| Welcome to our home, a world in which anything can happen. From sprawling deserts and vast forests to massive volcanoes and luscious hot springs, Soare and the Scattered Isles are beautiful places just waiting to be explored. For the brave and the bold or the cautious and the wary, creatures of all kinds roam the earth, looking for adventure or for a place to call their own. Species of all kinds - the well-known and the unknown - thrive here, though not always in harmony. Elenlond is an original medieval fantasy RPG with a world that's as broad as it is unique. Calling on characters of all kinds, the sky's the limit in a world where boundaries are blurred and the imagination runs rampant. Restrictions are limited and members are encouraged to embrace their creativity, to see where they can go and what they can do. It's no longer just text on a page - it becomes real. Enter Our World |
| Classic; Open! (CW: sexuality and grossness) | |
|---|---|
| Topic Started: Dec 1 2016, 09:13 AM (159 Views) | |
| Kist | Dec 1 2016, 09:13 AM Post #1 |
![]()
Gaudeamus igitur, luvenes dum sumus!
![]()
|
In the room she had paid for with money from a dead man's pocket, Skith patiently endured the amateur thrustings of the pimply young man she had picked up in the tavern below. She paid little attention to him or the itchy bed they shared, instead occupying her mind with the light from the street splaying itself across the ceiling. He grunted and huffed while sometimes she sighed with restrained impatience or nudged his hands away from this or that. Thankfully, the whole affair did not last that long – it was his first time, after all. As soon as she was sure he was done, Skith unceremoniously lodged a foot under his hip and kicked him off her. He yelped in surprise and pain and slid onto the floor, his afterglow ruined. "W-what's wrong?" he asked, standing gingerly, rubbing the sore spot on his bony bum. "I'm done with you. Leave." "But, Kist," he said, advancing to the bed and making to touch her supine form, "I thought–" "I've had enough of you. Get out of my sight." "You said–" Skith glared at him, raising herself up on her elbows. "I said what I said to get you here, and now I'm done. I got what I wanted, now leave." Silently, he hesitated, and she impatiently added in rising tones, "Do you want me to scream and say you forced yourself on me? I will scream. I'm not playing." He sighed tensely and reluctantly began to get dressed. Finally, after several awkward moments, he closed the door behind him and was gone. Skith immediately leapt into action. She rolled over on the bed and reached underneath. After several false starts, she dragged out a clay bowl and carefully positioned it a certain distance from the edge of the bed. Quickly, she slid off the bed and positioned herself over the bowl, over which she fell into a deep crouch. In the gloaming night, in the room paid for with a dead man's money, Skith dripped into the bowl. In the bowl already was a pile of her own hair and pieces of the dead man's wool coat. While she waited for everything to flow out of her, Skith began to chew at her fingernails, dropping them one by one into the mess in the bowl. She looked like a ravening animal crouched there in the dark, her enthusiastic eyes reflecting sparks of light, her dark lips smiling at her secret thoughts. Satisfied at her handiwork, Skith stood up. She stared for a moment at the bowl and then apparently unable to contain her excitement, she began to dance about the room with impish glee, her teeth flashing in the dim light. Just as suddenly, she crouched again by the bowl and began to make arcane gestures above it with her hands, humming deep in her throat. This hum grew and grew, becoming a sort of growl that vibrated beyond her throat, seeming to come from the very walls. A sourceless sickly glow – at first so low it seemed to be her imagining – grew in the room, illuminating the hirsute contents of the bowl. Just as the papery edges of an egg frying on a pan tend to wave vaguely, like gesturing hands, so the curls of hair in the bowl began to move. Skith opened her mouth and her growl became words: "Come my darling, Come into the light, Come, for I have given you substance And he hath given you life. Come to me, be my servant, Come and be my knife, For though he hath given you breath, It is my wisdom that brought you from death. Across the wooded vale you go, Across the wooded stream, At my sole command you go To gather milk and cream." Invisible shapes cast their distorted shadows on the walls. They stalked in circles, resonating with the ghastly hum that filled the room. Skith's eyelids fluttered over her rolling eyes and she turned her open mouth up to the ceiling, as if trying to catch a drop of something sweet. She panted heavily, then, by some force beyond her own will, began to speak nonsense with incredible speed: "Seyjameni'askaëyeni Satta Satta Havasiffemi'tasitutu Hama Hama Skedij Misattameni–" The words were pulled out of her, burning her throat like a string of fire, but it was beyond her ability to stop. Not that she wanted to – her eyes teared up with pain but also with unspeakable ecstasy while her body pulsated with diaphanous waves of pleasure. "–rasatya Skillhatamanatahuratahuva Huva Huva Saya Saya Imanda Demanaja Skevinara-" Someone was pounding violently on the door, but Skith could hardly hear it over the unearthly chorus of so many distant voices and her own words, which tumbled on... "manajanadayavedamanejahoda Sedara Vidori Hamanady'sikillömanajoga Ama Ama Ama Ama Ama–" She had run out of breath, but the name was just two syllables from being done. She drew in a deep breath, her eyes opening wide, a beam of electricity running straight through her spine, and said in a ringing, echoing voice, "SKÖLLI" The contents of the bowl had taken some sort of shape, had become some bundle that rose and fell, as if with breath. The cacophony of unholy groans reached its peak, then, all at once stopped. The bundle moved, and looked up at Skith with a pair of milky white eyes. Skith's heart melted. Never in her life had she seen something so adorable. The being stretched his new body. He was, overall, cat-like in shape, with a swinging tufted tail. However, his spine was lined with keratinous spikes, and sprouting up from his long, fox-like face, were a pair of absurdly exaggerated pointed ears. The newly-made troll cat stepped out of the bowl of its creation and rubbed his whiskered face against Skith's outstretched hand, making a gravelly noise not unlike a purr. "Hey, Skölli," said Skith, who felt ready to cry from adoration and exertion. However, the pounding on the door continued. She had forgotten about it so thoroughly that she jumped a little. A woman's voice came from the other side, "Miss, there is to be no disruptive behaviour or sorcery in our rooms during the night! D'you hear?" Skith curled her lip and snarled, "Fuck you!" She straightened up to standing, her naked body heaving with her laboured breath. There was a shocked paused and then the woman said, "Right! That's it! Get her!" The door flew open. There stood the owner of the inn – a thick-set human woman in her forties – and two armoured elves from the city guard, brandishing daggers. They hesitated at the sight of the young naked woman standing there before them, her hands clenched in fists. Though, she wasn't just naked – her skin had begun to sweat great big drops of some thick black substance. "Skölli," growled Skith, "Get them!" The troll cat yowled and darted forward. He made an incredible leap and latched onto one of the guards' faces, clawing at his eyes. Skith made a sort of flicking motion with her hand and a spatter of the black liquid on her skin flew through the air, hitting the other guard precisely in his face. He began to scream, attempting to claw the stinging substance from his cheeks. The woman caught some of it too – luckily, in her eye. She went careening off as well, stumbling into the guard Skölli had attacked just as the troll cat sunk his teeth into the man's throat. Skith laughed at them and ran out the door. "Fuck this town anyways!" she hollered to the empty hall, "Fuck the lot of you!" The bile sweating out onto her skin had by this point hidden her nudity and was now dripping thickly down her legs. Soon it would be hard, and adequate to protect her from attack. Skölli was soon at her heels, his muzzle stained with blood, his tufted tail waving. Skith clattered down the stairs and burst out into the tavernl There were still some people there, hunched over their drinks. Skith shoved some aside some dancers, who fell into a man playing the fiddle, halting his music. Skith cackled and made the sign of the fig at the room at large. With flicks of her hand she sent black bile spattering around, shouting, "Take that! And that! Haha!" She thus managed to quickly incite a panic in the tavern, but escaped out onto the street without harm. Skith and Skölli set down the darkened street at a trot, quickly putting a distance between themselves and the tavern. Skith had no regrets about what she had done – rather, she grinned ecstatically. She was done with Madrid and the trouble she had caused there – she had greater paths to walk. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Belkonas | Apr 26 2017, 03:12 PM Post #2 |
![]()
ὁ θυμὸς ἀλγῶν ἀσφάλειαν οὐκ ἔχει.
![]()
|
(tw: body horror, suicide mention) Had he ever been to this tavern? Days and nights which in a chokehold of grass and flower blended into the next like sunset colors. Alien landscapes. Alien folk. What had Admiral Cassius once said of this? Of fighting queer things that strayed across the quiet border from Morrim, when the dread lord was around -- war is usually men fighting their own demons, but this, Florens, this is just men fighting plain old demons. The Madrid of old was a place of Belkonas' demons: money and power. This Madrid didn't resemble it, but when you were a new man, you took on new demons. These didn't feel like his but he didn't feel like himself. He felt more like one of the demons the warlocks had summoned up during the Dark Conquest. He helped patrol the streets, per the Iron Banners' promise of aid to the forest witch-queen. The troops liked him. He liked them, if with a little more hesitation than he'd usually like his men. The Banners had had more than a few elves, but it was something else entirely to share campfire banter with dryads and druids and gods knew what else. Mostly they talked about similar things -- rations, morale, their families. In the city there were children, of the forest and of the stone. Flesh and wood and leaves. There was more similar than there was different. What was different was steadily becoming normal: the blooming magic, the hatred of city-humans, the folks who were trees and trees who were folks. The most disturbing thing about it wasn't even the strangeness, but how accustomed to it he was becoming. Or to everything else, for that matter. This morning he'd sworn he'd been dreaming fever dreams, the kind he'd had wounded in Hohoemi after the war. He'd drifted into dormancy -- could he call it sleep? -- and when he'd opened his eyes he'd seen a pale fibrous waste creeping from the core of him, where he'd thrust the knife in deep at the end of his life. It pulsed and grew and was alive, spilling out from him in ruffles of must-smelling saprophyte. Dreamlike haste had propelled his arms to gather it up, push it back into his trembling body before he became one with the wood beneath his feet and the beams of the roof, before his innards mushroomed out into the dawn shadow and his bones bent into alien shapes. In a shifting haze his flesh knit together, but he still smelled mold on the air -- mold from the creaking floorboards, the beams, the cheap bedsheets. He'd sought out a mirror and found that for a few moments his features were all in the wrong places. It's serving this witch-queen, he thought, it's making me feel like a damn plant. Later, on patrol, it happened again. He found himself alone on an empty street framed in flowers and he smelled it first; he looked down and his hand was writhing and blooming like a flower, bones whipping like queer vines. He tried to put it back together, more out of addled embarrassment than fear. He focused with his eyes and it became a hand again, gnarled and long-fingered, calloused. It was only afterward that he became scared. There was a shake in his step when he took the evening watch. The guard were unusually sympathetic and concerned -- yet another incongruence. (He hadn't remembered the humans ever being this compassionate. Especially not now, not in this day and age -- he remembered the humans as bloodsucking ambition embodied, right before he'd run himself through.) He'd told them there was nothing to worry about. He felt like his body was coming apart at the seams, threatening to become a plant of hissing, writhing flesh. He wanted to go on the watch and remember what it was like before he'd died, before all this gods-damned shit had come on him like an unwanted gift from a brown-nosing officer. He wanted to die, but that wasn't happening anytime soon, so he might as well swallow his feelings and do his job. That was how everybody else got through it, wasn't it? Walk past things and see if he could remember them; see if he could recognize them enough below all the tangled weeds and blooms to remember what it had been like to be there before all this. That was how he'd come to fixate on the tavern. It was the only one on his route. He kept thinking, have I been here? It looked familiar, maybe; then again, he hadn't been in a lot of taverns, not even in his youth. He tried to picture himself and a gaggle of his friends spending an evening there. Himself, hunched over a drink -- but he didn't drink, he remembered. Didn't he? No, he didn't, because his father had been... Someone stumbled out of the tavern presently, yelling, "Help! Gods! There's a mad woman!" Belkonas brandished his sword, furrowing his brow. He saw a couple more people spill out, praying to Thaenon not to die today, or any day in the near future, then running down the street past him like scuttling bugs. There was a commotion from inside. He heard the music stop, first off, and then the shouts, and then banging and stumbling, feet and furniture. Then he saw the young lady -- maybe lady wasn't the right word -- and the freak of a cat. She was short, but she had a straight-backed, imperious stroll that chilled him -- would've chilled him even if she hadn't been covered in... whatever the hell that was. He'd seen some pretty strange things since the beginning of the siege, but nothing like this. It looked like the stone he'd seen merchants peddle, the mountain-fire that became bumpy black clay, but it also didn't. It looked drippy, even, like black sweat, or like somebody had retched thick ink... And the smell! Though faint, on account of the direction of the wind -- he knew it gave off a smell and he knew it made his skin tingle and his heart sink. The cat was a story all to itself, if it even was a cat. He saw its tufted tail and its horns and the matted blood around its mouth. "Where the hell do you think you're going, madam?" In the midst of all the strangeness, the sound of his own voice put him at ease. He tightened his grip on his sword and came after her. Now she was some distance from the tavern, so he quickened his gait, trying to ignore the commotion behind him as yet more people spilled out and ran away. I should have somebody with me, he thought. Gods know this isn't one man's job. But by the time he notified the rest of the watch, where would she be? "Stop. Stop right there!" Edited by Belkonas, Apr 26 2017, 03:13 PM.
|
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Kist | Apr 26 2017, 04:40 PM Post #3 |
![]()
Gaudeamus igitur, luvenes dum sumus!
![]()
|
Skölli noticed him first. He turned his broad, blood-spattered face towards this dim shape of a man, his yellow eyes catching a gleam of light. His tufted tail twitched. Then the man's harsh voice cut through the air. "Where the hell do you think you're going, madam?" Skith scoffed at him. Really! That odd admixture of paternal reprobation and false respect – it was like he couldn't decide who he was supposed to be! She thrust out her arm, elbow bent at a right angle, her pale hand balled up in the sign of the fig. "Stop. Stop right there!" Skith scoffed again. Well, she thought, Might as well. Could be a bit of fun. With the disdainful air of a teenage daughter who has decided to listen to her father purely for her own entertainment, Skith stopped and slowly turned around to face him, folding her arms over her chest. She said with a slight snap of the tongue, "I'm going wherever the fuck I want." She looked him over. Tall as a tower, with hair the colour of a house on fire, with all his importance crammed into the easily-recognisable uniform of the city watch. With a cruel turn of her lip, she imagined actually setting his hair on fire. After that judicious pause, she said, "Got a problem with that?" |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Belkonas | Apr 26 2017, 08:38 PM Post #4 |
![]()
ὁ θυμὸς ἀλγῶν ἀσφάλειαν οὐκ ἔχει.
![]()
|
He saw her arm -- and, more importantly, her hand -- and though to himself, This'll be fun. He was beginning to regret not fetching a couple of druids (judging by how he'd left them, chortling about and making little poppies spring out of nothing on the breeze, singing in rough winding voices) to help him solve... this. As his eyes flicked over the raggedy cat, lingering on the blood that flowered out from its mangy, furry lips, he felt his regret ever more keenly. Florens watched her turn. I'm going wherever the fuck I want. Got a problem with that? He grunted, shifting his weight from foot to foot and lifting an eyebrow. She was looking at him, he noticed; she was examining him from head to toe, her faelike little face screaming unimpressed. She had a sickliness that made him feel uncomfortable, a pallor and darkness that drove him cautiously to the idea that she wasn't human, but not inhuman like the dryads and the naiads and the kentauroi and the whatevers (whom frankly he thought of as "human", because they sprouted out of their trees speaking his tongue and laughing at most of the same jokes as he did). And still there was that awful vomitous bile-liquid that covered her in a hardened shell. There was something insectoid about it, about everything here: it was all tied up in the reason he'd never liked insects. They clicked and whisked their feet and did strange things, engaged in behaviors he didn't understand. They embraced their alien bodily functions, spewed and bled liquid that smelled queer. (Maybe it made him think about his hand, opening up like a flower of flesh and bone. But he wasn't going to think about that right now.) On the other hand (ha!), she was a bit like his son, he reflected. He didn't have a lot of time to think about it, but the impression was there, like the wears and dips in a familiar cushion. Getting the sign of the fig and a going wherever the fuck I want wasn't exactly unfamiliar to Belkonas. As a matter of fact, he'd played out this scene almost exactly before, likely numerous times. With variations, of course -- when Alcaeus had been young enough, he'd grabbed him by his scruff and dragged him back indoors and threatened to beat him if he didn't sit his ass down and listen to his father. When he'd been older, he'd gone out regardless and come back slurring and mean, pockets empty, asking for money. Florens was smiling, he realized suddenly, a little hook in the corner of his lips, a condescending wrinkle of his nose. He would've sheathed his blade, if it weren't for that damned cat: it reminded him he wasn't looking at his son after all, or a rebellious kid who had barely come of age. But the girl's spunk was almost amusing, for all it infuriated him. "So this is what we're going to do, eh?" He put his hand on his hip, chuckling. "I don't know what you are, and frankly, I don't care. I don't have a problem with anyone here." But if you're gonna act like a brat, then I'm gonna treat you like one. He took a few steps forward, feeling strangely emboldened by his own ill temper. Hell, maybe she'll kill me. Then we'll both win. He jerked his chin to indicate the tavern behind him, its facade growing more dimly lit by the moment, day-flowers closing their petals with increasing rapidity and windows emitting a soft glow. "Was that your work? "You want to tell me what happened? Make this easy for both of us?" |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Kist | Apr 27 2017, 09:00 AM Post #5 |
![]()
Gaudeamus igitur, luvenes dum sumus!
![]()
|
Skith looked in the direction of the tavern with a suppressed smile and a shrug. She couldn't help but be reminded of how Kist's parents acted when she did something wrong. "Did you do that?" they asked her, pointing at the muddied rug, the broken leg of a chair, the drawings scrawled in ink on the wall, knowing full well that she had. They weren't mystified, they had just wanted her to admit guilt. Kist, who was weak under pressure, often confessed. Skith would not give him the satisfaction of hearing her say it. "No," she said when asked if she wanted to explain herself, "But I'll show you!" Before he could really react, she raised her arm and flicked, a spray of acidic black bile flying from her hand and arm straight towards the guard-man's face. It wasn't enough to do serious damage, but enough to sting, maybe leave him with a pockmark or two. Skith didn't give a fuck. She cackled, doubling over and backing up a few steps. All the while, Skölli kept his balance and fixed his eyes on the man, ready to leap out and attack at the slightest wrong move. |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Belkonas | May 1 2017, 01:35 PM Post #6 |
![]()
ὁ θυμὸς ἀλγῶν ἀσφάλειαν οὐκ ἔχει.
![]()
|
((tl;dr acidic substances are apparently very bad/scary for mold as I understand it)) No -- but I'll show you! How silly. It wasn't as if he'd never dealt with a kid like this before, all venom and defensiveness, just as quick to lash out with some petty physical violence as to yell whatever, as if this were school and he was a schoolmaster with a paddle. Like a toddler he'd caught getting into Mother's fresh-baked bread. The circumstances made him a little warier, perhaps, but all the circumstances he'd been embroiled in since last year were so outlandish and wild and sometimes even hilarious that he'd ceased to be able to take anything seriously, up to and including his own condition. Now a rebellious girl coated in some sort of tar-colored vomit with a demonic cat had stirred up trouble in a bar -- and he just couldn't seem to impress upon himself the seriousness of it all. It was like his life had become one of those dreams you get where everything is horrible and wildly amusing, all at the same time: where you're having tea with people you hate in a parlor made of ear-wax, where your deadbeat father's head has turned into a beehive and your arms are made of mushrooms. So the kids these days fling tar at their elders? Well, it's more flamboyant than the sign of the fig. And then he felt it. "Fuck," he snapped, looking genuinely hurt; there was an awful sizzling and the pain he felt was a tingle and a vibration and a sense of shriveling and withdrawing. Before he knew what he was doing he was staring at her between spasming fingers, eyes wide and bright. He hadn't thought it would hurt! "What the fuck? What are you?" A froth burbled against his spread fingers; he smelled on the air the reek of burnt plant matter. He expected to feel blood, but instead there were dents -- sizzling -- a thousand tiny little holes, sinking through his face. His hand felt strange, too, as if he'd lost sensation in a good half of it, and what was numb was moving and shifting... Florens took his hand away and saw it bloom, his palm unfolding like a flower. Its tendrils were burnt at the tips, looking like long, skinny fingers cut off and cauterized; they were moving and curling and withdrawing into the human half of his hand, which was by the minute growing pale and lumpy. He felt nauseous suddenly; he glanced around the street helplessly, embarrassed and revolted, and then saw his face in the cloudy dark window of a cafe, framed by rapid-growing vines. The pock marks were deep holes, vegetable somethings moving in their jagged shadows. Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods! He lost the grip he'd been trying to regain all morning. As he looked back at the girl in bile armor, his lips curled back from his teeth too far, unfolding from bone-like flytrap fangs. "You damned brat! Look what you've done!" Is this a dream? This is a dream. Gods above, what if those druids see me like this? What'll they think I am, a salad? Suddenly he didn't care how strange he looked. With his body blooming fungus and alien, frightened tendrils, he took a few shaky steps toward her, trying his best to make it an intimidating march. He lost hold of his sword; it slid out of the grip of his whipping hand and he left it in the dirt behind. He wasn't sure what he looked like now. He knew he had one hand on the ground and he was trying to use it to walk, along with a few other appendages he hadn't known he had. What a wild time. "You're coming with me, young lady," he snapped. A cord of something pale like bone snaked out and attempted to wrap itself around her left ankle. "We're too busy for this! Don't you know there's a war on?" |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| Kist | May 24 2017, 09:37 AM Post #7 |
![]()
Gaudeamus igitur, luvenes dum sumus!
![]()
|
"I am Skith," she pronounced, loud and proud, a wide grin on her face as he clutched at himself in pain. Then she caught a glimpse of what was happening to him – the foaming, the reek of damaged nightmare-flesh, and then the sudden opening of his hand into some sort of bizarre flower. "Oh shit!" she crowed, doubling over with laughter. "Gods, what the fuck are you?" He advanced on her, and Skith backed away, Skölli bobbing on her shoulder with each step. "Keep the hell away from me, weirdo," she said, still laughing, "I don't know what the fuck you are but you can keep it to yourself." Her laughter stopped when the creature, now fraying all over into vines and boned cords, whipped out some aberrant tentacle and caught her around the ankle. She was pulled down with a sudden jerk and went crashing to the ground with a yelp. The impact had her winded but she propped herself up on her hands and tried to wrench her foot away, shouting, "Don't you 'young lady' me you mushroom freak son of a bitch! Get! Off!" Skölli had leapt to the ground when she fell and now shot forward, digging his sharp teeth into the tendril while Kist banged her foot up and down, smashing the appendage into the ground. "Of course there's a fucking war!" she shouted, "But I'll! Make! That! War! My! Bitch!" |
| (OFFLINE) PROFILE | QUOTE GO TO TOP |
| 1 user reading this topic (1 Guest and 0 Anonymous) | |
| « Previous Topic · Madrid · Next Topic » |


















