Chronicles of Pietro Ludvigs (original fantasy)
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Chapter 10: Bath
Pietro followed behind Cherach. His face was blank, a combination of suppressing the fear that threatened to steal his resolve and the anger that threatened to give him away. All sympathy he had for these creatures had evaporated. While killing an elf wasn’t bad, it was in fact a good thing, the fact that they had sex with it first, probably to conceive, was monstrous. The fact that they undoubtedly did this to other races, including at least one human, made it even worse. Death was not to be feared, but they made their victims suffer so before finishing them off. The elf’s death cry had been one of pure agony.
Besides, if she had soiled her womb with elf seed it was Pietro’s duty to kill her before she gave birth to a changeling. Such things were abominations, like elves but able to tolerate iron and hide amongst the populations, sowing ruin. Just suspicion of a woman having lain with an elf, willing or not, was often enough to stone her in Thrane, although fortunately the demons had been driven so far north that they had not been seen for hundreds of years even in raids.
A shudder nearly escaped to the surface as Pietro realized that the queen had blue flecks in her irises; she, and therefore Cherach, had to have elf ancestry. Monsters. Demons. He should kill them just for that. Being an elf was a crime punishable by death. Being a changeling was a crime punishable by death. If a changeling somehow managed to have a child with a human, then that child would have to fight an uphill legal battle to not die as well.
Humanity’s hatred for elves ran deep, and the feeling was mutual.
And… and these things willingly had sex with the monsters. They were worse than elves. At least when an elf smiled at you, you knew that no love, no warmth lurked behind its eyes. These creatures were monsters and deceivers.
Pietro would wait until Cherach took him private to ravish him and then he would surely dash her head to pieces before seeking death at the hands of the guards so that he could be free of this hellish place and be able to stand judgement having said that he did his duties in life as best he could.
Cherach lead him deep down into the place, into an area where the worked stone turned rough and the tapestries and mosaics fell away, the candles and glow crystals getting further and further apart. Finally Cherach stopped before a door and opened it up.
Pietro nearly struck her then and there when he saw the dried tracks of elf semen on her face, but with only one good arm he would need to make sure she went down, and her scream might carry down these tunnels, summoning aid before he could finish the task. So he would wait until they were inside the room and her back was turned before striking her dead. He would wash his hands in her blood for this.
On the other side of the door was a large grotto, what appeared to be a natural cave that had been added to the main palace. A large, steaming pool was at the far end, illuminated by a few glow crystals set into weeping stalactites. The air was heavy with the scent of minerals and that strange fruity scent from the growing things that these monsters used around their water. Off to one side there was a collection of large pots and a table set with various things Pietro had no idea the function of.
Cherach gestured for Pietro to close the door while she walked into the room.
Pietro closed the door slowly and carefully, so as to not make an echo. Once it was sealed his left hand balled up into a fist. He would…
Cherach’s mask cracked before his did. One moment she was standing there impassively before him, the next she was rushing for a corner of the room to violently throw up while weeping uncontrollably.
Pietro blinked. His fist loosened as he tried to wrap his head around what was happening.
Cherach went over to the pool and took a huge gulp of water before spitting it explosively into the little corner where she had emptied her stomach. She did this three more times while also vigorously scrubbing at her mouth and tongue, the water from the pool concealing her tears but not the sounds of her sobs.
Pietro was at a loss. Crying women was one of those things on the long list of things he did not know how to deal with. He just stood there and stared, dumbstruck and open mouthed, trying to wrap his mind around what was going on.
His mind had become very flexible in the past day, and while he wasn’t exactly sure he liked that he could certain see things differently now. Cherach was upset, and clearly wanted the taint of the elf’s seed out of her mouth as quickly as possible, yet she had been the one acting, not that demon. It had been repeatedly paralyzed through the whole process.
Pietro shuddered in memory of not only that but how the poison did not dull sensation, for perhaps obvious, terrifying reasons now. Those two attendants, the way they had looked at him…
No wonder Cherach had been mad when she walked in, if that was what they were planning to do to her new slave. Planning to do to him.
In fact, just a few hours before Cherach had driven off her friends and maids and contained her own lust. She had wanted something from him, something more than sex and blood from him. He had seen it at the time. He suspected that she thought of him as some sort of sex-god… which if the males here did not live past their first time was disturbingly understandable. She had wanted him so badly and yet she had held off.
Pietro could see now. She, unlike her kin, did not let her lusts rule her the same way. She had other ideas. And Pietro remembered the way she had been angry with her mother, and now the way that her face had started off in a scowl before turning blank. Whatever her plans were for today, sucking off a sacrificial elf had not been part of them.
Yet still she had, because her mother, the queen had demanded it.
A frown crossed Pietro’s face as he considered the situation. Rape to him was defined as having sex with someone against their will. Cherach had raped that elf. But was it possible that she had been raped just as equally, but only indirectly, by her mother? It was a question Pietro did not have the experience to answer.
Pietro’s frown deepened. No human had experience here in this dark, abyssal place. He could not defer the important questions any longer. He was no priest, no king, and certainly no wise guru or advisor. He was a farmer’s son. But he wasn’t stupid. He would have to start making the hard decisions, answering questions for himself.
A woman would be stoned if she were raped by an elf and the seed took root in her belly, or if she let one of those demons take her willingly, but if unwilling and free of contamination she would be free to live out the rest of her life. Some of his people would not have given the benefit of the doubt to a non-human, but Cherach was at least part human.
He glanced between her legs and saw no sign that she had been fouled there. Only her mouth had been defiled at the command of her mother. Her womb would not bear the foul spawn of humanity’s most hated enemy.
Pietro’s face softened and he knelt next to Cherach, extending out his left hand so that she could reach out to him if she wished. He said softly, “You no like elf?”
Cherach turned to him, her eyes watery and surely bloodshot if not for the fact that blood stood out poorly on black and she barked out two syllables angrily. One was ‘elf’, and the other surely meant ‘hate’. She then looked away in shame.
Pietro snarled and said, “I hate elves too! Hate! HATE! I would kill them all if I could.”
Cherach looked at the hand offered and the fierce look on Pietro’s face and the way that his wrath was directed away from her. For all the monstrous tendencies of her people, their body language was quite close to that of humans. She could see that he meant her no harm and that he was just as angry about what had happened as she was upset and ashamed.
She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were so smooth and soft in comparison to his, but what pain had these hands seen in their time? How many times had she gone into that chamber against her will? What had she seen in there? What had she done in there? Her mother had yellow flecks in her eyes in addition to blue ones, so obviously they bred with dwarves as well as elves. What else had gone upon the sacrificial altar?
Cherach stood, causing Pietro to rise with her, and she led him over to the table, where she picked up what looked like the dried out innards of a gourd and a pot with oil and such in it. She went over and set them down by the pool before taking Pietro’s hand again and leading him to the edge. She stepped in and then smiled faintly, saying, “Come.”
Pietro hesitated for a moment before placing his left foot into the water. It was, as he suspected, quite hot, but not enough to scald. Refusing to back out, Pietro paused a second to acclimate before he continued in.
He nearly lashed out when Cherach moved towards his loincloth before realizing that there was no lust in her eyes and that the water would wreck the leather. So instead he just held up a hand and took it off himself.
The pool was quite deep, up to chest level on Pietro at one point, although mostly it was only about stomach level once past what Pietro suspected was a staircase artificially added to ease entry and exit into the pool. Now that he had let go of his fury and actually looked at it, it was also remarkably beautiful. The dark water caught the wan light, and when he and Cherach stayed still it quickly settled into perfect flatness and became a liquid mirror.
Cherach picked up the strange spongy thing and opened up the little pot. Soaking the sponge in the pool and then dipping it in the pot, she rubbed it against her arm, producing a bubbling, foaming lather. She then handed it to Pietro and turned her back to him, leaning forward and placing her hands on the edge of the pool for support.
Pietro put the sponge to her back and began to move it in short circles. Cherach did not turn to him, but she did say, “More.”
Pietro pressed down more firmly with the sponge. Congealed blood and grease paint began to come off slowly.
“More.”
Pietro increased the pressure.
“More.”
Pietro complied.
“More.”
Cherach’s arms nearly buckled as she held herself up against the force he was applying to her back as he slowly but surely scrubbed off that which soiled her. As she stood her ground, she got out through gritted teeth, “I want a new word.”
“What?” Pietro asked while he continued his assigned task.
“What are you doing now?” She asked.
“I am cleaning you,” Pietro replied.
“When you are done cleaning, I will be?” Cherach asked.
“You will be clean,” Pietro replied.
“I am not clean. You are. Clean me,” Cherach said before going silent except for the crying.
Quite some time later, perhaps as much as half an hour, when much of her back was scrubbed clean, Pietro managed to work up the strength to ask, “How many?”
“I want a new word,” Cherach said.
“What word?” Pietro asked.
“What is word for three groups of ten?” She asked him.
The sponge hit the water in shock. Pietro stumbled back and lost his footing on the uneven pool bottom. Thrashing about for a moment with his left arm, he felt Cherach grab him and pull him to the surface, an incredibly sad look on her face.
“What is word for three groups of ten?” She asked.
“Thirty,” Pietro sputtered out while looking at her in shock.
“Then thirty,” Cherach said before turning away and gripping the edge of the pool once more. “Clean me. You are clean, I am not. Clean me.”
Pietro continued; cleaning Cherach’s entire back from the nape of her neck down to the small of her back, until she put her hand on his and said, “I no have sex with you. I… I… I need you. But clean me.”
She then turned about, leaning into the pool wall. Pietro looked at her, and knew that she wanted him to wash all of her. The simple decency of what she wanted from him was so… human that he stopped looking at her as a freakish creature but as a woman; an incredibly attractive, beautiful woman in need of his help and who wanted him to place his hand all over her.
Even the most chaste and honourable of knights would have felt a stirring in his loins.
Pietro turned away, embarrassed.
Cherach slid up to him and pressed her body against his back and leaned her head on his shoulder. The softness of her breasts and nipples pressing against his skin contrasted with the stickiness of the blood that still stained her.
“You not like me?” She asked with a quiver in her voice.
Pietro finally understood why they got so mad when he looked away from their naked bodies. They thought he found them unattractive or perhaps even disgusting. When the women here got naked, they expected all attention to be on them.
Shaking his head, Pietro said, “No, I like you. I do. I… I do not want to shame you.”
“Shame?” She asked, the word new to her.
“Shame… shame is…” Pietro paused and thought for a long time before he said, “Shame is bad. Need more new words first, but shame is bad. I do not want to shame you.”
“Clean me,” Cherach begged. “You not shame me, you clean me. I no kill you or… what word for less than kill, but still bad?”
“Hurt?” Pietro supplied.
“I no hurt you. I need you. Need you to clean me. Need… need…” Cherach trailed off. In her closeness, Pietro could feel her tremble.
He turned around and looked at her. She looked small and scared and ashamed and he could not help but feel so incredibly moved for her.
He took up the sponge again.
They must have spent hours down there, him slowly but firmly scrubbing every inch of her body, scouring away the filth. They were so close, and both ached at the nearness, both knowing that they longed for the other, and yet both holding off for their own reasons, their own fears. Pietro did not know what she feared from him, but he feared hurting her, feared shaming her with his actions, and even selfishly, if understandably, feared her.
Perhaps she was afraid of herself.
Finally all that was left was Cherach’s hair. Cherach took the now half empty pot of soap and poured it over her head, gesturing for Pietro to work it in.
The silence between them continued until Cherach asked, “I want a new word.”
“What?” Pietro asked calmly.
“What is this?” Cherach asked while pointing to her head.
“Your head?” Pietro suggested.
“Head… yes head. What do call head see when eyes closed?” Cherach asked.
“Head see when eyes closed?” Pietro muttered, trying to work it out. Parsing it, he asked, “You see things in your head when you close your eyes?”
“Yes… sometimes… not all times. When in bed, when still,” Cherach explained.
“You see things in your head in your bed when you close your eyes and are still… you dream?” Pietro asked, suddenly grabbing Cherach by the shoulder and pulling her close so that he could look her square in the face.
She was scared; deeply scared, to her core, not of Pietro but of that which she did not understand.
He could see it now, could see the need that held her baser desires and lusts in check. Since the First War all creatures except elves needed sleep, but only humans dreamed. Cherach’s people could have no explanation for the things she saw at night, could not understand the gift her human heritage gave her. How long had she failed to sleep, terrified of the images that would come?
“What do you dream?” Pietro asked firmly.
“I dream of iron.”
Pietro followed behind Cherach. His face was blank, a combination of suppressing the fear that threatened to steal his resolve and the anger that threatened to give him away. All sympathy he had for these creatures had evaporated. While killing an elf wasn’t bad, it was in fact a good thing, the fact that they had sex with it first, probably to conceive, was monstrous. The fact that they undoubtedly did this to other races, including at least one human, made it even worse. Death was not to be feared, but they made their victims suffer so before finishing them off. The elf’s death cry had been one of pure agony.
Besides, if she had soiled her womb with elf seed it was Pietro’s duty to kill her before she gave birth to a changeling. Such things were abominations, like elves but able to tolerate iron and hide amongst the populations, sowing ruin. Just suspicion of a woman having lain with an elf, willing or not, was often enough to stone her in Thrane, although fortunately the demons had been driven so far north that they had not been seen for hundreds of years even in raids.
A shudder nearly escaped to the surface as Pietro realized that the queen had blue flecks in her irises; she, and therefore Cherach, had to have elf ancestry. Monsters. Demons. He should kill them just for that. Being an elf was a crime punishable by death. Being a changeling was a crime punishable by death. If a changeling somehow managed to have a child with a human, then that child would have to fight an uphill legal battle to not die as well.
Humanity’s hatred for elves ran deep, and the feeling was mutual.
And… and these things willingly had sex with the monsters. They were worse than elves. At least when an elf smiled at you, you knew that no love, no warmth lurked behind its eyes. These creatures were monsters and deceivers.
Pietro would wait until Cherach took him private to ravish him and then he would surely dash her head to pieces before seeking death at the hands of the guards so that he could be free of this hellish place and be able to stand judgement having said that he did his duties in life as best he could.
Cherach lead him deep down into the place, into an area where the worked stone turned rough and the tapestries and mosaics fell away, the candles and glow crystals getting further and further apart. Finally Cherach stopped before a door and opened it up.
Pietro nearly struck her then and there when he saw the dried tracks of elf semen on her face, but with only one good arm he would need to make sure she went down, and her scream might carry down these tunnels, summoning aid before he could finish the task. So he would wait until they were inside the room and her back was turned before striking her dead. He would wash his hands in her blood for this.
On the other side of the door was a large grotto, what appeared to be a natural cave that had been added to the main palace. A large, steaming pool was at the far end, illuminated by a few glow crystals set into weeping stalactites. The air was heavy with the scent of minerals and that strange fruity scent from the growing things that these monsters used around their water. Off to one side there was a collection of large pots and a table set with various things Pietro had no idea the function of.
Cherach gestured for Pietro to close the door while she walked into the room.
Pietro closed the door slowly and carefully, so as to not make an echo. Once it was sealed his left hand balled up into a fist. He would…
Cherach’s mask cracked before his did. One moment she was standing there impassively before him, the next she was rushing for a corner of the room to violently throw up while weeping uncontrollably.
Pietro blinked. His fist loosened as he tried to wrap his head around what was happening.
Cherach went over to the pool and took a huge gulp of water before spitting it explosively into the little corner where she had emptied her stomach. She did this three more times while also vigorously scrubbing at her mouth and tongue, the water from the pool concealing her tears but not the sounds of her sobs.
Pietro was at a loss. Crying women was one of those things on the long list of things he did not know how to deal with. He just stood there and stared, dumbstruck and open mouthed, trying to wrap his mind around what was going on.
His mind had become very flexible in the past day, and while he wasn’t exactly sure he liked that he could certain see things differently now. Cherach was upset, and clearly wanted the taint of the elf’s seed out of her mouth as quickly as possible, yet she had been the one acting, not that demon. It had been repeatedly paralyzed through the whole process.
Pietro shuddered in memory of not only that but how the poison did not dull sensation, for perhaps obvious, terrifying reasons now. Those two attendants, the way they had looked at him…
No wonder Cherach had been mad when she walked in, if that was what they were planning to do to her new slave. Planning to do to him.
In fact, just a few hours before Cherach had driven off her friends and maids and contained her own lust. She had wanted something from him, something more than sex and blood from him. He had seen it at the time. He suspected that she thought of him as some sort of sex-god… which if the males here did not live past their first time was disturbingly understandable. She had wanted him so badly and yet she had held off.
Pietro could see now. She, unlike her kin, did not let her lusts rule her the same way. She had other ideas. And Pietro remembered the way she had been angry with her mother, and now the way that her face had started off in a scowl before turning blank. Whatever her plans were for today, sucking off a sacrificial elf had not been part of them.
Yet still she had, because her mother, the queen had demanded it.
A frown crossed Pietro’s face as he considered the situation. Rape to him was defined as having sex with someone against their will. Cherach had raped that elf. But was it possible that she had been raped just as equally, but only indirectly, by her mother? It was a question Pietro did not have the experience to answer.
Pietro’s frown deepened. No human had experience here in this dark, abyssal place. He could not defer the important questions any longer. He was no priest, no king, and certainly no wise guru or advisor. He was a farmer’s son. But he wasn’t stupid. He would have to start making the hard decisions, answering questions for himself.
A woman would be stoned if she were raped by an elf and the seed took root in her belly, or if she let one of those demons take her willingly, but if unwilling and free of contamination she would be free to live out the rest of her life. Some of his people would not have given the benefit of the doubt to a non-human, but Cherach was at least part human.
He glanced between her legs and saw no sign that she had been fouled there. Only her mouth had been defiled at the command of her mother. Her womb would not bear the foul spawn of humanity’s most hated enemy.
Pietro’s face softened and he knelt next to Cherach, extending out his left hand so that she could reach out to him if she wished. He said softly, “You no like elf?”
Cherach turned to him, her eyes watery and surely bloodshot if not for the fact that blood stood out poorly on black and she barked out two syllables angrily. One was ‘elf’, and the other surely meant ‘hate’. She then looked away in shame.
Pietro snarled and said, “I hate elves too! Hate! HATE! I would kill them all if I could.”
Cherach looked at the hand offered and the fierce look on Pietro’s face and the way that his wrath was directed away from her. For all the monstrous tendencies of her people, their body language was quite close to that of humans. She could see that he meant her no harm and that he was just as angry about what had happened as she was upset and ashamed.
She reached out and took his hand. Her fingers were so smooth and soft in comparison to his, but what pain had these hands seen in their time? How many times had she gone into that chamber against her will? What had she seen in there? What had she done in there? Her mother had yellow flecks in her eyes in addition to blue ones, so obviously they bred with dwarves as well as elves. What else had gone upon the sacrificial altar?
Cherach stood, causing Pietro to rise with her, and she led him over to the table, where she picked up what looked like the dried out innards of a gourd and a pot with oil and such in it. She went over and set them down by the pool before taking Pietro’s hand again and leading him to the edge. She stepped in and then smiled faintly, saying, “Come.”
Pietro hesitated for a moment before placing his left foot into the water. It was, as he suspected, quite hot, but not enough to scald. Refusing to back out, Pietro paused a second to acclimate before he continued in.
He nearly lashed out when Cherach moved towards his loincloth before realizing that there was no lust in her eyes and that the water would wreck the leather. So instead he just held up a hand and took it off himself.
The pool was quite deep, up to chest level on Pietro at one point, although mostly it was only about stomach level once past what Pietro suspected was a staircase artificially added to ease entry and exit into the pool. Now that he had let go of his fury and actually looked at it, it was also remarkably beautiful. The dark water caught the wan light, and when he and Cherach stayed still it quickly settled into perfect flatness and became a liquid mirror.
Cherach picked up the strange spongy thing and opened up the little pot. Soaking the sponge in the pool and then dipping it in the pot, she rubbed it against her arm, producing a bubbling, foaming lather. She then handed it to Pietro and turned her back to him, leaning forward and placing her hands on the edge of the pool for support.
Pietro put the sponge to her back and began to move it in short circles. Cherach did not turn to him, but she did say, “More.”
Pietro pressed down more firmly with the sponge. Congealed blood and grease paint began to come off slowly.
“More.”
Pietro increased the pressure.
“More.”
Pietro complied.
“More.”
Cherach’s arms nearly buckled as she held herself up against the force he was applying to her back as he slowly but surely scrubbed off that which soiled her. As she stood her ground, she got out through gritted teeth, “I want a new word.”
“What?” Pietro asked while he continued his assigned task.
“What are you doing now?” She asked.
“I am cleaning you,” Pietro replied.
“When you are done cleaning, I will be?” Cherach asked.
“You will be clean,” Pietro replied.
“I am not clean. You are. Clean me,” Cherach said before going silent except for the crying.
Quite some time later, perhaps as much as half an hour, when much of her back was scrubbed clean, Pietro managed to work up the strength to ask, “How many?”
“I want a new word,” Cherach said.
“What word?” Pietro asked.
“What is word for three groups of ten?” She asked him.
The sponge hit the water in shock. Pietro stumbled back and lost his footing on the uneven pool bottom. Thrashing about for a moment with his left arm, he felt Cherach grab him and pull him to the surface, an incredibly sad look on her face.
“What is word for three groups of ten?” She asked.
“Thirty,” Pietro sputtered out while looking at her in shock.
“Then thirty,” Cherach said before turning away and gripping the edge of the pool once more. “Clean me. You are clean, I am not. Clean me.”
Pietro continued; cleaning Cherach’s entire back from the nape of her neck down to the small of her back, until she put her hand on his and said, “I no have sex with you. I… I… I need you. But clean me.”
She then turned about, leaning into the pool wall. Pietro looked at her, and knew that she wanted him to wash all of her. The simple decency of what she wanted from him was so… human that he stopped looking at her as a freakish creature but as a woman; an incredibly attractive, beautiful woman in need of his help and who wanted him to place his hand all over her.
Even the most chaste and honourable of knights would have felt a stirring in his loins.
Pietro turned away, embarrassed.
Cherach slid up to him and pressed her body against his back and leaned her head on his shoulder. The softness of her breasts and nipples pressing against his skin contrasted with the stickiness of the blood that still stained her.
“You not like me?” She asked with a quiver in her voice.
Pietro finally understood why they got so mad when he looked away from their naked bodies. They thought he found them unattractive or perhaps even disgusting. When the women here got naked, they expected all attention to be on them.
Shaking his head, Pietro said, “No, I like you. I do. I… I do not want to shame you.”
“Shame?” She asked, the word new to her.
“Shame… shame is…” Pietro paused and thought for a long time before he said, “Shame is bad. Need more new words first, but shame is bad. I do not want to shame you.”
“Clean me,” Cherach begged. “You not shame me, you clean me. I no kill you or… what word for less than kill, but still bad?”
“Hurt?” Pietro supplied.
“I no hurt you. I need you. Need you to clean me. Need… need…” Cherach trailed off. In her closeness, Pietro could feel her tremble.
He turned around and looked at her. She looked small and scared and ashamed and he could not help but feel so incredibly moved for her.
He took up the sponge again.
They must have spent hours down there, him slowly but firmly scrubbing every inch of her body, scouring away the filth. They were so close, and both ached at the nearness, both knowing that they longed for the other, and yet both holding off for their own reasons, their own fears. Pietro did not know what she feared from him, but he feared hurting her, feared shaming her with his actions, and even selfishly, if understandably, feared her.
Perhaps she was afraid of herself.
Finally all that was left was Cherach’s hair. Cherach took the now half empty pot of soap and poured it over her head, gesturing for Pietro to work it in.
The silence between them continued until Cherach asked, “I want a new word.”
“What?” Pietro asked calmly.
“What is this?” Cherach asked while pointing to her head.
“Your head?” Pietro suggested.
“Head… yes head. What do call head see when eyes closed?” Cherach asked.
“Head see when eyes closed?” Pietro muttered, trying to work it out. Parsing it, he asked, “You see things in your head when you close your eyes?”
“Yes… sometimes… not all times. When in bed, when still,” Cherach explained.
“You see things in your head in your bed when you close your eyes and are still… you dream?” Pietro asked, suddenly grabbing Cherach by the shoulder and pulling her close so that he could look her square in the face.
She was scared; deeply scared, to her core, not of Pietro but of that which she did not understand.
He could see it now, could see the need that held her baser desires and lusts in check. Since the First War all creatures except elves needed sleep, but only humans dreamed. Cherach’s people could have no explanation for the things she saw at night, could not understand the gift her human heritage gave her. How long had she failed to sleep, terrified of the images that would come?
“What do you dream?” Pietro asked firmly.
“I dream of iron.”
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
This is damn good.
Only real issue is the time-jump between how Pietro leaves the farm and gets captured, but that really isnt nearly as interesting as the events currently unfolding. So you'ld have your work cutout trying to make the flashbacks fit.
Only real issue is the time-jump between how Pietro leaves the farm and gets captured, but that really isnt nearly as interesting as the events currently unfolding. So you'ld have your work cutout trying to make the flashbacks fit.
"Okay, I'll have the truth with a side order of clarity." ~ Dr. Daniel Jackson.
"Reality has a well-known liberal bias." ~ Stephen Colbert
"One Drive, One Partition, the One True Path" ~ ars technica forums - warrens - on hhd partitioning schemes.
"Reality has a well-known liberal bias." ~ Stephen Colbert
"One Drive, One Partition, the One True Path" ~ ars technica forums - warrens - on hhd partitioning schemes.
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Darth Yoshi
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So what, there was a grand alliance of sorts in the First War against the elves and their goddess?
Good stuff, man. Keep it coming.
Good stuff, man. Keep it coming.
Lore Monkey | the Pichu-master™
Secularism—since AD 80
Av: Elika; Prince of Persia
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Academia Nut
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I'm probably going to have to completely rewrite the flashback scenes at some point, either by adding in more flashback chapters or just condensing it all into one continuous chunk to explain how Pietro got from Thrane to the northlands. I think the second may be preferrable as the "present-time" segments gets interesting much quicker than the "flashback" parts, so they would probably be viewed as interruptions of the narrative. Thus I could start with the prologue to catch the reader's attention, then give an explanation of Pietro and his society before moving on to the main narrative.
Also Darth Yoshi, what parts exactly lead you to believe that there was a grand alliance of sorts against the elves? I want to carefully control the narrative here, so I want to see if I'm creating the impressions I want. You're not necessarily right, and you're not necessarily wrong, I just want to see if I'm giving you the right sort of information.
Also Darth Yoshi, what parts exactly lead you to believe that there was a grand alliance of sorts against the elves? I want to carefully control the narrative here, so I want to see if I'm creating the impressions I want. You're not necessarily right, and you're not necessarily wrong, I just want to see if I'm giving you the right sort of information.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
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Darth Smiley
- Padawan Learner
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This is what I've put together:
What I'm getting is that at some point in the past, everyone (or at least humans and elves) were immortal - not just in the sense that they don't die unless someone kills them, but simply cannot be killed.
The elves (somehow) came out on top - they became the masters, and though everyone was immortal, they were more capable of inflicting pain and suffering to keep their place. A peasant (human) might strike and cause pain to an elf, but they could return the favor a hundred times over.
Then this Deathlord guy comes along. First, he makes everyone mortal. Now, the slaves are capable of defeating their masters - it allows for attrition warfare. He also curses the elves, makes them extremely vulnerable to iron. The elves god ( a sun god) then tries to incinerate all the humans but is stopped and killed by the Deathlord. Humans have some other kind of religious affiliation with iron, first through their blood (which contains iron) and apparently their priests are very skilled blacksmiths (or something like that).
Does that sound about right?
What I'm getting is that at some point in the past, everyone (or at least humans and elves) were immortal - not just in the sense that they don't die unless someone kills them, but simply cannot be killed.
The elves (somehow) came out on top - they became the masters, and though everyone was immortal, they were more capable of inflicting pain and suffering to keep their place. A peasant (human) might strike and cause pain to an elf, but they could return the favor a hundred times over.
Then this Deathlord guy comes along. First, he makes everyone mortal. Now, the slaves are capable of defeating their masters - it allows for attrition warfare. He also curses the elves, makes them extremely vulnerable to iron. The elves god ( a sun god) then tries to incinerate all the humans but is stopped and killed by the Deathlord. Humans have some other kind of religious affiliation with iron, first through their blood (which contains iron) and apparently their priests are very skilled blacksmiths (or something like that).
Does that sound about right?
The enemy's gate is down - Ender Wiggin
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Academia Nut
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Good, that bit appears to have been properly revealed.What I'm getting is that at some point in the past, everyone (or at least humans and elves) were immortal - not just in the sense that they don't die unless someone kills them, but simply cannot be killed.
A reasonable assumption, but not quite right. Remember that even in modern times Pietro knows that it was pretty much dumb, divine luck that let him kill the first three elves and not dying, and fourth one required suicidal courage to bring down. Elves have functional magic, and are stronger and faster than humans. The trouble is that they're stuck in the Stone Age/early Bronze Age with their tech and the humans are roughly Late Medieval/Early Renaissance. The tech advantage is pretty much why humanity ultimately came out on top, but even having a ridiculous technological and numerical advantage they haven't been able to drive the elves to extinction yet, although they have been steadily pushing them further north over the millennia.The elves (somehow) came out on top - they became the masters, and though everyone was immortal, they were more capable of inflicting pain and suffering to keep their place. A peasant (human) might strike and cause pain to an elf, but they could return the favor a hundred times over.
Correct. Basically the sun goddess tried to retaliate for the Curse of Iron on her elves by putting one on humans to burn them up, but decapitation tends to interfere with enacting such things. The humans took it as a blessing though and a major way to say "Fuck you" to the elves.Then this Deathlord guy comes along. First, he makes everyone mortal. Now, the slaves are capable of defeating their masters - it allows for attrition warfare. He also curses the elves, makes them extremely vulnerable to iron. The elves god ( a sun god) then tries to incinerate all the humans but is stopped and killed by the Deathlord. Humans have some other kind of religious affiliation with iron, first through their blood (which contains iron) and apparently their priests are very skilled blacksmiths (or something like that).
Some priests are blacksmiths, others aren't, its one of those religious order things. Basically if you combined the roles of blacksmith, metallurgical scientist, and theologian you would get those guys. While other tech is lagging a bit, the human culture is really good with iron and steel and all the various alloys. They have figured out Damascus steel and are probably a couple decades to a century from designing and building a working Bessemer converter. And since the iron aspects are more populist than other parts of Deathlord theology, the church will quite readily embrace the mass production of cheap, high quality steel.
EDIT: News everyone. No update tonight, but I did spend a few hours sketching out a picture of Cherach so that a friend who is a better artist than I can make a better one. All I need now is a scanner so you can see it.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
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Darth Yoshi
- Metroid
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- Contact:
Ooh, hawt.
Anyway, the impression I get is that there's no real love for elves. Out of the races we know about, the dwarves hate the elves almost as much as the humans do, and while the spiderfolk are perfectly willing to screw elves, they don't seem to particularly like them either.
The Deathlord is responsible for dreams, and the fact that everyone but elves now sleep makes me wonder if it isn't another aspect of the Curse of Iron.
Anyway, the impression I get is that there's no real love for elves. Out of the races we know about, the dwarves hate the elves almost as much as the humans do, and while the spiderfolk are perfectly willing to screw elves, they don't seem to particularly like them either.
The Deathlord is responsible for dreams, and the fact that everyone but elves now sleep makes me wonder if it isn't another aspect of the Curse of Iron.
Lore Monkey | the Pichu-master™
Secularism—since AD 80
Av: Elika; Prince of Persia
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Academia Nut
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Basically in this universe, sleep and dreaming is considered the Little Death (as it was often considered historically in our own world) and the humans feel it is a blessing in that it prepares them for full death. The elves don't sleep, not because they're superior and don't need sleep, but because they are denied the chance to come to grips with the end that awaits them, and since they don't die of old age, they inevitably die from violence. Dreaming is an extra bonus from the Deathlord that has to do with the way humans were changed from their original forms. That however is going to take a while to get to properly.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
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Darth Smiley
- Padawan Learner
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I have one other question: prior to the First War, were humans and elves the same species (and presumably the other races too?). They can interbreed, and the offspring are fertile, so that itself suggests a remarkable degree of similarity. Prior to the First War, everyone was immortal, so there would have been no difference in that respect. Since red blood is part of the Gift of Iron, humans and elves would be similar in that respect. The skin color, another major difference, apparently comes from the failed Curse of the Sun, so no difference there prior to the First War.
In effect, it appears as though 'humans' in this world were lower class/slave elves who were transformed by divine meddling into a new race. Is that something you were getting at, or am I just grasping at straws here?
In effect, it appears as though 'humans' in this world were lower class/slave elves who were transformed by divine meddling into a new race. Is that something you were getting at, or am I just grasping at straws here?
The enemy's gate is down - Ender Wiggin
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Academia Nut
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Ok... so Dwarves are Yellow. Still have to discover what the Green are.
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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Academia Nut
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Hmmm... I might be a bit too much, but try thinking about it like this:
Human colour schemes are blood and iron and earth, correct?
Elves can fly on their nightmares, can steal language from the air, and are immune to extremes of cold and heat. Their colour palette is blues and whites.
Dwarves are yellow. They are noted for their skill with metalworking, enough that only the fact that humans are religiously obsessed with iron and steel has allowed humanity to surpass them in that field. Also, Edvin said something about dwarf attitudes in the third chapter.
Something else is green. If you figure out what I'm doing you should be able to make a guess, although I can assure you that you will be wrong in the specifics as those guys are unlike anything else out there. Still, you can figure out the pattern.
Human colour schemes are blood and iron and earth, correct?
Elves can fly on their nightmares, can steal language from the air, and are immune to extremes of cold and heat. Their colour palette is blues and whites.
Dwarves are yellow. They are noted for their skill with metalworking, enough that only the fact that humans are religiously obsessed with iron and steel has allowed humanity to surpass them in that field. Also, Edvin said something about dwarf attitudes in the third chapter.
Something else is green. If you figure out what I'm doing you should be able to make a guess, although I can assure you that you will be wrong in the specifics as those guys are unlike anything else out there. Still, you can figure out the pattern.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
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Singular Quartet
- Sith Marauder
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- Location: This is sky. It is made of FUCKING and LIMIT.
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Singular Quartet
- Sith Marauder
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- Joined: 2002-07-04 05:33pm
- Location: This is sky. It is made of FUCKING and LIMIT.
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Academia Nut
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Chapter 11: Dreams
His fingers brushed over the ground, feeling the cool moisture of the blades of grass that had grown here in the hot, unforgiving landscape, supported by the patch of damp red earth that stood out in contrast to the barren wastes all around. Despite this patch of brilliant colour, this was a lonely place, for it terrified everyone with its strangeness.
Twenty years ago something had happened, something no one had ever seen before, and it scared them.
Twenty years ago the first two deaths occurred. The desiccated bones of the elf that had died here were still on display, his fellows still not knowing why he had not simply stood up.
The other had decayed away much faster, his blood staining the earth red, his life spilling away and watering this patch of ground with life. Where there had been nothing before, now the grass grew. Where there had been hard, cracked mud there was now soft, moist, water retaining clay.
Red clay.
Ochre.
That was what they called him, Ochre. Amongst his tribe, he was unique. Amongst his people, he was unique. Amongst every thing in this world, he was unique.
Because this man shaped outline of red clay was where he had fallen twenty years ago, the first death in the world. And a few days later, he had been born again to a new body. He had not retained all of his memories, not at first, but his essence remained unchanged by the transition.
And as the years went on, he remembered. He remembered what he had been told by that god after his death, about the order of the world and how it was broken, about how things could not continue like this, how the suffering of so many outweighed the vanity of an incompetent goddess and her cronies. If she refused to clean up her mistakes then force would be taken to make corrections.
Ochre would be that force.
He had not just retained his memories of his previous life, but the gift of his new god as well, the gift of Death. He could only suffer so much before he returned to the new god, unlike the countless others who suffered unimaginable torment at the hands of the elves. Without death, a man could be hacked into a fine paste and spread over a field and until he was reassembled he would feel every foot treading upon him, and since he had no limbs, it could take a very long time to reassemble, if it ever happened at all. With death though, he could escape and return in a generation.
Better yet, not only could he die, he could give it to others. Any wound severe enough to kill him was good enough to kill anyone or anything he personally inflicted it upon. There was a cost in that hunger and sickness could kill him, but when the deer fell over dead from a spear to the neck instead of running off after trampling you to avoid being eaten, it was much easier to stay healthy.
Ochre marked his uniqueness by covering his body in ground up red ochre, a tribute to that which had given him these wonderful gifts, hence his name. None of the ochre however carried the power to grant the power of death to others.
So Ochre had returned here, to this site, where the blood of his past life stained the earth and turned mud to red clay. This ochre was special. This ochre, when fed to someone, would turn the blood red and grant the gift of death.
Ochre ripped up the grass and scattered it about. The grass would die, but in so dying would spread the gift of death, and rebirth, far and wide. He then began to scoop up the thick red ochre, putting it into a leather bag he had made just for this. He would bring this back to his people, granting them all the gift of death. As they died, they would be reborn all across the world while their bodies decayed away to more red ochre that others could consume. The damned half existence of so many would end, replaced by an eternal cycle of death and rebirth, decay and renewal.
This was the promise of the new god.
Ochre was overjoyed to play such a key role.
As he squatted, digging, Ochre smiled as he felt the resonance of the moment. Twenty years ago he had been here, and now…
“You, worm! Get away from there!” A voice said.
Life, death, rebirth. The endless cycle, as promised. But this time would be different from the last, just as this life was different from the last. Setting his bag down, Ochre turned and gazed at the creature behind him.
Tormenter. Enslaver. Baby snatcher. Elf. But not master. Never again master.
Ochre just smiled and said, “No.”
The elf took a step back in confusion, having never met open and premeditated defiance like this before. Oh, there were all the little acts of defiance enacted when no one thought the overseer was watching, or desperate struggling when the punishments were being handed out, but no elf had ever encountered anything but submissiveness otherwise.
“What did you say to me?” The elf asked angrily.
“I said no. You have come to the end, you no longer matter, and thus I no longer listen to what you have so say,” Ochre said smugly while drawing a perfectly weighted tomahawk with a razor sharp flint axe head.
“Insolence-” the elf was cut off by the axe head burying itself in his shoulder, having cut through the clavicle. The elf blinked a few times before screaming in agony as white gore spurted out of the wound that refused to close. It should have only been a minor wound, but instead he could no longer use his right arm and pain like nothing he had ever felt was coursing up and down his body.
Ochre towered over the screaming, pathetic creature. Bullies, the lot of them, tasked with oppressing all other species because their goddess had made a mistake she refused to fix properly. Two races hid far away and paid tribute, but one, Ochre’s people, did not have that luxury, did not have the choice to hide.
And until now did not have the power to fight.
Picking up his hunting spear- laid to the side when he started digging up this special ochre- he slowly sauntered up to the elf. How many people had this bastard tortured, dismembering them so that they could not resist further torments?
Screaming in pain, the elf pulled the axe free in the vain hope that his flesh would seal like it usually did, but instead he just opened the wound wider. Clawing at the gaping hole in his body, trying to force it back together, he looked up to see Ochre towering over him, a faint smile on his face.
“Enjoy oblivion,” Ochre whispered before ramming his spear through the elf’s neck.
Casually wiping off his weapons on the corpse, Ochre then went and collected the bag of red ochre to take back to his tribe. This would show the elves something they had never seen before.
Pietro woke up less violently than he had the last time he had a dream quite so vivid, although that had more to do with the fact that this dream had not ended quite so violently as the last.
Shifting about in his cell, Pietro sat up on his cot and leaned forward heavily, holding up his head with his arms. This place was getting to him, and now he was dreaming of the early prophets, probably a side effect of all the prayer he had been doing in the past week and a half. Cherach absolutely devoured his language and made him learn hers, but at least now he understood what she wanted from him.
She wanted to know about human culture, she wanted to know what it meant to be human. She was not human, but humanity was certainly part of her, and as was understandable, she wanted to know who and what she was.
Most of all though, she wanted answers to the visions she saw in her head, the dreams of iron she had, but they needed a very deep level of linguistic common ground to even begin discussions of things as abstract and confusing as dreams, to say nothing of the theology behind them.
The cold sweat evaporating off him, Pietro eventually had enough composure to begin silently praying to the Deathlord for strength and wisdom, and to remember the teachings of the catechisms so that he could instruct Cherach. As far as he could tell, she had a soul and was thus entitled to the teachings of the Deathlord.
Of course, as far as he could tell was about as far as he could run away from this place before a guard stopped him. All Pietro could really go on was the fact that she had dreams, which were a sign of having a soul if Pietro remembered his limited teachings correct. He knew that he had been told that dreams were a gift from the Deathlord.
How had the teaching gone again? Ah yes.
“The Deathlord placed iron in the blood of men, so that they might know strength in their hearts. Let the red of your blood remind you of the covenant between man and god. The Deathlord placed iron in the hands of men, so that they might know strength of arms. Let the sharpness of your tools and weapons remind you of the generosity of man and god. The Deathlord placed iron in the heads of men, so that they might know strength of mind. Let your dreams remind you of the industry of thought that makes your hearts and arms stronger,” he slowly said to himself to remember the full passage.
Yes. At the very least, if Cherach dreamed, she had iron in her head. She would have to learn the Lesson of Iron to fully appreciate that, but Pietro would wait until she had a much better command of his language before he tried to teach her that. He would not tolerate pauses for grammar and pronunciation while telling her the most sacred part of his religion.
His prayers done, Pietro then began his daily, if such a word could be used in this place, work out to strengthen his right arm, which was healing nicely. These guys knew a great deal about treating injury, especially with the aid of their spider swarms, something Pietro would never get used to.
Spider. Bath.
Those were two words that should never go together and yet got subjected to the result at least once every two days, if not every day. Considering he had been sweating in his dreams again, he would probably have another one today.
Of course, they didn’t just use the spiders for cleaning their bodies; they used them for cleaning pretty much everything. The little bastards had full run of the palace and were constantly hunting down pests and sweeping up little tidbits of organic matter. He had also seen how the spiders would clean most clothing by picking out most sorts of stains and they even used their silk to mend small rips and tears in the fabrics.
Once Pietro had seen them at work in a closet he always remembered to double check any article of clothing for hangers on before he wore it. Cherach thought he was being properly thoughtful towards the spiders, it was apparently considered bad taste to smash them, but really Pietro was just trying to make sure that he didn’t get a scared and angry venomous spider next to his skin. Especially since most of what he wore usually just covered his crotch.
His exercises were interrupted mid push-up by one of the guards coming over to his cell and saying, “Hey Pietro, get up, it time for bath.”
At least he had managed to learn enough to carry out simple conversations with the others in the household and they knew his name now, although he suspected that the only reason he got better than ‘hey you’ was because Cherach liked to use his name.
Rising to his feet, Pietro said, “I know, I know,” before letting himself be lead towards that thoroughly disgusting and unnerving chamber.
The guard grinned, “Told, get you extra clean today. Something special happen.”
Pietro froze. From what he had gathered, ‘special’ equalled ‘balls crawl up into your throat terror’ around here. He then asked tentatively, “What special?”
“Party!” The guard replied all too cheerfully.
His fingers brushed over the ground, feeling the cool moisture of the blades of grass that had grown here in the hot, unforgiving landscape, supported by the patch of damp red earth that stood out in contrast to the barren wastes all around. Despite this patch of brilliant colour, this was a lonely place, for it terrified everyone with its strangeness.
Twenty years ago something had happened, something no one had ever seen before, and it scared them.
Twenty years ago the first two deaths occurred. The desiccated bones of the elf that had died here were still on display, his fellows still not knowing why he had not simply stood up.
The other had decayed away much faster, his blood staining the earth red, his life spilling away and watering this patch of ground with life. Where there had been nothing before, now the grass grew. Where there had been hard, cracked mud there was now soft, moist, water retaining clay.
Red clay.
Ochre.
That was what they called him, Ochre. Amongst his tribe, he was unique. Amongst his people, he was unique. Amongst every thing in this world, he was unique.
Because this man shaped outline of red clay was where he had fallen twenty years ago, the first death in the world. And a few days later, he had been born again to a new body. He had not retained all of his memories, not at first, but his essence remained unchanged by the transition.
And as the years went on, he remembered. He remembered what he had been told by that god after his death, about the order of the world and how it was broken, about how things could not continue like this, how the suffering of so many outweighed the vanity of an incompetent goddess and her cronies. If she refused to clean up her mistakes then force would be taken to make corrections.
Ochre would be that force.
He had not just retained his memories of his previous life, but the gift of his new god as well, the gift of Death. He could only suffer so much before he returned to the new god, unlike the countless others who suffered unimaginable torment at the hands of the elves. Without death, a man could be hacked into a fine paste and spread over a field and until he was reassembled he would feel every foot treading upon him, and since he had no limbs, it could take a very long time to reassemble, if it ever happened at all. With death though, he could escape and return in a generation.
Better yet, not only could he die, he could give it to others. Any wound severe enough to kill him was good enough to kill anyone or anything he personally inflicted it upon. There was a cost in that hunger and sickness could kill him, but when the deer fell over dead from a spear to the neck instead of running off after trampling you to avoid being eaten, it was much easier to stay healthy.
Ochre marked his uniqueness by covering his body in ground up red ochre, a tribute to that which had given him these wonderful gifts, hence his name. None of the ochre however carried the power to grant the power of death to others.
So Ochre had returned here, to this site, where the blood of his past life stained the earth and turned mud to red clay. This ochre was special. This ochre, when fed to someone, would turn the blood red and grant the gift of death.
Ochre ripped up the grass and scattered it about. The grass would die, but in so dying would spread the gift of death, and rebirth, far and wide. He then began to scoop up the thick red ochre, putting it into a leather bag he had made just for this. He would bring this back to his people, granting them all the gift of death. As they died, they would be reborn all across the world while their bodies decayed away to more red ochre that others could consume. The damned half existence of so many would end, replaced by an eternal cycle of death and rebirth, decay and renewal.
This was the promise of the new god.
Ochre was overjoyed to play such a key role.
As he squatted, digging, Ochre smiled as he felt the resonance of the moment. Twenty years ago he had been here, and now…
“You, worm! Get away from there!” A voice said.
Life, death, rebirth. The endless cycle, as promised. But this time would be different from the last, just as this life was different from the last. Setting his bag down, Ochre turned and gazed at the creature behind him.
Tormenter. Enslaver. Baby snatcher. Elf. But not master. Never again master.
Ochre just smiled and said, “No.”
The elf took a step back in confusion, having never met open and premeditated defiance like this before. Oh, there were all the little acts of defiance enacted when no one thought the overseer was watching, or desperate struggling when the punishments were being handed out, but no elf had ever encountered anything but submissiveness otherwise.
“What did you say to me?” The elf asked angrily.
“I said no. You have come to the end, you no longer matter, and thus I no longer listen to what you have so say,” Ochre said smugly while drawing a perfectly weighted tomahawk with a razor sharp flint axe head.
“Insolence-” the elf was cut off by the axe head burying itself in his shoulder, having cut through the clavicle. The elf blinked a few times before screaming in agony as white gore spurted out of the wound that refused to close. It should have only been a minor wound, but instead he could no longer use his right arm and pain like nothing he had ever felt was coursing up and down his body.
Ochre towered over the screaming, pathetic creature. Bullies, the lot of them, tasked with oppressing all other species because their goddess had made a mistake she refused to fix properly. Two races hid far away and paid tribute, but one, Ochre’s people, did not have that luxury, did not have the choice to hide.
And until now did not have the power to fight.
Picking up his hunting spear- laid to the side when he started digging up this special ochre- he slowly sauntered up to the elf. How many people had this bastard tortured, dismembering them so that they could not resist further torments?
Screaming in pain, the elf pulled the axe free in the vain hope that his flesh would seal like it usually did, but instead he just opened the wound wider. Clawing at the gaping hole in his body, trying to force it back together, he looked up to see Ochre towering over him, a faint smile on his face.
“Enjoy oblivion,” Ochre whispered before ramming his spear through the elf’s neck.
Casually wiping off his weapons on the corpse, Ochre then went and collected the bag of red ochre to take back to his tribe. This would show the elves something they had never seen before.
Pietro woke up less violently than he had the last time he had a dream quite so vivid, although that had more to do with the fact that this dream had not ended quite so violently as the last.
Shifting about in his cell, Pietro sat up on his cot and leaned forward heavily, holding up his head with his arms. This place was getting to him, and now he was dreaming of the early prophets, probably a side effect of all the prayer he had been doing in the past week and a half. Cherach absolutely devoured his language and made him learn hers, but at least now he understood what she wanted from him.
She wanted to know about human culture, she wanted to know what it meant to be human. She was not human, but humanity was certainly part of her, and as was understandable, she wanted to know who and what she was.
Most of all though, she wanted answers to the visions she saw in her head, the dreams of iron she had, but they needed a very deep level of linguistic common ground to even begin discussions of things as abstract and confusing as dreams, to say nothing of the theology behind them.
The cold sweat evaporating off him, Pietro eventually had enough composure to begin silently praying to the Deathlord for strength and wisdom, and to remember the teachings of the catechisms so that he could instruct Cherach. As far as he could tell, she had a soul and was thus entitled to the teachings of the Deathlord.
Of course, as far as he could tell was about as far as he could run away from this place before a guard stopped him. All Pietro could really go on was the fact that she had dreams, which were a sign of having a soul if Pietro remembered his limited teachings correct. He knew that he had been told that dreams were a gift from the Deathlord.
How had the teaching gone again? Ah yes.
“The Deathlord placed iron in the blood of men, so that they might know strength in their hearts. Let the red of your blood remind you of the covenant between man and god. The Deathlord placed iron in the hands of men, so that they might know strength of arms. Let the sharpness of your tools and weapons remind you of the generosity of man and god. The Deathlord placed iron in the heads of men, so that they might know strength of mind. Let your dreams remind you of the industry of thought that makes your hearts and arms stronger,” he slowly said to himself to remember the full passage.
Yes. At the very least, if Cherach dreamed, she had iron in her head. She would have to learn the Lesson of Iron to fully appreciate that, but Pietro would wait until she had a much better command of his language before he tried to teach her that. He would not tolerate pauses for grammar and pronunciation while telling her the most sacred part of his religion.
His prayers done, Pietro then began his daily, if such a word could be used in this place, work out to strengthen his right arm, which was healing nicely. These guys knew a great deal about treating injury, especially with the aid of their spider swarms, something Pietro would never get used to.
Spider. Bath.
Those were two words that should never go together and yet got subjected to the result at least once every two days, if not every day. Considering he had been sweating in his dreams again, he would probably have another one today.
Of course, they didn’t just use the spiders for cleaning their bodies; they used them for cleaning pretty much everything. The little bastards had full run of the palace and were constantly hunting down pests and sweeping up little tidbits of organic matter. He had also seen how the spiders would clean most clothing by picking out most sorts of stains and they even used their silk to mend small rips and tears in the fabrics.
Once Pietro had seen them at work in a closet he always remembered to double check any article of clothing for hangers on before he wore it. Cherach thought he was being properly thoughtful towards the spiders, it was apparently considered bad taste to smash them, but really Pietro was just trying to make sure that he didn’t get a scared and angry venomous spider next to his skin. Especially since most of what he wore usually just covered his crotch.
His exercises were interrupted mid push-up by one of the guards coming over to his cell and saying, “Hey Pietro, get up, it time for bath.”
At least he had managed to learn enough to carry out simple conversations with the others in the household and they knew his name now, although he suspected that the only reason he got better than ‘hey you’ was because Cherach liked to use his name.
Rising to his feet, Pietro said, “I know, I know,” before letting himself be lead towards that thoroughly disgusting and unnerving chamber.
The guard grinned, “Told, get you extra clean today. Something special happen.”
Pietro froze. From what he had gathered, ‘special’ equalled ‘balls crawl up into your throat terror’ around here. He then asked tentatively, “What special?”
“Party!” The guard replied all too cheerfully.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
I'm beginning to think the DeathLord is using Pietro.
Me: Nope, that's why I have you around to tell me.
Nitram: You -are- beautiful. Anyone tries to tell you otherwise kill them.
"A life is like a garden. Perfect moments can be had, but not preserved, except in memory. LLAP" -- Leonard Nimoy, last Tweet
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Academia Nut
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Maybe...
Or maybe Pietro is just having dreams about the stories he knows quite well due to stress, his mind filling in the blanks where necessary.
Who knows?
Or maybe Pietro is just having dreams about the stories he knows quite well due to stress, his mind filling in the blanks where necessary.
Who knows?
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
I like the idea of a superpower (the ability to kill things in this case) that comes with a hefty downside (you can be killed yourself, and you lose your unlimited lifespan). It's pretty original. And it nicely conveys that things must have really sucked for the humans back then if they all thought it was a good deal.
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Academia Nut
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It sucked for pretty much everybody but the elves back then. The description so far shows a world that was drenched in searing heat and light; a colourless, parched wasteland. Worse yet, you could stick someone in a blender with boiling aspault and make a road out of the bastard and the poor fucker would still be alive, feeling every wound, feeling every person walking on them for all eternity. Standard punishment however is just to cut someone's head off, mount it on a pike, and then string up their body with their own intestines where they can see it.
And the implication is that it was created this way, with the elves tasked by their goddess to maintain this grotesque order, which they did with gusto.
The humans really, really hate them for that. Getting rid of the elves and getting to end the unimaginable suffering is all a plus to them.
And the implication is that it was created this way, with the elves tasked by their goddess to maintain this grotesque order, which they did with gusto.
The humans really, really hate them for that. Getting rid of the elves and getting to end the unimaginable suffering is all a plus to them.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
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Darth Smiley
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White Haven
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The Elves are going to be truly fucked, given that the Curse of Iron prohibits them from modern technologies, and the human obsession with iron and steel practically mandates them...and the more I hear about the early history of this universe, the more satisfied that makes me. Awesome job. 
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)
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Academia Nut
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The elves basically have had their nuts in a vice for the past few thousand years and its only been getting tighter. They have, at most, about five hundred years before they're driven to extinction. That is of course presuming that humanity doesn't suddenly have an industrial revolution before then. As their iron and steel working is about two to three hundred years ahead of the rest of their technology, they already have a lot of what they need. More so, if they discover ways to cheaply mass produce high quality steel (and considering all the useful things that can be made from steel there will be lots of demand), there will suddenly be a need for more iron ore and probably coal and coke once they deplete their forests making charcoal. This means mining deep. The underground races like the dwarves and the spiderkin have ways of reprocessing air, but they're far away, so increased mining means the development of ways of getting fresh air down deep. That means pumps, which will quickly mean steam engines. With steel good enough to make into high pressure vessels and pipes, the tech will progress rapidly.
Of course, once there's also gunpowder and all the implications there to worry about too.
Ironically, if the elves weren't such dicks not just in the past but in the modern age their long life spans would allow them to have a lot of children and slowly get their numbers back up and try and use their magic to compensate for their woeful tech disadvantage, but as it is they're just barely meeting replacement rates, while the humans are increasing their numbers at a steady pace. Of course, while they can wear armour so long as its not made from iron, they tend not to, which just makes things worse for them.
So yeah, they're really fucked.
Of course, once there's also gunpowder and all the implications there to worry about too.
Ironically, if the elves weren't such dicks not just in the past but in the modern age their long life spans would allow them to have a lot of children and slowly get their numbers back up and try and use their magic to compensate for their woeful tech disadvantage, but as it is they're just barely meeting replacement rates, while the humans are increasing their numbers at a steady pace. Of course, while they can wear armour so long as its not made from iron, they tend not to, which just makes things worse for them.
So yeah, they're really fucked.
I love learning. Teach me. I will listen.
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
You know, if Christian dogma included a ten-foot tall Jesus walking around in battle armor and smashing retarded cultists with a gaint mace, I might just convert - Noble Ire on Jesus smashing Scientologists
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White Haven
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It just goes to demonstrate the First Rule of Nation-States: When In Doubt, Don't Create Legions of Hate-Filled People Committed to the Total Destruction of Your Nation.
Then again, if nation-states followed that rule, fiction and reality would both be quite dull places.
Then again, if nation-states followed that rule, fiction and reality would both be quite dull places.
Out of Context Theatre, this week starring Darth Nostril.
-'If you really want to fuck with these idiots tell them that there is a vaccine for chemtrails.'
Fiction!: The Final War (Bolo/Lovecraft) (Ch 7 9/15/11), Living (D&D, Complete)