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Welcome to the Round Table of Bretonnia!
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Written by MutantMaggot
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Sunday, 22 June 2008 |
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Page 3 of 9
Jacques smiled as they walked past the rows of racks, the winches and painful-looking handcuffs. Thumbscrews also featured, as did many other instruments of torture that he hadn't seen: he presumed they originated somewhere in the South from the Herald's homeland.
The swish of robes paused, and d'Eperon stopped. Was this his moment of judgement? It didn't look too bad ... he could cope. He had seen what had been done to his master, but he could cope. He could be strong ... if in part simply to prove his strength.
The Herald's voice was as quiet and cutting as always. "This is not what I will be using, fallen tactician. I have had plenty of time to experiment on my subjects and I have found the most effective torture on vampires not physical, but mental.
"However, these do serve a useful purpose." The figure smiled from within the depths of his hood. "These racks are designed to hold people and creatures in position." The smile widened as the Herald began to tie d'Eperon to a rack.
"And now, fallen tactician, you will learn the true meaning of pain."
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"Materialised" fails - on quite an epic scale - to describe the pure horror of a daemon taking possession of a mortal's body.
For Balathir, an educated scholar, no word could contain the sheer horror and terrible magnificence created by the sight of the great beast tearing its way into reality, using the broken body of his fellow mage as a portal.
It was exactly that: a portal. The sheer amount of blood contained inside a single elf was one surprise; another was how damaging flying sheets of skin and bones can be to an entire formation.
Blood fell like rain. It is a phrase that usually emphasizes the level of slaughter, but in this case it was justified: blood literally fell as thickly as rain.
And if that did not stop the human heart with fear, the creature emerging did.
It was not a lithe keeper of secrets, nor was it a pus-ridden, slow daemon of Nurgle. It was not a beast that mutated as it walked, or a perversion of nature, time and space. It was not a physically enhanced man, and nor was it a great sorcerer of the damned.
The creature has had many names over the centuries. "Lord of Skulls". "High-handed Slayer". "Eternal Slayer". But the one that is most terrifying, that captures its very essence best, that freezes a mortal soul, is perhaps the most simple: "Bloodthirster".
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Jacques did nothing as his captor prowled around him, locking the crude shackles in place around his wrists. He did not struggle: there was no point. Escape was far from reach right now. All he could do was stay calm: that was the only way to master his fear. And fear did writhe within him. It clamped around his heart as he braced or the ordeal begin, it sapped at his mind, eroding his sanity and whatever impulse kept him from screaming. The waiting was horrible; lying not knowing his fate, blind to the vile antics that filled his torturer's mind, unable to do anything but stay put as the pain sailed ever closer. But he couldn't give in; he would not show his fear. He glared at the herald of his doom with defiance and spat. "Do your worst vampire."
A twisted smile crept across the vampire's face, his eyes filled with some sort of fanatical fervour as he replied in a manic voice: "Oh I will, fallen tactician. Your young mind has never felt true pain ... now you will come to see why nightmares are not just unhappy dreams!"
Jacques screamed slightly as his chest was ripped open, simply torn from his body and leaving his flesh bear to the elements. But his flesh had not been taken from the outside: something had broken out from the inside. Hordes of scarabs and beetles poured from the wound, biting and feasting on the grand bastion of the captive's body. His heart pounded in fear and he screamed even louder when even more of the fiends rushed from it, travelling along his veins and bursting them in unison, setting every nerve in his body screaming as the tide of black swarmed him, tearing flesh from bone and crawling around places no creature should venture. He felt terror grip him as they began to crawl from his eyes, some looping through his nose and ears. The creatures couldn't be real ... but the pain he felt coursing through him couldn't have felt more real.
But he had to fight it. He couldn't cave in yet. He would stand where his master had fallen. He would remain stiff where he had broken. He did nothing to fight the pain, though: he accepted it in his arms, and like the aftermath of drinking, the pain subsided gradually, lessening until all that remained was a slight tickle, barely noticeable to him in his present state. He looked at his foe's eyes, and felt triumph in his heart. "You have to do better than that to claim me, monster. I could face that for an eternity and still not yield: I certainly hope my master did not fold to such a feeble attempt."
"Ah ..." the Herald muttered. "Clearly ancient Khemrian tortures do not work as effectively as they once did. Perhaps a taste of your homeland will cure your accursed stubbornness."
This time d'Eperon had no time to retort. Sheer pain pulsed through his body, rushing alongside his blood as it reached every corner of his body. This was no manic vision of horror, this was torture down to the basics; and it hurt, a lot! He resisted as best as he could as his muscles seizured, unable to restrain the pain that coursed through him like a poison, blocking out all else as it slowly finished him off. No mental image to defy, nothing to keep himself from thinking ... the pain was real, and real pain can't be stopped. Or so it seemed, but Jacques had a rare stroke of brilliance cross his mind. He made his own mental image, focussing on it like nothing else mattered, gnawed on it as though it was his only life source. He screamed a bloodcurdling shriek as he imagine, a great pendulum swinging above him, every swing of its silver blade cleaving a great scar into his chest, and sending searing pain through his body: not a nice image, but useful and adaptable ... it could help him to master other pain. And even as he concentrated, the pain began to fade from his mind ...
But his tormentor was not so lenient as to allow him small periods of mercy; rats scurried up through unreal holes in a surreal floor, coming in their thousands to feed upon the warm flesh of their victim, digging out holes in his bone marrow and nestling in to make a new home in his body. A living tide of pain, they reached Jacques and attacked in a flurry of hate. D'Eperon shuddered in pain as every bite tore flesh from bone, every nip sending a wave of agony through his pain-filled body.
The worst part was when they bit. Illusions cannot help when every bite is erratic, every scratch coming when you least expect it, tearing through your flesh.
This was too much. Jacques began to yell and scream, his roars of agony heard by none except his unseen tormentor. But it didn't stop. More pain ... more rats. Bile rose in his throat, his body convulsing in a desperate bid to throw off these persistent attackers. But it did nothing. They continued their assault. His eyes widened in utter despair as the rats tore him apart: he could see the spark of excitement in their eyes, like a child eating a birthday cake; they had no intention of leaving the icing alone, they would keep going until nought but dust was left of him. No trace would be left of the man Jacques d'Eperon: he would become a shadow, recalled by none other than the man that had called upon his doom.
And then, it stopped. No pain. No sound, apart from the heavy breathing of the fallen tactician. Then ... wings. Shrieks. The beating of a thousand wings, some feathered, some leathery.
The first attack was a bit, sucking blood from his body in small quantities - but, oh, so, so painful! A scream rend its way from his shaking throat, ripping the sore inside of his throat apart with the pain.
Then more bites, and then - in the exposed wounds - pecks. Sharp beaks tore at his flesh. Vultures triggered pain signals in every nerve in his body as they tore at his living, warm flesh. Warm? Still? How long ... how long must this go on for? Was this not enough punishment?
As if in answer to his thoughts, the pain slowly subsided, the birds shrieking their way out of existence.
But it was only the calm before the storm. Physical pains can only cause a certain amount of damage to a person. It is possible for their mind to remain strong, however much pain they suffer.
No pain, this time. Only a hunger. A growing hunger, for something warm ... fresh. For blood. Jacques' eyes snapped open, and he saw The Herald grinning like a poker player finally revealing his hand: a royal flush, or possibly five aces. Such evil should not be possible, yet it is. Somehow, such weapons seem like cheating.
D'Eperon felt his fangs lengthen as his hunger grew, that craving for warm, flowing blood. A crimson elixir. His eyes glowed red, and he began to pant, as he grew more desperate. His eyes shot around the room, seeking any feed. He needed blood, and this foul Herald was draining him of life! He must have blood!
"Painful, isn't it?" the Herald said casually, watching Jacques as his body thrashed in pain and desperation. "I remember that pain, too ... which is why I deem this torture so apt. I had to suffer it. Whys should you not feel the same as I did, all those years ago? Coreaux did too, you know."
The hunger deepened, leaving a gaping chasm inside his body. Jacques couldn't move: the effort to lift even a finger was too great. He felt ... drained.
Then, the draining stopped consuming him. It ... paused. And then, images flickered into Jacques' pain-filled mind. His family. His father, smiling at him. His daughter. His son, riding his steed for the first time. D'Eperon smiled, yet suddenly the images turned to a horrific perversion of all that was dear to him.
His house, burning. His fields desolate and barren. He felt his hunger growing. In his mind, he entered the house. The house some inner thought told him he had just left. He looked down, the flames barely touching him.
Bodies on the floor. Pale. Drained of blood ... his family, Wounds on their necks, His family. Dead. He had killed them. His family. Not alive. Dead. At his hands.
A heart-rending scream tore from Jacques' lips, and slowly the images began to retreat. "No!"
Panting heavily, d'Eperon slowly allowed his body to fall into unconsciousness.
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Last Updated ( Wednesday, 25 June 2008 )
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