Taerlyn (mm captivity graphic torture scenes)
Shots boom in the distance. A different weapon. Something vicious. Something new. Something stranger. Taerlyn's ears swivel to take in the odd sounds, the whoosh like arrows, only much thinner, many more together, how can they stay clustered so closely together like this? RUN! It approaches, the whoosh of their cluster is right above the lithe black dragon's head now, RUN!
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Taerlyn wakes in a large cell, woozy, weak, wobbly, unable to focus, limbs rubbery. Shackles bind him for now, but the air is thick with the smell of molten steel - a metal not even he can break, a metal only intense fire can forge, and Taerlyn is not a 'breather' of any sort. He will not have acid, cold, or fire to apply to this metal. Soon, oh too soon for he doesn't even seem to have a moment to command his limbs to move, brain too fogged, limbs too rubbery, white hot metal is poured into molds directly around his limbs, making solid shackles, the sizzling of his scales and flesh underneath gives a pungent dragonsteak smell to the air, something the humans laugh, point and pat their stomachs about.
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It's this insult that builds enough rage for Taerlyn to finally thrash ferociously as if not drugged at all, the orange-hot manacles singeing further into his limbs, making acrid smoke as his charred scales convert into white ash beneath it and third degree burns start forming in his flesh beneath, the burnt dragonsteak scent now not so savory even to the men who are now choking on it, wretching and clutching their stomachs.
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Then the back door whips open and a commander appears brandishing a single thread of these metal quills that rained down upon him in the battle. A quill some 20' long but amazingly light, somehow rigid and well in command of the wielder. Thin like one of those radio antennae on their vehicles, but he wields it like a rapier sword. With this, he can keep amazing distance, like a pikeman, but as he knows from experience now, it is razor sharp, can cut straight through scales, and is toxic, able to subdue him instantly.
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So they begin the dance, the pikeman-swordsmith versus the bound, wounded, hobbled dragon whose motivation is escape.
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Taerlyn was struck down in the middle of his first move. That rigid quill can also act like a whip. The correct move would have been to get away from his opponent, which also would have resulted in recapture. It was a no-win scenario.
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They did do him one honorarium however. His opponent let him see the glee on his face when they poured the metal shackle that bound his neck.
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A new day, the pain of the shackling over. Chained with the quill-bearers guarding constant watch, Taerlyn cares not for this existance in pain, imprisonment, weakened, unable to fly away, only an amusement for these humans who poke and prod and point and laugh while he snaps and growls and claws and lunges, all in vain, all exactly what they expect, all amusements for them. All pathetic. But one day a boastful human gets too close. A quick jerk of the head, and soon the idiot is writhing -- impaled on one of my horns, his gore pouring down my face as his entrails slough out of his body like so many steaming sausages. It was glorious.
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Three quill-strikes barely fazed me, the blood-lust and glory of battle thrilled my dragon heart so much, a taste of vengeance at last. Then my collarer buddy came, he who delighted in my recapture and final shackling so much. It was his brutal lash that made the deep gouge in my face I wear today, the gouge that poisoned me into submission but not sleep. Oh, no. He wanted me to be aware of what he wanted to do to me next. A rape worse than the collaring.
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He took tongs from the steel-forge, red hot, put his stinking boot against my head while others pulled my chains to hold me tight while he wrenched my horns off! The smell of those tongs burning into my horns! The smoke! A black, oily, gaseous cloud filled the room as he singed my skull and my horn, wrenching both back and forth, his face a rictus of rage and death. Bystanders could no longer countenance the spectacle, perhaps not liking to see their commander in this state of sadism, perhaps not able to stomach the bitter stench of fried dragonhorn. In whatever case, our wrestling seemed interminable.
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The final snap of a dragonhorn breaking is exactly the most sorrowful, penetrating, terrifying sound you'll never want to hear - somewhere in my mind I was seeing birds light from trees miles distant - and yet removing the offending horn was not enough. Every one of my potential weapons now had to be yanked from my skull. I wished I could pass out from the heartache, loss, pain, and humiliation. I think somehow this was an evil sorcerer working on me, one who could rape me in this way and not let me escape my tortures by passing out. And so again I experienced this cruelty until I lost all four of my horns.
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"Taerlyn?" a peculiar, alien, non-draconic voice spoke. I'd not heard this species talk before. It was dark; the voice was somewhere beyond the walls.
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"Answer soft. Guards alert." Definitely not a native speaker, to be expected.
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"Yes, I'm Taerlyn. Who are you?"
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"Friend. Guards go soon."
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Sure as the stranger promised, there was an orderly retreat of troops, packing of materiel, final catcalls, raspberries for the chained dragon, false bravado and rude gestures as all was made to leave. Before I had time to ponder what they'd do about me, in comes the commander brandishing yet another new vile instrument, some obscenely large handled cutting tool, and right behind him a full rank of quill bearers, their weapons all slick with poison, gleaming and rigid, scintillating in the morning light, almost beautiful if it weren't for their deadly nature and the vile intent.
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In front of my face he holds the jaws of this weapon, so I can see its design, like the mandible of an insect: meant to chop things in two. Scalloped jaws, such that something of narrow diameter fits near the bottom of the scissor, and something of bigger diameter fits in the top. And the handles give the wielder enough leverage to easily sever steel -- or the leg of a dragon. Yes, I recognized the purpose and danger of this weapon. And could smell the poison smeared all over its razor-sharp surface, sharp enough such to have a fair chance against chafed scales like those around my ankles.
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"You see quill snap loud making sound? Think! Can you whip tail making loud noise? Concentrate! Can you snap tail fast-fast?" An image came into my mind, all the beatings with the quills, the most hurtful strokes, the first stroke the commander used that subdued me... tease out a length then pull it back as fast as possible, yes. Out then back quick as you can do, yes. I knew I had only one chance at this, and already I could feel the commander fit the bolt-cutter around my first ankle to break the bolt and work just a skosh of the venom against my chafe scales so I'd start to be subdued. I was out of time!
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CRACK!
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The windows broke, the lights went out, the humans clutched their heads, dropping their quills, bleeding from their ears, some of them vomiting. I yanked and dashed and pulled at the chains, vigor renewed I was violence incarnate as I uprooted my bonds, loosing my chains, throwing humans against the wall like playthings, and most pleasurably of all: eating the commander slowly.
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I bit off his feet first, letting the forge fire cauterize his wounds so he wouldn't die. I found the poison would keep him awake for my attentions too. I was able to bite off all his limbs and even genitals, cauterizing as I went, and still he stayed a writhing bit of human meat in my hands. Instead of eating the rest of him, I just threw him onto the open furnace to let him sizzle, his screams reverberating as the poison kept him awake probably all the way until his brain had charcoaled.
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The smell of their own flesh rank in the air, the sight of a black dragon triumphant, belly full of human meat, bloody, enraged, tearing at all comers, berserk by every definition of the word, their commander lost, this contingency unplanned for, the troops routed quickly, cockroaches scuttling from the light. They couldn't get away from me fast enough. I couldn't catch enough to squash and make their messy insides pop out under my feet. Some shredding and distance-throwing was good sport, too.
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Finally that night came to me a peaceful dream. It seemed like I was denied sleep or peaceful dreams from the day I was shackled, making it all the more wonderous. It was a simple dream, a dream of another dragon. A great female, vast, crystalline - not flesh as I'd know it, crystal scales but inside not so much a being and not so much a goddess as a goddess of goddesses. She was a Queen of dragons, a progenitor, the light behind all fires of all dragonkin everywhere in the cosmos, all planets, not just this galaxy, not just this Universe, but planes of existance beyond all ken. She is Archetype. She is Dragon. Her name is Veeshan. And on a world in a different plane of reality, a barren world, lifeless, ball of dirt, some ice-crusted continent, her graceful claws brush aside the tiniest of furrows in the snow.
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Suddenly from the scar left on this world called Norrath there springs life, her touch primordial dragon-spirit, which immediately causes the most majestic and tremendous of dragons to come to life. The great named dragons of Norratian pantheon spring from nothingness, owing to Veeshan's grace. From cold, stark nothingness there's life, diversity -- dragons and prey aplenty, vegetation, the whole sphere transformed. Norrath's face shimmers into new life just like colors shifting in a soap bubble.
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Apparently satisfied with her work, Veeshan goes into the heavens, twinkling into the distance, just another sparkle in the black sky above this new world she touched. From high, high above I look down, unable to really make out the dragonkin down there, see the goings-on. Somehow I imagine a much more beautiful place than the world I've known. I'm content to watch clouds gather and move across this freshly-birthed world as my microscopic scale-brothers forge their destinies below.
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The landscape below seems to shift, with structures now appearing along coasts for trade and near one of the great deserts, and the largest deep in the thickest jungle. It is this last structure that is the most curious, its pyramids and reptilian symbols, but suddenly the sun is blazing overhead, it's sweltering... noon. Is it always this hot in outer space? No. It's noon here, now. Wake up!
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"Taerlyn?" Asks the strange green scaled manlike creature seated near me. I recognize his voice, so this calms me immediately.
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"Yes." I go to rub the back of my head, my arm and neck both sending jolts of pain due to the over-exertion of my escape. I bellow despite myself.
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"I am Unktehila, an Iksar from Norrath, a distant world. I was able to camoflage myself past the guards," he paused to demonstrate some pigmental-shifting trick he could do with his scales, really quite remarkable, "and read their documents. I had to be terse around the guards so as to not give away my position."
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"So what is it you want with me, Unka, er, Iksar?"
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"You are a dragon. You, like all descended of Veeshan, owe nobody nothing. I loathe soft-skins and wanted to witness your wrath against them, and you were glorious, how you chewed and chewed that human yet kept him alive and quivering! Oh, Lord Cazic would be so very pleased with you, it was deliciously horrible! What grandiose terror on his face! What agony, what a rictus of pain! What screams! What pleading! Dear Cazic, I was in tears, you sweet instrument of vengeance, so beautiful you were...! *sniffs*
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This was the only time Unktehila dared touch me, he leaned against me to steady himself and I growled deeply, immediately he withdrew to his space.
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"What is this 'Veeshan' you speak of? This is an alien word to me yet very familiar..."
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This was the only time I saw the Iksar make any other kind of supplicating gesture other than to this Lord Cazic of his. This was a different kind of reverence.
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"Veeshan is the Queen of all scaled life on Norrath, my world. Most believe all scaled life in the Universe owes to her touch. She is bigger than the world itself, existing beyond the heavens, a titanic crystalline dragon that brings life to barren worlds with but a single touch of her claws. I have been to her temple, spoken with her direct descendants, a heracy against my very God and master, but I am intelligent enough to accept truth - she does exist, she did Create, Cazic is my Lord, Fear is the ultimate strength and is the fiber of my being. My scales are Veeshan's; my power is Cazic."
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I blink, recalling the dream. "Veeshan was in my dream this morning. Did you put that in my head?"
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Unktehila's head crest went rigid and he held his palms out. "What? The creation-dream of Norrath? Only the most elder dragons of Norrath have told me of that dream." Immediately the Iksar's camoflage started to ripple a bit, perhaps a fear reflex... was it his way of expressing awe? "An elder dragon," is all he said after that.
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"What's that mean? Why are you here?" Again another twinge. "Ah, I wish all this pain could go away!"
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"These things were kept with the quill toxin. Maybe some of its effect is still in you."
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Eager for any release, I bolted down a large clawful of the antidote. Soon the sharpness of my dragonsight came to the edges of my vision, sharpening it. My hearing lost that persistent buzz, the headache in my brain was easing up, and as I turned my neck and worked my arm and shoulders, I actually felt a bit of muscle there and not twinges of pain -- that toxin retains pain memory as well as prevents unconsciousness.
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If I could've breathed frost, I would've sighed an icicle right there and then, right in the middle of that searing desert. "So although I do thank you for that, the questions stand."
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"Yes. I have seen your rage, your strength, your majesty and now know your soul is that aligned with those of the elder dragons of Norrath. I am scarcely worthy of asking, but I proceed. It is a base request, but--"
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"OUT WITH IT, IKSAR!"
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"I want sex with you."
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"We're both males."
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"Indeed," He grinned widely, showing his sharp teeth, his loin-wrappings for the first time showing what manhood he could push into me.
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"Yes," I agreed.
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The orbit of Norrath wasn't quite as fulfilling as the carnal pleasure of this sensual, frenzied, lusty scaled creature from another world whose thrusting, probing, scraping, undulating, jabbing under my tail shot meteors and comets and whole galaxies into me well before his seed came, becoming so much more to me than Veeshan, pushing so much more into this lifeless husk than she had ever put onto Norrath. Not satisfied with erupting one galaxy or universe, my Iksar lover beset upon me well into the night, until I was turgid with his seed, his liquid sloshing about in my bowels as we basked in the moons-light.
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Neither of us could think of a thing to say. Both of us were exhausted from all the rutting, clawing, writhing, turning, biting, thrashing, grinding... it was all so wonderful.
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He began some odd sort of bass vibration from inside his chest, almost musical. I found I couldn't bellow quite like that, I found that if I tried, mine was more like a trill. And thus we ended our night, two strangers from different worlds, unlikely lovers, in song.