over to the slain animals and leaned over.
Half-hidden under a torn wing laid a thin leather-bound tome. It was the odd symbol in the center which grabbed her attention, however. While the symbol itself meant nothing to her, there were bits of writing along the edges of the circular design, and though she couldn't decipher them, Winterstrike recognized the designs. Very similar to the ones found in the ancient ruins near the coasts of Azshara.
The language of the Highborne: Thalassian.
Incomplete tablets were considered highly-valued artifacts. Just a few, complete pages from a tome were priceless. She snatched up the book and hurried back to the priestess, whom was weakly regaining her footing. Placing an arm around the recuperating night elf, Winterstrike helped guide her north back towards Darnassus.
They call it forgotten, ruined, cursed, grimy, slimy, smelly, evil, and even just fashionably atrocious.
Most was true, but it was still her home.
Undercity. Capital of the Forsaken.
The city laid underneath ruins of the city of Lordaeron, primarily in the sewers. Though much had been cleared out and expanded, and the city itself split into four quadrants for ease of travel, putrid waters still ran in small streams throughout the area.
Khazdumarr was walking casually through the central hub of the trading distract, though her path was leading towards one of the outer quadrants: the Magic quarter.
Her black and gray robes swished with each step, and knotted purple hair hung to her shoulders. She could've been considered a very attractive woman... if one looked past her cold, clammy skin, her bones peeking out through small tears in her clothing, and her right eye which had been clawed out of its socket.
Though all the magic users generally gathered around the small, multi-level temple constructed within the heart of the quarter, her destination was to a shallow pit off to the side. Already a crowd of Undercity's denizens had begun to gather around it, though upon her arrival they diverted and allowed her through.
Circled around the pit were half-a-dozen magic users, garbed in the same robes as Khazdumarr, however one wore the skull of a demon upon his head. The skull of a Felhound, to be precise, a magic users worst enemy.
He offered a grin to the Warlock's arrival. “Are you prepared, my apprentice?” he queried.
Khazdumarr nodded.
The six Warlocks surrounding the ring held their arms out to the sides. Too far apart to touch one another, but that was not their goal. The chanting began low, and the one with the skull spoke up, his deep, gravely voice far above the other noises.
“Fellow wielders of the dark arts, veterans of our Lady, drunken fools... today is a special occasion. Many of those attuned to the magic of this world take an interest with the demons of the other realm. Very few make it this far.”
He paused for a moment to look around. The crowd had grown even more and had moved closer.
“Some are fooled by the small stature of the Imp and end up eaten alive in their sleep. Those who can break the Imp are then usually stabbed in the back by their Voidwalker, whom will refuse to listen in the most dire of situations. Only those who have shown skill, intelligence, and have a death wish... or were masochists in their past life...”
Laughter fluttered amongst the crowd.
“...Dare to attempt to control a Succubus. Khazdumarr has shown aptitude and the necessary skills to do such.”
The chanting from the Warlocks grew louder. Runes that were once invisible began to light up in the pit, forming odd shapes and patterns.
“Unlike the lesser demons which can be simply beaten into submission, the Succubus must swear loyalty to the summoner. It is an ancient Fel law set in place from when Archimonde first invaded these lands. The only question is, can Khazdumarr complete such a daunting task before she is ripped asunder?”
Khazdumarr rolled her one eye. “I am glad you hold such high hopes for me, Alexandros.”
Alexandros grinned broadly, and responded, “You've already died once. What's another time?”
As the runes lit up, casting a reddish glow in the surrounding area, the shimmer of an arcane barrier formed a dome over the top of the pit.
Suddenly, a ring of lights formed directly before Khazdumarr, and in the center shimmered the image of the other realm. Some would call it hell itself. Pillars of fire, flowing volcanoes, and chunks of land that refused to obey gravity. Staring into the portal was believed to rip the sanity from anyone curious enough to look. With a brief hiss of steam, a slender figure began to rise out from the image.
First came her long horns, then her shoulder-length black hair which framed her beautiful pale pink face. A leather bustier pushed up two large globes of flesh. A short tail hung out from the back of her leather thong, and while she was an example of pure beauty, the image was marred by a pair of goat-like legs which started at her knees and ended at her hooves.
Once she fully exited the portal, it closed behind her. Her glowing blue eyes opened and settled on the robed Warlock before her.
“By the way,” Alexandros continued, “There was a betting pool about your outcome. Most of the bets were placed on your head being ripped off within the first five minutes. I felt it wouldn't happen until at least seven minutes. Prove them wrong for me, shall you?”
Khazdumarr shot a look at him, gritting her teeth slightly, though she looked back down when the Succubus let out a giggle. Her voice was as smooth as velvet, able to turn even the most steadfast men and women into a sexual frenzy.
“Silly mortal, if you wanted to die, then it would have been much less painful to stab yourself in the heart!”
She turned one hand over to examine her nails. Though short and painted black, they began to extend, up until they were nearly six inches in length. The edges shone from the light of the runes.
“But at least now I get to have a meal before I return!”
The succubus lunged forward, nails swiping downward for the Warlock, but it appeared she had been expecting that. Khazdumarr dashed forward and to the side, ducking under her arms, and spun around. Her hands shot forward and grabbed onto the Succubus's hips, giving them a squeeze.
The sound that emitted was so sensual and surprising, most of the male onlookers didn't know whether to gasp or drop to their knees in pleasure.
“Aaaieeeheeheeeheeee!” squealed the succubus, and dropped to her knees, clamping her arms down over her sides. Unfortunately, it only pinned the Warlock's hands in place, and she continued to squeeze rapidly. Peals of laughter poured out from the demon, her hair whipping about as she shook her head.
“Naahahahahaaaat fahahahaaair! Noohohoohooo!”
Khazdumarr could only grin, and pushing slightly as she kept squeezing, forced the Succubus onto her stomach. She quickly straddled the demon's waist to keep her on the ground.
“Swear that you'll serve me and I'll stop!”
“NEEEVEEEHEHEHERRR aaaaahaaahahaaaa!”
“Suit yourself,” cooed the Warlock. She forced her hands underneath the Succubus and against her stomach, wriggling ten fingers into her supple skin. The Succubus shrieked, but with the Warlock on top, she couldn't pull away. One of her hands slapped the ground while her hooves kicked helplessly behind her.
“STAHAHAHAP OHOHOR AHAHAHAHA'LL SWAHAHAHALLOHOOW YOHOHOUR SOOHOHOOOUL!”
Her fingers poked and prodded along the edges of her stomach before sliding back underneath, wriggling those tickly digits closer and closer towards the center. Suddenly, she slipped a lone finger into her navel and wiggled it about. The Succubus howled and bucked, but she couldn't dislodge the woman.
“Tickle tickle, little Succubus... will you serve me?”
“EEEHEHEEEHEEAHAAAA! GAAHAHAAHAHAAD NOOHOHOOOO!”
Khazdummar grinned mischievously. She leaned down until her lips were nearly brushing the demon's ear and said, “You know what? Perhaps I should lose! After all, if you kill me, then my fellow Warlocks will avenge me and bind you, and let everyone have a chance at what I'm doing now. Wouldn't you like that? Tickled forever...” she quickly wiggled her finger in her navel again to accentuate the point. “...and ever...”
The demon's eyes flew wide as a fresh burst of laughter shot forth. “PLEEHEHEEEEASEE NOOOHOHOOO!! OKAAHAHAAY!! AHAHA'LL DOOHOO EHEHET!
Khazdumarr sat back, calmly responding, “You'll do what? Say it!”
“AAAAHAHAHAAAAHAAAHAAAA!” was all the succubus could shout in response as the Warlock never let up.
“SAY IT!” Khazdumarr shouted over her laughter.
“AHAAIEEEHEE SWEEHEEAR TOHOOO SEHEHEEERVE YOHOOOHOOOU!!”
For good measure, the Warlock didn't stop wiggling her finger for a few more seconds before she ceased. Bracing her palms on the ground, she quickly stood up and brushed off her hands, her eye rising up to the ring of Warlocks.
Some looked amused, others looked just plain confused. They didn't matter. She was only interested in Alexandros, who at the moment wore an emotionless expression on his face. He took a step closer to the edge of the pit and cleared his throat.
“Khazdumarr.. has passed the test.”
The crowd erupted into cheers. Good entertainment was hard to come by. Good entertainment where no one died was even harder. Once the barrier covering the pit faded away, Khazdumarr turned and stepped out, leaving the panting Succubus to recuperate Alexandros moved to the Warlock as she came closer to him.
“You made me lose five gold coins.” Khazdumarr glared at him, and he quickly added, “But it was worth it. Will you join us in our celebration tonight over your achievement?”
Khazdumarr shook her head and replied, “I must decline. I need to leave immediately with my new... 'weapon.' There is something important I'm seeking.”
“Passing up free drinks? How very unlike you,” he bemused, raising a brow. “Tell me, what is it that's captivated my pupil's attention?”
Khazdumarr glanced back into the pit. The Succubus was slowly getting back up onto her feet. Her once confident, mischievous look had been replaced by defeated expression. The Warlock looked back to Alexandros, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“...Have you ever heard of the Abyssals?”
(To be continued...)
Author's Note: For sake of story, not everything is 100% accurate to the Warcraft universe. In fact, while I did play Warcraft 3, I really only remember the lore and geography from World of Warcraft. If you're a stickler for perfect details, well... too bad! Pffffbtt! By the way, did you know how annoying it is to run spellcheck if you've typed out someone's laughter?
The Abyssals – Part 1
Ashenvale. A sprawling, lush forest nestled in the heart of Kalimdor. Populated by old ruins and a wide assortment of creatures, the area thrived under the watchful, caring hands of the Night Elves. The morning sun's cast through cracks in the canopy, causing little pools of light sporadically around the area. It was paradise.
It was also boring.
A figure sprinted through the thick foliage on the forest floor, dancing effortlessly around any obstacles that stood in her way. Leaves brushed harmlessly against her amethyst-colored skin and leather jerkin.
Booted feet guided her up a leaning, dead tree before she halted and perched herself delicately at the very top. Gloved fingers brushed a few rebel strands of white hair out of her face as silver eyes scanned into the distance. Even her tall, tapered ears were poised to catch the whisper of even the quietest mouse.
Nothing.
She let out a deep and relaxed her shoulders. “This is a wild goose chase...”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
“I don't care if it turns out to be a wild goose chase, I want you to head south and check along the border of Ashenvale and Horde Territory,” Coruon bellowed at Winterstrike. Several traders in discussion at the nearby fountain glanced their way. All it took was one look from the druid to cause them to return to their quiet discussion.
Winterstrike rolled her eyes. Rather than respond immediately, she let Coruon stew in his anger longer while she stretched herself out further upon the stone bench. Her fingertips traced an invisible path along the surface of the small pond.
Finally, she responded, “As a Nightwatcher, you know I would gladly scout the borders for any incursions, and deal with any threats, but this,” she sat up and turned to stare at him intently, “Looking for a Priestess who's probably just sneaking off with her lover does not interest me nor concern me!” She laid back down, turning her head away from the druid.
If Coruon's face weren't already purple, it would've been that shade at that moment due to his anger. He practically sputtered as he stepped in closer and continued to berate her. “Now see here! Tyrande is asking for all spare forces to search for our missing ones when there is no larger threats. Do you dare disobey an order from the High Priestess herself?!”
“When our efforts could be put to better uses, then yes, I do,” Winterstrike said calmly.
“Bah!” cried out Coruon, and in frustration he threw his arms down, however a peculiar thing happened. The ceremonial feathers on his bracers happened to brush up against a patch of bare skin upon the Nightwatcher's lower back as he moved. In an instant, she squealed and shot up to her feet, both ands clutching the area her blouse had failed to conceal. Coruon stared at her in a mixture of confusion, bewilderment, and interest.
As a smirk began to grow on the druid's face, Winterstrike leaned in until their faces were only inches apart. “Fine! I'll go! ...And don't you dare touch me ever again.”
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The night elf brushed over the jerkin where her blouse had failed to conceal the previous day. Coruon was the last man she wanted knowing about her childish weakness. She prided herself on being stoic even in the face of danger, not by someone who could so easily break down into-
A distant, high-pitched giggle reached her ears.
“...Laughter?” muttered Winterstrike, brows furrowed. She braced herself on the log and leaned forward, straining to listen.
There it was again. A distant giggle.
The Nightwatcher was about to pass it off as two lovers learning each other's bodies when she quickly remembered where she was. No couples would dare venture so far south. Though the Alliance held a loose Non-Aggression Pact with the Horde, there were always small incursion parties who decided to break the rules for “honor” and “glory.”
She leapt off the log to the forest floor and took off in a sprint the moment her toes landed. Every few seconds she stopped in her tracks, poised, listening for another squeal or giggle to help guide her in the right direction.
As she grew closer, the laughter grew louder, and louder, and took on a distinctively desperate tone... when it suddenly ceased. However, there were now other voices that Winterstrike could hear. Ones which she recognized as a language that could strike fear and anger into many of her kindred.
Orcish voices.
Winterstrike dropped to one knee by a cluster of bushes and carefully peeked around the side, but what she saw nearly caused her to attack right then and there.
There were two Orcs, and they were hard to miss. All of their kind, even the youngest ones, possessed powerful muscles and greenish skin. They appeared lightly-armored in leather. Their crossbows laid near the edge of the small clearing beside several slain Faerie dragons; creatures which resembled dragons with certain fairy attributes, thus the name. They were hunters seeking to gain rare materials. But, while that alone would enrage her, it was what laid beneath them which truly caused her blood to boil.
Pinned under their combined weight was a young night elf. Her pure-white gown, which signified her as a priestess of Elune, shredded to a point that it barely covered her at all. One Orc was situated on her arms, the other on her thighs, forcing her stretched out on the ground. Her bare chest rose with heavy breaths, lavender skin tinged with red as though she were exerting herself.
Winterstrike's anger gave way to confusion. She heard laughter, not screams for help. Her questions were soon to be answered.
“Gul'nath regas, aaz,” said the Orc on her arms, grinning up to his comrade. He held his grubby hands in the air and slowly lowered them towards the priestess, thick fingers wiggling. “Taykelz taykelz...”
The priestess shook her head weakly, vibrant blue hair matted to her forehead with sweat. “No.. please.. no more! J-Just let me go! No! Stay away! Not there agaahaahahaaaain!” Pleas gave way to frenzied laughter as the Orc's fingertips scratched along her unprotected underarms.
Winterstrike didn't know whether she should have been upset or relieved. Generally, any of their kind caught by poachers or raiders suffered far worse fates. On the other hand, the priestess seemed to have been going out of her mind. Her hair was whipping wildly as her musical laughter filled the forest.
“Stahahahahaap eeheheeeit! Ahahaha'm dieeheheeng! Heeeeheheeeeheee!” The second Orc seemed that he couldn't resist and joined the fray, his hands grabbing a hold of the young woman's sides and squeezing them randomly. Her back arched slightly and she screamed before collapsing into a more frenzied, hysterical state. “NOOOHOHOAAAHAAAHAAHAAAA!”
Hold on, priestess, Winterstrike thought to herself, watching carefully. She wanted to run out and stop her suffering quickly, but a Nightwatcher was not rash. She needed to make sure that they were not part of a larger party that could return any moment, or else they would both be captured. And she would've rather taken an execution than this kind of fate.
Her line of thought was broken when the priestess's laughter died down again, reduced to deep breaths for much-needed oxygen. The Orcs were apparently enjoying turning her into a screaming mess at random moments, rather than driving her insane all at once.
“Please...” panted the priestess, “...take me prisoner... kill me... just no more. I can't... take anymore... someone... anyone...!”
“Mog thrak, zug?” spoke the Orc on her thighs before he reached up into the quiver on his back and withdrew a crossbow bolt. He turned it so that the feathered end was pointing down and lowered it towards the priestess, but at a pace so slow she would clearly see it coming and be helpless to stop it.
If there's one thing that holds true for Orcs, it's that they're cruel, even with tickling, noted Winterstrike.
The priestess squirmed weakly, wide silver eyes staring at the feathers as they lowered. “Please, not... no! Not there! Anywhere but there!” The Orc, either not understanding her or not caring, continue to lower it, until finally he flicked the wispy tips along the tip of one of her nipples. The results were explosive.
“HeeeeEEEEHEEHEHEEEEHEHEEE!! STAAAAHAAAAHAHAAAAAP!” With newfound strength, the priestess howled with laughter as her sensitive nipple was teased by the feathers. The Orc on her arms, following example, retrieved one of his own bolts and quickly applied the feathered end to her unattended nipple. With both being tortured, she shrieked like a banshee. A thin trickle of tears escaped out of the corners of her eyes. “AAAHAAAAHAAAHAAAHAAAAHAAAAAAA!”
The Nightwatcher had enough. If she waited until they were finished, the priestess would no longer be sane at the end. Her hands dropped to the two daggers sheathed at the back of her belt...
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Harg'thos grinned. Though he would've preferred if they brought the young night elf back with them and sell her, this torture was just as preferable. Able to turn her into a screaming mess and leave no proof to be traced back to them.
As he twirled the bolt in his fingers, making sure to trace it around the edges of her vulnerable nipple, he noted that it had stiffened.
Hah, he thought to himself, not as pure as they claim to be!
The priestess's laughter was beginning to turn hoarse as they continued their efforts, but it covered up the approach of their watcher. It wasn't until he caught movement out of the corner of his eye did he turn his head.
Just in time to watch a dagger pierce his head between the eyes.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
The dagger had been thrown with the skill that only a Nightwatcher could achieve. Before the second Orc could realize what had happened, Winterstrike was behind him. In one swift movement she grabbed the beast's topknot and forced his head back while her dagger sliced across the front of his exposed neck, spraying the grass, and subsequently the tortured night elf, with black blood.
Only the sound of the priestess's heavy breathing remained.
Winterstrike released the Orc, letting his lifeless body slump to the side. She sheathed her dagger and dropped to one knee beside the other, shoving it off of the night elf. “Come. There may be more. We have to move quickly,” she whispered.
“Book,” the priestess panted. One arm raised, pointing towards the poached faerie dragons. “Must show... Tyrande...”
Winterstrike looked over with a puzzled expression. A book? She was expecting the priestess to be begging to be carried back, not worried over some writing. Not wanting to get into an argument when time could be against them, she strode over to the slain animals and leaned over.
Half-hidden under a torn wing laid a thin leather-bound tome. It was the odd symbol in the center which grabbed her attention, however. While the symbol itself meant nothing to her, there were bits of writing along the edges of the circular design, and though she couldn't decipher them, Winterstrike recognized the designs. Very similar to the ones found in the ancient ruins near the coasts of Azshara.
The language of the Highborne: Thalassian.
Incomplete tablets were considered highly-valued artifacts. Just a few, complete pages from a tome were priceless. She snatched up the book and hurried back to the priestess, whom was weakly regaining her footing. Placing an arm around the recuperating night elf, Winterstrike helped guide her north back towards Darnassus.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
They call it forgotten, ruined, cursed, grimy, slimy, smelly, evil, and even just fashionably atrocious.
Most was true, but it was still her home.
Undercity. Capital of the Forsaken.
The city laid underneath ruins of the city of Lordaeron, primarily in the sewers. Though much had been cleared out and expanded, and the city itself split into four quadrants for ease of travel, putrid waters still ran in small streams throughout the area.
Khazdumarr was walking casually through the central hub of the trading distract, though her path was leading towards one of the outer quadrants: the Magic quarter.
Her black and gray robes swished with each step, and knotted purple hair hung to her shoulders. She could've been considered a very attractive woman... if one looked past her cold, clammy skin, her bones peeking out through small tears in her clothing, and her right eye which had been clawed out of its socket.
Though all the magic users generally gathered around the small, multi-level temple constructed within the heart of the quarter, her destination was to a shallow pit off to the side. Already a crowd of Undercity's denizens had begun to gather around it, though upon her arrival they diverted and allowed her through.
Circled around the pit were half-a-dozen magic users, garbed in the same robes as Khazdumarr, however one wore the skull of a demon upon his head. The skull of a Felhound, to be precise, a magic users worst enemy.
He offered a grin to the Warlock's arrival. “Are you prepared, my apprentice?” he queried.
Khazdumarr nodded.
The six Warlocks surrounding the ring held their arms out to the sides. Too far apart to touch one another, but that was not their goal. The chanting began low, and the one with the skull spoke up, his deep, gravely voice far above the other noises.
“Fellow wielders of the dark arts, veterans of our Lady, drunken fools... today is a special occasion. Many of those attuned to the magic of this world take an interest with the demons of the other realm. Very few make it this far.”
He paused for a moment to look around. The crowd had grown even more and had moved closer.
“Some are fooled by the small stature of the Imp and end up eaten alive in their sleep. Those who can break the Imp are then usually stabbed in the back by their Voidwalker, whom will refuse to listen in the most dire of situations. Only those who have shown skill, intelligence, and have a death wish... or were masochists in their past life...”
Laughter fluttered amongst the crowd.
“...Dare to attempt to control a Succubus. Khazdumarr has shown aptitude and the necessary skills to do such.”
The chanting from the Warlocks grew louder. Runes that were once invisible began to light up in the pit, forming odd shapes and patterns.
“Unlike the lesser demons which can be simply beaten into submission, the Succubus must swear loyalty to the summoner. It is an ancient Fel law set in place from when Archimonde first invaded these lands. The only question is, can Khazdumarr complete such a daunting task before she is ripped asunder?”
Khazdumarr rolled her one eye. “I am glad you hold such high hopes for me, Alexandros.”
Alexandros grinned broadly, and responded, “You've already died once. What's another time?”
As the runes lit up, casting a reddish glow in the surrounding area, the shimmer of an arcane barrier formed a dome over the top of the pit.
Suddenly, a ring of lights formed directly before Khazdumarr, and in the center shimmered the image of the other realm. Some would call it hell itself. Pillars of fire, flowing volcanoes, and chunks of land that refused to obey gravity. Staring into the portal was believed to rip the sanity from anyone curious enough to look. With a brief hiss of steam, a slender figure began to rise out from the image.
First came her long horns, then her shoulder-length black hair which framed her beautiful pale pink face. A leather bustier pushed up two large globes of flesh. A short tail hung out from the back of her leather thong, and while she was an example of pure beauty, the image was marred by a pair of goat-like legs which started at her knees and ended at her hooves.
Once she fully exited the portal, it closed behind her. Her glowing blue eyes opened and settled on the robed Warlock before her.
“By the way,” Alexandros continued, “There was a betting pool about your outcome. Most of the bets were placed on your head being ripped off within the first five minutes. I felt it wouldn't happen until at least seven minutes. Prove them wrong for me, shall you?”
Khazdumarr shot a look at him, gritting her teeth slightly, though she looked back down when the Succubus let out a giggle. Her voice was as smooth as velvet, able to turn even the most steadfast men and women into a sexual frenzy.
“Silly mortal, if you wanted to die, then it would have been much less painful to stab yourself in the heart!”
She turned one hand over to examine her nails. Though short and painted black, they began to extend, up until they were nearly six inches in length. The edges shone from the light of the runes.
“But at least now I get to have a meal before I return!”
The succubus lunged forward, nails swiping downward for the Warlock, but it appeared she had been expecting that. Khazdumarr dashed forward and to the side, ducking under her arms, and spun around. Her hands shot forward and grabbed onto the Succubus's hips, giving them a squeeze.
The sound that emitted was so sensual and surprising, most of the male onlookers didn't know whether to gasp or drop to their knees in pleasure.
“Aaaieeeheeheeeheeee!” squealed the succubus, and dropped to her knees, clamping her arms down over her sides. Unfortunately, it only pinned the Warlock's hands in place, and she continued to squeeze rapidly. Peals of laughter poured out from the demon, her hair whipping about as she shook her head.
“Naahahahahaaaat fahahahaaair! Noohohoohooo!”
Khazdumarr could only grin, and pushing slightly as she kept squeezing, forced the Succubus onto her stomach. She quickly straddled the demon's waist to keep her on the ground.
“Swear that you'll serve me and I'll stop!”
“NEEEVEEEHEHEHERRR aaaaahaaahahaaaa!”
“Suit yourself,” cooed the Warlock. She forced her hands underneath the Succubus and against her stomach, wriggling ten fingers into her supple skin. The Succubus shrieked, but with the Warlock on top, she couldn't pull away. One of her hands slapped the ground while her hooves kicked helplessly behind her.
“STAHAHAHAP OHOHOR AHAHAHAHA'LL SWAHAHAHALLOHOOW YOHOHOUR SOOHOHOOOUL!”
Her fingers poked and prodded along the edges of her stomach before sliding back underneath, wriggling those tickly digits closer and closer towards the center. Suddenly, she slipped a lone finger into her navel and wiggled it about. The Succubus howled and bucked, but she couldn't dislodge the woman.
“Tickle tickle, little Succubus... will you serve me?”
“EEEHEHEEEHEEAHAAAA! GAAHAHAAHAHAAD NOOHOHOOOO!”
Khazdummar grinned mischievously. She leaned down until her lips were nearly brushing the demon's ear and said, “You know what? Perhaps I should lose! After all, if you kill me, then my fellow Warlocks will avenge me and bind you, and let everyone have a chance at what I'm doing now. Wouldn't you like that? Tickled forever...” she quickly wiggled her finger in her navel again to accentuate the point. “...and ever...”
The demon's eyes flew wide as a fresh burst of laughter shot forth. “PLEEHEHEEEEASEE NOOOHOHOOO!! OKAAHAHAAY!! AHAHA'LL DOOHOO EHEHET!
Khazdumarr sat back, calmly responding, “You'll do what? Say it!”
“AAAAHAHAHAAAAHAAAHAAAA!” was all the succubus could shout in response as the Warlock never let up.
“SAY IT!” Khazdumarr shouted over her laughter.
“AHAAIEEEHEE SWEEHEEAR TOHOOO SEHEHEEERVE YOHOOOHOOOU!!”
For good measure, the Warlock didn't stop wiggling her finger for a few more seconds before she ceased. Bracing her palms on the ground, she quickly stood up and brushed off her hands, her eye rising up to the ring of Warlocks.
Some looked amused, others looked just plain confused. They didn't matter. She was only interested in Alexandros, who at the moment wore an emotionless expression on his face. He took a step closer to the edge of the pit and cleared his throat.
“Khazdumarr.. has passed the test.”
The crowd erupted into cheers. Good entertainment was hard to come by. Good entertainment where no one died was even harder. Once the barrier covering the pit faded away, Khazdumarr turned and stepped out, leaving the panting Succubus to recuperate Alexandros moved to the Warlock as she came closer to him.
“You made me lose five gold coins.” Khazdumarr glared at him, and he quickly added, “But it was worth it. Will you join us in our celebration tonight over your achievement?”
Khazdumarr shook her head and replied, “I must decline. I need to leave immediately with my new... 'weapon.' There is something important I'm seeking.”
“Passing up free drinks? How very unlike you,” he bemused, raising a brow. “Tell me, what is it that's captivated my pupil's attention?”
Khazdumarr glanced back into the pit. The Succubus was slowly getting back up onto her feet. Her once confident, mischievous look had been replaced by defeated expression. The Warlock looked back to Alexandros, her voice dropping to a whisper.
“...Have you ever heard of the Abyssals?”
(To be continued...)
Last edited:
