Greetings all. I have returned from the lonesome crevice of silence and obscurity with a new chapter. I’m sorry for my lack of updates as of late, my inspiration fizzled utterly. It seems to have returned however and hopefully I’ll have more where this came from soon.
Tickling Tales of the Sword Coast.
Part the Eight – With regards to motive
After a none-too-short journey through miles of forest, Nathyrra’s bound and blindfolded form finally arrived at a dingy looking keep that was bedevilled by vines, moss and house martins. From the outside it looked long abandoned. On the inside however the architecture had been redesigned significantly. Twisted effigies and gristly trophies adorned every wall, all in honour of the mad god Cyric. The floors and ceilings had been painted black and varnished excessively, which produced a dark and shiny effect which suited the dozen Drow females who maintained the abode, along with their master.
When Nathyrra’s blindfold was finally removed, her sharp mind quickly recalled her capture and she immediately attempted to stand, only to discover that she was hogtied on a cold, hard floor. The next thing she discovered was that she was completely naked. This in itself didn’t bother her so much, many of the rituals that the followers of Eiliaestrae performed required a shedding of garments. What did give her cause for discomfort however was the human sat a few meters ahead of her, clad in obsidian armour and smiling like a harpy in front of a fresh corpse.
“Greetings my dear,” he said with a self satisfied voice that made Nathyrra’s skin crawl, “welcome to my almost humble abode. I hope that your journey was a pleasant one.”
His prisoner said nothing. She simply laid still with her eyes pointed forwards. If these wretches thought they were going to gain any satisfaction from the sight of her than they were sadly mistaken.
“Not feeling sociable?” The human continued, “I understand. You needn’t worry however, we just need answers to a handful of questions and if we get those over with quickly, you can go back to frolicking around the trees or whatever it is you people do.”
“You clichéd act doesn’t scare me jaluk.” Nathyrra replied coolly, “I’ve faced down far worse than you.”
The human, who for the record was one Count Alvanarth, a blackguard of Cyric, simply laughed at her defiance. Turning to the two Drow women stood behind Nathyrra, each also wearing nothing, he asked,
“How many times have we heard that?”
“Thirty at least master.” One replied.
Master? Nathyrra was genuinely shocked. These were your run of the mill, evil Drow. Normally they thought of males as nothing more than slaves, that was doubly true for surfacers. This rivil must have a hell of an ace up his sleeve if he had genuinely managed to obtain their loyalty.
“Now then my dear, I’ll cut straight to the chase. We have need of entrance to your people’s encampment. The followers of Eiliestraee are to make a contribution of sorts to one of Cyric’s more recent plans. Might you tell us how best to go about gaining access to it?”
Nathyrra’s jaw tightened. Her people were in danger, she had to warn the Seer, if she could escape that was.
“Can I deduce from your silence that you’re not going to be forthcoming?” His voice sounded almost hopeful.
“I’ll die before I help you.”
With a grin and a wave of his hand, Alvanarth gestured to one of his Drow servants who, with great enthusiasm, bent down next to Nathyrra’s bound feet. Steadying her bound legs with one arm, she began to gently scrape her long fingernails over the exposed and highly ticklish soles before her.
Nathyrra was initially taken off guard. She had expected a flail or boiling water on her skin, not this. Nevertheless, she was not about to lose her composure in-front of her captors.
The Drow servant at her feet stepped up her assault, her experienced fingers darted with expert speed and precision over her soles, arches and between her long toes. With each second she seemed to intensify her attack, and it grew harder and harder for Nathyrra to fight off the sensations. Anyone else would have been laughing uncontrollably at this point, it was only her assassins training which provided her with the willpower to resist this long.
“Needless to say,” Alvanarth added, “that when you feel ready to co-operate with us, this will all cease. Please though, don’t feel inclined to cave too soon. Sights like these are always a pleasure.”
One of Nathyrra’s captors giggled at these words. It was a peculiar, un-Drowesque sound which only served to deepen the mystery of this hierarchy of theirs.
He gestured to his other servant, who cheerfully lowered herself by Nathyrra’s upper body. At once she started tickling her ribs and hips. Their captive tried to shake her off, but tied as she was the motion was futile. The Eiliaestrae worshiper was going nowhere.
The combined efforts of her tormentors quickly smashed through Nathyrra’s defences. Conventional pain she could force herself to deal with. Straightforward interrogations she could work her way around. Being tickled however was something which, for all her fighting efforts, she was all but powerless against. It didn’t fit in her defensive training. As the sensations grew, she found she could only respond as was typical for one as ticklish as she. Specifically:
“AAAAAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! GAAAAAHAAHAHAHADS NOOOOOOOOO! EIIIIIIEEEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE EILLAEA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HASTRAAAAEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE, HELP MEEEEHEEEHE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE!”
“Your Goddess cannot help you in this place.” Alvanarth said proudly, “This is Cyric’s ground, and it is his will that you laugh here.”
If that were true than Cyric was certainly getting his wish. Nathyrra’s two tormenters pushed her onto her side. The one at her feet outstretched herself along the floor so that she was alongside Nathyrra’s lower legs. With one hand she continued to assault the pair of pretty feet that were completely at her mercy, but now she was also taking the opportunity to suck her captive’s toes, which only served to intensify her manic laughter and desperate thrashing.
Her other assailant tickled Nathyrra’s exposed midriff with one hand, and with the other she summoned a jet black crow’s feather from her hair, with which she tickled her navel.
Tears were streaming down Nathyrra’s face and her laughter was degenerating to silent desperate gasps. Though he was loathed to do so, Alvanarth reluctantly ordered his underlings to grant the prisoner a short rest before she passed out.
The Drow at Nathyrra’s feet continued to play with her toes with tongue and fingers. It still tickled, but not quite enough to stop her breathing.
“Would you care to volunteer some information now my dear? The only alternative is further ticklish misery. We can keep this up for months if need be.”
By Eiliaestrae no! Nathyrra thought. The prospect was so terrible that she felt a sudden urge to scream. Soon however she came to her senses as best she could. Her people would find her. The Seer would see that she needed help and come to her aid.
She hoped.
“I’ll teeee ha ha hell you naaaha hathing!” She said as defiantly as she could.
“Oh, very well then. Back to work my dears.”
His two servants didn’t need telling twice.
“NOOOOAAAHAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! GAAAAHAHAHAHADS NO! PLEEEEEHE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HEASEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE!”
Elsewhere, a long time ago, in much the same galaxy…
Imoen awoke to the sound of some very peculiar utterances from Aerie.
“EEAAAAHA HA HA HE HE HE HE HE HA HA HA HA HA HA NAAAAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA GAAAAAHAAAAAAAAAAA! GEHHHHEEAAAHHH GET AWAY FROM MEEEEEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE!”
Groggy from whatever it was that knocked her out, Imoen’s first thought was that the two of them were still in the Neverwinter thieves’ guild building and that Darras had focused his attentions of Aerie for the moment. Sluggishly, her brain began to return to focus, and she cautiously opened her eyes marginally.
Outstretched before her, she saw her legs tied together at both the ankles and around the knees. Her boots were gone, but she seemed to be seated upon grass rather than the wooden table she expected.
This surprising element served to hasten her waking. Slowly, she began to remember what had happened just before she passed out.
When realisation finally struck, she damn near screamed out in terror and frustration. Some preservation instinct however kept her head down, her eyes seemingly shut and her mouth closed.
“I realise that this is terribly rude of me my lady,” an unfamiliar male voice said, “but I just couldn’t resist joining in the delightful frivolity I saw you and your friend partaking in.”
“By Baervar have we been cursed?” Aerie said, more to herself than anyone, “have we angered the Gods somehow for them to make everyone we come across tie us up and tickle us half to death?”
“I can’t speak for the Gods my lady,” the voice answered, “I’m just a passing wayfarer who happened to stumble upon beautiful women, my passions directed me to this course of action. If you want to call this providence then who am I to argue.”
Aerie muttered something unbecoming for a priestess, but soon she was laughing again as whoever it was who had captured them once more scrabbled his fingers over her sensitive soles.
Imoen shared her astonishment at this truly unbelievable bad fortune. Maybe Mask was punishing her for giving ten coppers to that homeless person. Whatever the case, the fact remained that sooner or later, she was going to get tickled again. The prospect of that scared her to such extents that it was difficult to keep still.
“Your friend should be waking up any moment.” The voice said, “She’s been out a fair bit longer than I’d expected to be honest.”
Imoen shuddered ever so slightly as she heard herself being mentioned.
“Hmmmm, did I just see what I think I just saw?” Whoever it was asked.
No! No you didn’t! Go back to tickling Aerie. Please.
No such luck. The next thing Imoen felt was the faint motions of one finger along the arch of her left foot. This in itself quickly brought her sleeping façade down and she parted with a fearful squeak.
“Ah, I should have known.” The man said, Imoen could now clearly see that they had been captured by a Half elf who looked like he may very well have followed them from the thieves’ guild judging by his leather armour and the lock picks in his belt. Then again, he might have just been in the area. All things considered though it didn’t much matter.
“Please!” Imoen half-shouted at once, “We’ll pay you, just let us go!”
“How long were you awake?” Aerie asked darkly. Imoen was too focused on her current predicament to notice.
“I’m sorry,” the half elf said, sounding anything but sorry “I am a slave to my nature. The only payment I can really accept in exchange for your freedom is in the form of laughter.”
With that he parted with a truly sinister grin and outstretched one hand to hold steady the rope binding Imoen’s ankles, and with the other he launched a vicious attack on her feet.
“NAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAAA! GAAAAAHAHAAADS NO! PLEEEAAAHAHAEHEHEHEHEHEH HE HE HE HE HEEESE NOT AGAAAAAAAAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAA!”
Strangely, once the tickling begun, Imoen didn’t react with the same horror that she had the first time, or the second for that matter. She still wanted very much for it to stop, and to also be untied for that matter, but it no longer felt quite so bad as it had.
Aerie on the other hand was finding it just as bad as ever. More than anything she wanted to be untied so she could strangle this maniacal half elf and run somewhere where tickle-fiends didn’t lurk around every corner.
What she wanted though and what she was going to get were too different things.
To be continued
Tickling Tales of the Sword Coast.
Part the Eight – With regards to motive
After a none-too-short journey through miles of forest, Nathyrra’s bound and blindfolded form finally arrived at a dingy looking keep that was bedevilled by vines, moss and house martins. From the outside it looked long abandoned. On the inside however the architecture had been redesigned significantly. Twisted effigies and gristly trophies adorned every wall, all in honour of the mad god Cyric. The floors and ceilings had been painted black and varnished excessively, which produced a dark and shiny effect which suited the dozen Drow females who maintained the abode, along with their master.
When Nathyrra’s blindfold was finally removed, her sharp mind quickly recalled her capture and she immediately attempted to stand, only to discover that she was hogtied on a cold, hard floor. The next thing she discovered was that she was completely naked. This in itself didn’t bother her so much, many of the rituals that the followers of Eiliaestrae performed required a shedding of garments. What did give her cause for discomfort however was the human sat a few meters ahead of her, clad in obsidian armour and smiling like a harpy in front of a fresh corpse.
“Greetings my dear,” he said with a self satisfied voice that made Nathyrra’s skin crawl, “welcome to my almost humble abode. I hope that your journey was a pleasant one.”
His prisoner said nothing. She simply laid still with her eyes pointed forwards. If these wretches thought they were going to gain any satisfaction from the sight of her than they were sadly mistaken.
“Not feeling sociable?” The human continued, “I understand. You needn’t worry however, we just need answers to a handful of questions and if we get those over with quickly, you can go back to frolicking around the trees or whatever it is you people do.”
“You clichéd act doesn’t scare me jaluk.” Nathyrra replied coolly, “I’ve faced down far worse than you.”
The human, who for the record was one Count Alvanarth, a blackguard of Cyric, simply laughed at her defiance. Turning to the two Drow women stood behind Nathyrra, each also wearing nothing, he asked,
“How many times have we heard that?”
“Thirty at least master.” One replied.
Master? Nathyrra was genuinely shocked. These were your run of the mill, evil Drow. Normally they thought of males as nothing more than slaves, that was doubly true for surfacers. This rivil must have a hell of an ace up his sleeve if he had genuinely managed to obtain their loyalty.
“Now then my dear, I’ll cut straight to the chase. We have need of entrance to your people’s encampment. The followers of Eiliestraee are to make a contribution of sorts to one of Cyric’s more recent plans. Might you tell us how best to go about gaining access to it?”
Nathyrra’s jaw tightened. Her people were in danger, she had to warn the Seer, if she could escape that was.
“Can I deduce from your silence that you’re not going to be forthcoming?” His voice sounded almost hopeful.
“I’ll die before I help you.”
With a grin and a wave of his hand, Alvanarth gestured to one of his Drow servants who, with great enthusiasm, bent down next to Nathyrra’s bound feet. Steadying her bound legs with one arm, she began to gently scrape her long fingernails over the exposed and highly ticklish soles before her.
Nathyrra was initially taken off guard. She had expected a flail or boiling water on her skin, not this. Nevertheless, she was not about to lose her composure in-front of her captors.
The Drow servant at her feet stepped up her assault, her experienced fingers darted with expert speed and precision over her soles, arches and between her long toes. With each second she seemed to intensify her attack, and it grew harder and harder for Nathyrra to fight off the sensations. Anyone else would have been laughing uncontrollably at this point, it was only her assassins training which provided her with the willpower to resist this long.
“Needless to say,” Alvanarth added, “that when you feel ready to co-operate with us, this will all cease. Please though, don’t feel inclined to cave too soon. Sights like these are always a pleasure.”
One of Nathyrra’s captors giggled at these words. It was a peculiar, un-Drowesque sound which only served to deepen the mystery of this hierarchy of theirs.
He gestured to his other servant, who cheerfully lowered herself by Nathyrra’s upper body. At once she started tickling her ribs and hips. Their captive tried to shake her off, but tied as she was the motion was futile. The Eiliaestrae worshiper was going nowhere.
The combined efforts of her tormentors quickly smashed through Nathyrra’s defences. Conventional pain she could force herself to deal with. Straightforward interrogations she could work her way around. Being tickled however was something which, for all her fighting efforts, she was all but powerless against. It didn’t fit in her defensive training. As the sensations grew, she found she could only respond as was typical for one as ticklish as she. Specifically:
“AAAAAH HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! GAAAAAHAAHAHAHADS NOOOOOOOOO! EIIIIIIEEEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE EILLAEA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HASTRAAAAEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE, HELP MEEEEHEEEHE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE!”
“Your Goddess cannot help you in this place.” Alvanarth said proudly, “This is Cyric’s ground, and it is his will that you laugh here.”
If that were true than Cyric was certainly getting his wish. Nathyrra’s two tormenters pushed her onto her side. The one at her feet outstretched herself along the floor so that she was alongside Nathyrra’s lower legs. With one hand she continued to assault the pair of pretty feet that were completely at her mercy, but now she was also taking the opportunity to suck her captive’s toes, which only served to intensify her manic laughter and desperate thrashing.
Her other assailant tickled Nathyrra’s exposed midriff with one hand, and with the other she summoned a jet black crow’s feather from her hair, with which she tickled her navel.
Tears were streaming down Nathyrra’s face and her laughter was degenerating to silent desperate gasps. Though he was loathed to do so, Alvanarth reluctantly ordered his underlings to grant the prisoner a short rest before she passed out.
The Drow at Nathyrra’s feet continued to play with her toes with tongue and fingers. It still tickled, but not quite enough to stop her breathing.
“Would you care to volunteer some information now my dear? The only alternative is further ticklish misery. We can keep this up for months if need be.”
By Eiliaestrae no! Nathyrra thought. The prospect was so terrible that she felt a sudden urge to scream. Soon however she came to her senses as best she could. Her people would find her. The Seer would see that she needed help and come to her aid.
She hoped.
“I’ll teeee ha ha hell you naaaha hathing!” She said as defiantly as she could.
“Oh, very well then. Back to work my dears.”
His two servants didn’t need telling twice.
“NOOOOAAAHAA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA! GAAAAHAHAHAHADS NO! PLEEEEEHE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HEASEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE!”
Elsewhere, a long time ago, in much the same galaxy…
Imoen awoke to the sound of some very peculiar utterances from Aerie.
“EEAAAAHA HA HA HE HE HE HE HE HA HA HA HA HA HA NAAAAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA GAAAAAHAAAAAAAAAAA! GEHHHHEEAAAHHH GET AWAY FROM MEEEEEE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE HE!”
Groggy from whatever it was that knocked her out, Imoen’s first thought was that the two of them were still in the Neverwinter thieves’ guild building and that Darras had focused his attentions of Aerie for the moment. Sluggishly, her brain began to return to focus, and she cautiously opened her eyes marginally.
Outstretched before her, she saw her legs tied together at both the ankles and around the knees. Her boots were gone, but she seemed to be seated upon grass rather than the wooden table she expected.
This surprising element served to hasten her waking. Slowly, she began to remember what had happened just before she passed out.
When realisation finally struck, she damn near screamed out in terror and frustration. Some preservation instinct however kept her head down, her eyes seemingly shut and her mouth closed.
“I realise that this is terribly rude of me my lady,” an unfamiliar male voice said, “but I just couldn’t resist joining in the delightful frivolity I saw you and your friend partaking in.”
“By Baervar have we been cursed?” Aerie said, more to herself than anyone, “have we angered the Gods somehow for them to make everyone we come across tie us up and tickle us half to death?”
“I can’t speak for the Gods my lady,” the voice answered, “I’m just a passing wayfarer who happened to stumble upon beautiful women, my passions directed me to this course of action. If you want to call this providence then who am I to argue.”
Aerie muttered something unbecoming for a priestess, but soon she was laughing again as whoever it was who had captured them once more scrabbled his fingers over her sensitive soles.
Imoen shared her astonishment at this truly unbelievable bad fortune. Maybe Mask was punishing her for giving ten coppers to that homeless person. Whatever the case, the fact remained that sooner or later, she was going to get tickled again. The prospect of that scared her to such extents that it was difficult to keep still.
“Your friend should be waking up any moment.” The voice said, “She’s been out a fair bit longer than I’d expected to be honest.”
Imoen shuddered ever so slightly as she heard herself being mentioned.
“Hmmmm, did I just see what I think I just saw?” Whoever it was asked.
No! No you didn’t! Go back to tickling Aerie. Please.
No such luck. The next thing Imoen felt was the faint motions of one finger along the arch of her left foot. This in itself quickly brought her sleeping façade down and she parted with a fearful squeak.
“Ah, I should have known.” The man said, Imoen could now clearly see that they had been captured by a Half elf who looked like he may very well have followed them from the thieves’ guild judging by his leather armour and the lock picks in his belt. Then again, he might have just been in the area. All things considered though it didn’t much matter.
“Please!” Imoen half-shouted at once, “We’ll pay you, just let us go!”
“How long were you awake?” Aerie asked darkly. Imoen was too focused on her current predicament to notice.
“I’m sorry,” the half elf said, sounding anything but sorry “I am a slave to my nature. The only payment I can really accept in exchange for your freedom is in the form of laughter.”
With that he parted with a truly sinister grin and outstretched one hand to hold steady the rope binding Imoen’s ankles, and with the other he launched a vicious attack on her feet.
“NAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAAA! GAAAAAHAHAAADS NO! PLEEEAAAHAHAEHEHEHEHEHEH HE HE HE HE HEEESE NOT AGAAAAAAAAHA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HAAAAAAAA!”
Strangely, once the tickling begun, Imoen didn’t react with the same horror that she had the first time, or the second for that matter. She still wanted very much for it to stop, and to also be untied for that matter, but it no longer felt quite so bad as it had.
Aerie on the other hand was finding it just as bad as ever. More than anything she wanted to be untied so she could strangle this maniacal half elf and run somewhere where tickle-fiends didn’t lurk around every corner.
What she wanted though and what she was going to get were too different things.
To be continued
