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The Immolation, Part 2
Damien Black slips the taffeta from White Feather's shoulders,
and she does not resist. She embraces him, kisses him deeply and
lovingly, and strokes his erect penis with her soft hand. He
moans life and death, enraged with passion. She slips from the
tight black undergarment and now she is standing nude atop the
funeral bier embracing him. Night has fully fallen. White
Feather's tight hips now glisten in the light of the flickering
torches and bonfires of lust.
Undead circle the Wolves who are still on the ground, Camille and
Enchandra. They begin to rip at clothes and tear at skin.
Camille's clothing is ripped from her, piece by small piece
viscously, until she is all but nude and completely unconscious.
These undead are foul demons. Some have partial faces or are
missing whole limbs. Others are missing eyes, ears or cheek flesh.
One female elf is missing her left breast, and her loins have
rotted away, leaving only bleached bone and sinew, where once was
life-giving flesh. All the living dead smell of rotten meat and
are crawling with maggots and ants. A vulture is perched on the
head of one of these monstrosities, eating what it left of its
face. Damien raises a hand and the undead cease their molestation
of the female Wolves. They move some distance away, forming a
circle about the hapless she-elves. The ghouls and zombies
undulate in a killing, clawing wave -- eating each other and
their living lovers.
The blonde man begins to chant "Ab Intra Nerros Coitus
Victoria." Over and over he says these words, as he
positions White Feather on her hands and knees. White Feather
submissively assumes the required position and opens her hyacinth
to the man, a glistening pink flower of womanhood. Damien pulls
the oak quarterstaff from it hole in the bier and raises it over
his head. He positions himself behind White Feather and lowers
himself slowly to his knees. He rotates the quarterstaff over his
head. "Ab Intra Nerros Coitus Victoria," the tattooed
man chants as he roughly penetrates White Feather with the staff.
He begins to stroke in and out of White Feather with the staff,
deep enormous thrusts. The rhythm of movement in the Flesh Circle
increases to keep time with the oak staff as it enters and exits
White Feather. The sound coming from the valley floor, all the
bodies engaged in a single act of passion, increases to a
sonorous thunder.
The blonde man pulls the staff from White Feather's womanhood and
penetrates her with his erect penis. All the living partners in
the necrophillic dance ignite with real fire. Flesh melts from
them. Their bodies crumble to piles of ash and bone, and their
spirits mingle in a luminous swirl above the funeral bier. "Ab
Intra Nerros Coitus Victoria." The swirling souls disappear,
as if they are being sucked into the oak staff, and the staff
begins to glow a luminous magical aura. Damien thrusts harder
into White Feather. She screams a banshee scream of pleasure and
passion. Damien raises his hand. Several female ghouls stand
forth from the chaos, and their heads ignite, becoming balls of
fire.
Damien trusts hard into White Feather, and you can hear the slap
of flesh on flesh from your position yards away. White Feather
gives a hollow scream, as she reaches transcendent ecstasy. She
comes again and again, as evidenced by her rapid rhythmic
screaming and the near-constant jerking of her hips. Damien
strokes viscously now, savagely entering and exiting White
Feather's nothing. He raises the staff, which is aglow with the
power of death. The female ghouls bury their heads in the funeral
bier and it ignites, buring quickly as dry grass. Camille's and
Enchandra's legs, drenched in the noxious gas become sacks of
gangrenous puss and rot. Each can feel the bones in their lower
legs dissolve, go limp and they fall to the ground. The cloud
dissipates immediately thereafter.
As the female ghouls burn, living he-elves position themselves
behind the ghoulish women and enter them with erect penises. The
ghouls howl. The females ignite the bier with hellish flames, and
they too are set afire. The he-elves are also consumed in the
conflagration. Damien raises his staff and chants, "Ab Intra
Nerros et Coitus Victoria" and the swirling souls of the he
elves are drawn into the Staff of Death. The glow of the staff
brightens.
Damien grunts, low, animalistic and reaches orgasm, a moment of
intense erotic pleasure and pain. He dismounts White Feather
leaving her vagina covered with his seed. He positions the staff
at the entrance of her womanhood. She moans, and arches her back
to receive the magic wood. Damien moves the staff inside White
Feather while keeping rhythm with her bucking hips. White Feather
screams with delight and pain. The flames lick close to the
wooden platform and consume it. White Feather begins to burn.
Hair glows with fire. Skin melting from bony structure. Only her
loins are momentarily untouched my the Gehennah atop the bier.
Her face melts. Her eye socket steam with smoke. The holes of her
nostrils become chimneys. Magically, Damien is untouched, and
then you notice the single article that he is wearing, a simple
gold ring. As the fire ghoul that it now White Feather screams
her last repulsive orgasm, her spirit is drawn into the staff.
"Ab Intra Nerros et Coitus Victoria." The sigils and
runes on Damien's body begin to glow, and the fire crackles
through the charred remains of the elf princess. Damien clutches
what it left of White Feather's raven hair, pulls her charred
neck taunt, and maniacally hacks off her head with the black
dagger. He hold her head by the hair, and walks toward you.
Camille
Camille drops heavily to the ground and
into merciful oblivion, though her body seems to unconsciously
react to the ghouls' foul touches by writhing and shuddering of
its own accord. Her eyes are shut tightly, almost in an
expression of intense concentration, and crystalline tears cut
paths through the dirt on her pale cheeks. With furrowed brows
and a tightly clenched jaw, she tosses her head fitfully and
whimpers broken words. "Fea.. F..Feather... N-No... No,
Feather... N-Not ...you..." Her lips tremble as she moans
incoherently, and violent tremors occasionally wrack her
helpless, denuded form.
She begins sobbing in earnest as her once lean and shapely legs
wither beneath her, though her wails are somewhat monotonous, as
those of a woman crying out in her sleep. Camille's consciousness
remains departed from her body throughout Damien's horrible
invocation, though her eyes flutter wildly beneath their lids,
and her involuntary gyrations increase to a fevered pitch as the
enchantment nears completion. Her teeth bite into her lower lip
until they draw blood. It is at that moment that Damien severs
White Feather's head from her burned corpse, and Camille lurches
to an upright position as if emerging from a nightmare. She
begins to scream even before she sees Damien advancing with his
grisly prize, but those cries strangle in her throat when she
sees White Feather's once-vibrant face staring at her through
empty eyesockets. Camille's face wilts like a dying flower, and
the fire that so often graced her eyes is snuffed out like embers.
The glance she casts at her wasted legs seems somehow secondary,
and she immediately looks back up at Damien with a horrible
expression of betrayal and despair.
Tears flow freely now, and her sobs come deep and silent, taking
her breath, for no mortal sound can express the aching emptiness
inside her. She falls over and curls up as best she can,
oblivious to the dirt and rocks which scrape her face, and weeps
soundlessly like a forgotten child whose very last hope has been
ruthlessly destroyed.
Winsome Hawk
Winsome struggles in vain against the invisible
restraints. The entrapment driving the elf near mad. In his
peripheral vision he can barely see some of his comrades fall to
the arcane paralyzing effect. Again Winsome throws himself
against the power binding him to the tree, his need to rescue his
friends driving him further and further into a berserk like
frenzy. Spittle frothing from his mouth mixed with blood from
where in utter frustration he has bit his lip ragged. Again and
again the elf pushes against himself with all of his might. There
is a sudden popping sound from his left shoulder, and something
gives in the joint. The white hot searing pain tells of a
dislocation but it is enough to jolt Winsome out of his frenzy
for a moment. Sweat soaking his entire body he looks out upon the
horror that enfolds before him...
In the haze of madness he perceives more than sees Camille's and
Enchandra's legs becoming sacks of gangrenous puss and rot, the
bones dissolving, going limp as they fall to the ground. The
cloud dissipating immediately thereafter. "NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"
he screams, blood and spittle flying from his lips. A wailing cry
emanating from the depths of his soul. The uncontrollable sobs
racking his body as tears stream down his masked face, stinging
his torn bloody lip. Slipping from rational thought further and
further, racked in mental, emotional and spiritual pain his very
essence being tested to its limits. Still he looks on for the
worst is yet to come, and he cannot resist watching the macabre
play work its way to the end...
Grief ridden Winsome beholds the living epitome of evil and
horror. The fine and glorious White Feather consumed in flame...
a living ghoul of ash and fire... "I have seen the Sun..."
he whispers in a maddened lilt..."I have seen the Sun... I
have seen the Sun..." the oily smell of cooked meat heavy in
the air, then the dagger falls, torture of White Feather comes to
an end at last. To Winsome's near broken mind her charred body
falls in a slow liquid motion, thumping on the brier and
showering out bits of burnt flesh, ash and gore. The hideous head
being held aloft buy scraggled hair, still smoking, still locked
in its final twisted ecstasy. Something in the sudden final
defiling act caused a shivering rip throughout Winsome's being.
Gone was the frenzied flames of despair. Replaced by a wave
washing over him, icy cold and calculated, bringing on madness of
a different kind... "And a shadow in her wake vain with
power..."
He locks his sight on the approaching Necromancer. Cold as a
snake he waits, to spring and kill is all he wants to do now.
"
It is only I now..." he whispers to himself, sure the other
Wolves have fallen. "And the Shadow will bite..."
In the end the mad Winsome Hawk does what he was trained to do,
watch, lurk and listen. But his eyes show a different vision of
the Wolf, mania has now settled there.
Korian Windsong
Through tear soaked eyes I watch the grisly scene. I
want to scream, to deny the death of my beloved white feather,
but no sound passes through my constricted throat. The salty
wetness streams down my face but even that I am powerless to
prevent. helpless if the Grip of this evil magic. And now, now
The vile human comes toward us through the smoke and fire like a
great winged Demon descending upon helpless prey. My Wolves, are
in danger I think to myself. Quickly Imust think of a way to draw
Damien's attention upwards, to me and me alone. no more of my
elves will die today. not if I can help it. suddenly my throat
clears and the scream that has been waiting behind it comes
billowing forth. The scream becomes a lightning bolt spell. the
incantation of it at least. I know that there will be no
discharge of killing electricity for I cannot perform the hand
gestures or reach my material components, but just maybe it will
distract him long enough for one of the others to free themselves.
As i shout the spell over and over I envision this foulest of
creatures, the slayer of my white feather, hit by my destuctive
lightning. Hie eyes smoking as did poor white feathers, his hair,
standind on end before it catches fire, his body convulsing as
the bolt sears his every nerve and finally tosses him back, a
lifeless heap torn asunder by the sheer anger I feel. I will
shout my spell until I am dead, or until i can move again. Then
he will pay. Oh yes. He will pay dearly for what he has done.
Enchandra
The holy power rushes through the Priestess Enchandra's
body as the spell comes to fruition and the tiny hairs on her
body stand on end as if drawn to a powerful source of
electrostatic charge. As the final expectant rush begins to take
control of her body, the unthinkable happens as the gas takes its
horrid effect.
Her mighty armour is no defence, the gas pouring through greaves
and links and dissolving the bare skin underneath almost
instantly, then muscle, tendon, and then bone. Enchandra looks
down, the flow of power now interrupted as her entire body is
clutched by an un-stoppable force, and she watches as if she was
viewing this from another's eyes, another's mind.
Then, as the feeling pours into her numbed consciousness, she
lets out an unearthly scream of pure, utter pain. Pain that runs
so deep as to be unbearable but her will is such that it does not
give in, does not fall back and surrender to the bliss of
complete unconsciousness. Instead, images pour through her mind,
bathed in the halo of blood and gore from the last thing she
witnessed, that being the complete dissolution of her legs.
A canopy of trees whizz by, as if viewed by a bird, and the blood
red sun beats down upon the leaves. The 'bird' plunges down, down
at a dizzying speed, bursting through the canopy and down, down,
into the nether reaches of the forest. The view changes, hovers
dreamlike above two figures whom lie naked, intertwined as the
roots of adjoining trees, the body of the female on top riding
rhythmically upon the other, male, and she looks to the sky and
screams in passion as she reaches the point of ecstasy. The face
is of Enchandra, the male, her guide, her lover, and her mentor.
The one who tried to show Enchandra that beauty is not only in
the leaf, the tree, the earth, and failed...
The bird zips off into the canopy once again, deeper, deeper into
the woods. Another figure is viewed, this time alone, a teenage
Enchandra again, holding her arms in the air above her head and
kneeling body. The wounds on her wrists are jagged, harsh and
blood coats her arms as it flows from the wounds...
Again the little avian flies, and this time to an Elven house,
the Oak tree old and ancient. In it an old mother Elf suckles a
new-born... The scene changes, the mother gone, the father
seemingly praying at an Elf's bed, but closer, closer, the view
moves revealing clutching hands at a young Elves clothes,
ripping, tearing, the man standing full and leaning over the
screaming female elf...
Twittering off again, the images begin to blur by, a scene of
holy wrath being wrought on fiendish zombies, their flesh
erupting into boils, the bodies dropping into heaps around an
enraged Enchandra, revealing her mother dead, barely
recognizable, rended from stem to sternum...
... Enchandra running from a foe unknown, tears, whimpering...
.... branches tearing at fabric, finding skin, tearing flesh...
.... a drop of blood running down a fingertip...
.... falling into a pool of water, rippling the still surface...
.... a face visible, Enchandra's, weeping...
.... the body of her mentor at her feet...
.... fade to black...