(( Originally posted under Dreadlord's Fall; made into stand-alone because it didn't fit with the original topic. Much in the way of apologizings for re-post but the split didn't work :D Also, much apologizings if you don't like symbolism; this post is full of it. ))
Jodiah Ayreg's eyes had been opened for some time.
He simply could do nothing.
The table was cold, and felt like steel. It probably was, but he'd have to be able to look at it first. Instead, he stared strait up toward the blackness where the cieling was supposed to be. He wondered, briefly, just how tall the roof was in this room..
The shifting of a limb brought the sound of chains. Ayreg's eyes turned to the side, regarding his worthless arms for now. His shoulder flexed, but the chains securing him to this cold, hard table were unnmovable.
"I'd like to see it."
Ayreg blinked. He was alone in the room, he thought.
"I'd like to see it."
His head turned. Jewell and Amthy stood off to the side, barely glancing in his direction, but speaking fervently to each other. The two had their own meat to cut, after all, and didn't seem like they could be bothered for long with another butcher's stock.
"Jodiah.."
That voice. Where was it coming from? It seemed to come from all around him, but not from the people he saw.
His head jerked, off to his left he saw Lucretia, standing in shadows. The flesh of her face rotting off, and looking quite sad over something. The rest of her body was shrouded in a black monk's robe. Strangely, she did not seem able to move either. Behind her.. stood himself. Black enameled plates wrapped around his wiry form, this second Jodiah Ayreg had one hand on Lucretia's shoulder, and his other on her opposite arm.
Normally, someone taking his form would be quite enough to send him into a fury, mind you. This time, he blinked. And looked up again.
"Let's see what we can see."
His body was compressed -- lightly crushed, as it were -- as Tara leaps across his spread eagled figure. He looked up at her, his eyes impassive as they had been the entirety of this ordeal. His flanks gripped by powerful thighs and muscles he did not know she had, her body writhed atop him in wanton abandon like she did at the Red Dragon when she fell over him.
"I want you to be open, Jodiah."
She leaned down across him, fingers splayed wide over his corded body. Those deft fingers took drawstrings in hand, pulling them free, and pushing the two folds of his shirt down to either side. Scarred chest looked almost luminous in the darkness it was so pale. She leaned down across him again, tongue dragging across the hairless expanse of the bent bones in his ribs, courtesy of Kain Locke so many years ago at the hands of the man's ball-and-chain.
"What kind of man are you, Jodiah?"
Ayreg said nothing, and did not move. He heard the sounds of chains clinking and it felt like his arms were pulled tighter. He did not want to reach out for her, but he did not wish to push her off him. He did not even seem to take notice the audience of this little piece of devilry; her friends on one side, and himself and his now-destroyed protege on the other.
"I want to know."
A small surgical knife pressed very lightly into the flesh above his sternum, and began cutting down. The bright red blood of the living, exposed to the air. Tara leaned down, laying her tongue across the wound and leaving a red smear across her check, lips, and chin. She looks up to him, the cut of her knife finally ending at his belly, between her legs, just above the line of his breeches.
"I'd like to see it."
Fingernails fold under the flaps of skin, and pull them back. His lips pull back and his teeth gnash into a wordless scream as his organs are pulled into the light, tissues connecting flesh to muscles beneath torn to ribbons. His heart pumped brutally beneath the white bone of his ribs. Sinew stretched between cavities, and between skin to bone. His lungs, darker than normal from hours spent smoking his pipe or working the forges or breathing in the destruction he has wrought to families across the realm in time's past.
To one side, Alysia Skye could be seen in a grandiose, cushioned chair. Her steepled fingers in front of her face, watching intently as Tara explored his body with probing fingers, and cutting blades.
____
Ayreg screamed, eyes snapping open in the dark.
Runesword was drawn and swung wildly in the air as his hands now felt free. He bolted up in his blankets, icon-etched warsword carving a wide arc in the air before slamming into the bed itself, and notching the bedpost quite nicely.
He held onto the hilt for some time, staring, hardly daring to breath. It was only a dream. Another bloody, flaming dream! Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead toward his face -- which was blessedly clean now, after the Nexus released him from earlier this night and he was able to bathe.
He turned his sword-blade, wrenching it free from the wall and setting it back down on the edge of his bed. He himself sat on the bed, rubbing the scarred bridge of his nose with one hand. His other reached over his bare chest, gliding along scars and the protrusions of bones through his wiry figure, exploring to ensure that nothing was cut nor exposed.
He muttered, bitterly, before going to make sure that the door was locked. It might be a small step to securing one's saftey, and would not stand to somebody of strength who wanted inside, but the extra few seconds is all he might need to ready himself if it ever came time to dance with death in his own quarters.
"These flaming women are going to be the death of me."
Dreams did not use doors, however.
Jodiah Ayreg's eyes had been opened for some time.
He simply could do nothing.
The table was cold, and felt like steel. It probably was, but he'd have to be able to look at it first. Instead, he stared strait up toward the blackness where the cieling was supposed to be. He wondered, briefly, just how tall the roof was in this room..
The shifting of a limb brought the sound of chains. Ayreg's eyes turned to the side, regarding his worthless arms for now. His shoulder flexed, but the chains securing him to this cold, hard table were unnmovable.
"I'd like to see it."
Ayreg blinked. He was alone in the room, he thought.
"I'd like to see it."
His head turned. Jewell and Amthy stood off to the side, barely glancing in his direction, but speaking fervently to each other. The two had their own meat to cut, after all, and didn't seem like they could be bothered for long with another butcher's stock.
"Jodiah.."
That voice. Where was it coming from? It seemed to come from all around him, but not from the people he saw.
His head jerked, off to his left he saw Lucretia, standing in shadows. The flesh of her face rotting off, and looking quite sad over something. The rest of her body was shrouded in a black monk's robe. Strangely, she did not seem able to move either. Behind her.. stood himself. Black enameled plates wrapped around his wiry form, this second Jodiah Ayreg had one hand on Lucretia's shoulder, and his other on her opposite arm.
Normally, someone taking his form would be quite enough to send him into a fury, mind you. This time, he blinked. And looked up again.
"Let's see what we can see."
His body was compressed -- lightly crushed, as it were -- as Tara leaps across his spread eagled figure. He looked up at her, his eyes impassive as they had been the entirety of this ordeal. His flanks gripped by powerful thighs and muscles he did not know she had, her body writhed atop him in wanton abandon like she did at the Red Dragon when she fell over him.
"I want you to be open, Jodiah."
She leaned down across him, fingers splayed wide over his corded body. Those deft fingers took drawstrings in hand, pulling them free, and pushing the two folds of his shirt down to either side. Scarred chest looked almost luminous in the darkness it was so pale. She leaned down across him again, tongue dragging across the hairless expanse of the bent bones in his ribs, courtesy of Kain Locke so many years ago at the hands of the man's ball-and-chain.
"What kind of man are you, Jodiah?"
Ayreg said nothing, and did not move. He heard the sounds of chains clinking and it felt like his arms were pulled tighter. He did not want to reach out for her, but he did not wish to push her off him. He did not even seem to take notice the audience of this little piece of devilry; her friends on one side, and himself and his now-destroyed protege on the other.
"I want to know."
A small surgical knife pressed very lightly into the flesh above his sternum, and began cutting down. The bright red blood of the living, exposed to the air. Tara leaned down, laying her tongue across the wound and leaving a red smear across her check, lips, and chin. She looks up to him, the cut of her knife finally ending at his belly, between her legs, just above the line of his breeches.
"I'd like to see it."
Fingernails fold under the flaps of skin, and pull them back. His lips pull back and his teeth gnash into a wordless scream as his organs are pulled into the light, tissues connecting flesh to muscles beneath torn to ribbons. His heart pumped brutally beneath the white bone of his ribs. Sinew stretched between cavities, and between skin to bone. His lungs, darker than normal from hours spent smoking his pipe or working the forges or breathing in the destruction he has wrought to families across the realm in time's past.
To one side, Alysia Skye could be seen in a grandiose, cushioned chair. Her steepled fingers in front of her face, watching intently as Tara explored his body with probing fingers, and cutting blades.
____
Ayreg screamed, eyes snapping open in the dark.
Runesword was drawn and swung wildly in the air as his hands now felt free. He bolted up in his blankets, icon-etched warsword carving a wide arc in the air before slamming into the bed itself, and notching the bedpost quite nicely.
He held onto the hilt for some time, staring, hardly daring to breath. It was only a dream. Another bloody, flaming dream! Beads of sweat dripped from his forehead toward his face -- which was blessedly clean now, after the Nexus released him from earlier this night and he was able to bathe.
He turned his sword-blade, wrenching it free from the wall and setting it back down on the edge of his bed. He himself sat on the bed, rubbing the scarred bridge of his nose with one hand. His other reached over his bare chest, gliding along scars and the protrusions of bones through his wiry figure, exploring to ensure that nothing was cut nor exposed.
He muttered, bitterly, before going to make sure that the door was locked. It might be a small step to securing one's saftey, and would not stand to somebody of strength who wanted inside, but the extra few seconds is all he might need to ready himself if it ever came time to dance with death in his own quarters.
"These flaming women are going to be the death of me."
Dreams did not use doors, however.