Forward: Due to recent life events involving internet despots, I have seen fit to exorcise them from my system via the following comedy(ala Dante).
(with gratitude to Nanshakh)
The Pale (XI)
Myrstra won the battle for consciousness in Dahlia’s body with a bit of drowish ingenuity: When a more powerful foe presses you, make them chase you down…to chasms so dark, where pits have no bottom. Fighting blind in Dahlia’s psyche, Myrstra willed Lloth to aid her, and behold, that which was asked for…was given.
The further she ascended through the favored soul’s waking consciousness, the more power she wielded, until, as a matter of fact, upon the surface of Dahlia’s being, Myrstra no longer heard the woman’s screams far down below.
“This is she,” spoke a drunken voice suddenly, a voice holding onto her right arm, “that went and ‘urt me boy Blunt Stick.” There was discernable pressure on her left arm, but the grip was loose, perhaps that of a delicate surface dwelling elfkin?
“Tsk, tsk,” such a bad girl,” a low feminine voice crooned. “Stake her before me. We can’t have pretty little things like this blinding my half-orc guards.”
Myrstra felt her body forced downwards as a long wooden pole slid between her elbows; a similar pole bumped into her heels. “Up wench,” the sturdy voice on her right commanded.
Moist sinew strings were wrapped viciously around her elbows, binding them to the heavy pole; down below, her heels spread eagle three shoulder widths out, the sinews were again applied in like manner. Bumping under her leather skirt, an insistent foot prompted.
“Open your eyes to my law,” Ra’la Reseptembai, the long, tall brunette that slunk on the empty throne of the Tarnished Legion commanded.
Myrstra, long used to seeing in the dark, had forgotten her new body’s eyes were closed tight. The opening revealed the almost masculine face of Ra’la, and looking down revealed that woman’s inquisitive foot that prodded at her mound.
“That’s better,” Ra’la crooned, “I like those who transgress the law of the Tarnished Legion to see their new slave mistress…personally.” A wicked grin played on the brunette’s face. “What have you to say for yourself, girl? Attacking and maiming a member of the old legion, even if he was just a half-orc, isn’t looked upon fondly.” More prodding, more insistence on pain. “Like my toe-rings?”
Myrstra’s drowish mind put the picture together. Dahlia had been in the act of harming one of the woman’s esteemed brethren, and thanks to Evil Fortune (that fickle almost-drowish mate to Lloth), she was now to stand trial for the cleric’s earlier misdeeds.
“Aye, your toe-rings are quite stimulating mea dama, bump me a bit more please?” And Myrstra’s chaotic drowish tongue meant it heatedly, but also in reverence to Ra’la’s apparent superior position. Such antithesis was part and parcel to old drow society.
“Impertinent harlot,” Ra’la spat. “You’ll earn the bite of my lash for using such a daring tongue with me. Or do you long even for that sweet measure?”
Myrstra watched as Ra’la’s long elegant lashes closed to reveal her beautifully shaded eyes. The drow knew the needs of Ra’la even before Ra’la did. The dama’s makeup, carefully applied, carefully imported from foreign climes, told Myrstra that the woman was used to power and riches; however, she was not the ruler, the throne was too large for even her amazonian frame, but the power the throne represented was proving to be an intoxication. Thus the shaded eyes and forward assumptions; thus Myrstra’s current plight.
“My lady,” Myrstra tried a old drowish chestnut, “if I have offended, allow me to clean your feet, for I see they have been sullied by my actions.”
Emoting that her hands were bound, Myrstra’s eyes revealed she was capable of worship…and more.
“Leave us!” Ra’la Septembai snapped to the guards. “This one needs….chastisement.”
The two female guards saluted, fist to heart, and turned on a gold piece to leave the presence of the acting queen’s presence.
“Now that we are all alone, and you are bound with sinew and pole, perhaps I will have my answers my sweetling?” Ra’la’ voice beamed to the chagrin of Myrstra. Unfurling a long stingray tail-whip, dried and cured in the sun for a year on the Isle of Pain, Ra’la’s red lips turned upwards into a thin, cruel smile.
