the fact that it was mentioned in the comic that optimus slice through megatron's cannon in their "first meeting" as an enemy, and in the movie optimus and megatron did just that; a re-introduction to their new identity. the details in this movie is insane.
"The ritual, a spirit... a chaotic vortex of feathers and fears"
[mature/violence - 3/?]
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A black vortex of feathers and claws:
The water opens and he re-emerges with a breath so deep that it swells his chest, burning, makes tears fall from his eyes and he throw up, coughing all the water he had swallowed.
Zara, who had moved away, immediately turns to look at him: <<... Yes, dear! Rise to a new life for me!>> With sincere joy she looks at him, there, motionless with his face turned to the ceiling; his breathing so calm and quiet, as nothing had happened.
The first word he utters is incomprehensible, like the first sentence that is then abruptly interrupted.
A jolt from his throat, as if his voice had returned again: <<HuMAn...>> he whispers croaking.
<<Yes! Yes my precious...>> the woman replies approaching him, even if with caution; she cared too much about this experiment, if it had come out the way she wanted, it would have been one of her greatest achievements.
He finally lowers his head:
His body is intact, not a sign of the beatings of the previous days or the stab of Zara in the chest; not even the blows suffered under water.
Only then does he turn his first gaze and dedicate it entirely to the woman in front of him: his eyes are black, the irises of an unnatural fluorescent purple, the pupils a very thin white dot lost in the brightness of that unnatural gaze.
<<hUMan!>> A grotesque smile appears on his face.
The wizards shout at the woman to move away. The two guards who had led him there pull her back just in time, before he hits the platform on which she was standing with such violence that it cuts it clean off: <<Human!!>> he repeats in a playful tone.
A lightning bolt strikes him unexpectedly from behind his back: a flap of wings and the electricity of the spell dissipates in sparks in the air.
"Oh, don't teach a spirit how to exploit oblivion."
He leaps out of the pool with an agility no longer human: he lunges at the unfortunate man who had thought of attacking him from behind and with a slash of his wing he cuts him perfectly diagonally; a clean lash that leaves a clean cut and the poor guy with the awareness of seeing his body in pieces before dying.
An unnatural laugh, with a voice that is not his, breaks the air throwing those present into agitation; another, panicked, tries to hit him with another spell that does not make him end up any better than his companion.
Other heavily armed guards burst into the room, pounce on the demon who instead seems to enjoy the warm blood on his hands.
<<End the ritual!!>> Zara's thunderous voice orders the subjects to remain in position.
She mumbles something, holding the vial with Lucanis' blood:
the creature shudders and turns with contempt towards the woman.
If they don't bound them together, it will be a massacre, they must unite them so that the blood can command them!
With a lunge, he plants his hand in the shield of a soldier who had stepped in front of him; his fingers, covered in ghostly purple claws, pierce the metal up to the poor man's arm, which he breaks with a violent gesture. The guard falls to the ground grunting, but a second blow with his free hand stops him from suffering immediately, opening his throat with a claw.
Again the woman recites words that force the demon to contract, shouting: <<StOP it!>> He replies, growling.
The soldiers throw themselves at him, it doesn't matter if they hit him or kill him, as they see it, better him than them.
But they are not so lucky: the spirit finds itself in a body that perfectly follows its will, precise in every movement it thinks; if it could possess it completely, it would no longer feel the weight of the flesh and then it would truly become perfect.
A man lunges at him, spear in hand, but he cuts it off with a fluid movement of a wing; another man with a shield steps in front of him to protect the other.
Another jolt: it is as if the woman's words make him faint. As if that bond loses connection.
Enraged, he launches himself with a kick toward the men in front of him, knocking them off balance: with a back flip he throws feathers like arrows from black wings, which wound one and kill the other instantly. But it follows a disastrous fall; the woman has almost finished her spell.
<<Demon of determination! It will be a pleasure to make you grow stronger!!>> she shouts, resuming her chant.
<<I will plEAsuRE to EAT yOur soUl OUT fRom your DEAD body, FEmale!>> he croaks, trying to get up and dive towards her; a leap that is again interrupted halfway.
The wizards are bothering him too much: he grabs part of the grate he had cut earlier and, as if it were not made of heavy wrought iron, he throws it towards two venatori as if he had thrown a stone flat on water; the effect is very similar, as far as the blood splashes.
A smell.
There is a smell that attracts him like a light in the darkness.
Two men fall on him, hit him in the ribs with their armored boots and crush him to the ground.
For the first time the spirit tastes blood; his blood.
He smiles ecstatically, it is all so new!
With a blow of his elbow he unseats the man on top of him, sending him tumbling back into the water, while he grabs the other man by the ankle and throws him after him.
A jolt along his spine, which he feels pass through the entire nervous system to his brain; he freezes, or rather, freezes him.
That witch...
She has something that smells like him... blood! He has to get the bottle!
He has to...!
At the end of the ritual, soul and spirit are welded and she finally has her new toy.
Demon and man lie unconscious on the ground before her. She lets out a sigh, not quite what she wanted, but it has potential.
<<You did well, lil' crow>> she whispers, turning his head with the tip of her toe, looking at him: <<Take him away>> she orders the few who were still standing.
Dark dreams...
There is thick, black fog, wind, screams coming from it that deafen him; it is as if he were in the center of a cyclone.
Feathers everywhere whirl so fast that at a certain point they seem like knives. Or maybe they are?
"Lucanis..."
He turns around suddenly but there is no one; the contours of that intangible wall tighten around him.
No, no, no...
"Lucanis."
He turns around again and finds himself with that cyclone tightened around him.
What... what happens if he touches it?
Between fear and uncertainty he raises two fingers:
there is something shining...
The feather...
"Lucanis!"
He opens his eyes wide, breathless, completely sweaty;
What... when...?!
He runs a hand over his chest, then over his face.
Ragiona.
He stands up suddenly, but staggers, his head hurts, his ears ring, everything flutters with his movements; his eyes do not follow his body and everything arrives late. He approaches a corner and looks around quickly:
he is in a room, no, a cell; how did he get there?
In any case, for the moment he is safe.
A deep sigh through his nose. Back against the wall, he slides into a sitting position, resting his head on the cold stone.
Another deep nasal breath.
He passes a hand over his ears, his forehead... it's hot.
What happened? What kind of nightmare did he have?
The memory comes to him violently, as if he were feeling the pangs in that moment: prey to an uncontrollable agitation, he touches his chest, his leg, lifts his shirt and checks his side.
Nothing.
He wasn't dressed... or was he?
He tries to reconnect:
Was it just a bad dream?
The chains, the ritual, Zara...
Quella brutta pu-
"LUCANIS!!"
He jumps up.
Eyes wide open, he holds his breath and remains still, glued to the wall.
His gaze moves quickly in the dim light outside the cell;
No one.
Is he imagining it? Is it all a figment of his imagination? Fever delirium?
A sigh through his nose.
The tension in his fingers that gripped the large stones of the wall loosens.
Tight.
He lets out a sudden cry, clutching his head with one hand; a rattle in the back of his throat.
What the hell is happening now...?
Silence.
Only the crackling of a torch hanging on the wall opposite his prison, breaks the void, casting dark shadows against the bars. It is the first time that the darkness not offered him comfort.
For the first time, he feels an uncontrollable fear of what he might see in the darkness...
His head starts to throb, not particularly insistent but enough to bother him. He decides to shake himself and move away from the wall. He feels a little precarious on his feet, a cramp in his stomach almost bends him in half; hunger...
And not only that: he is dehydrated and if he has to question, he's cold and even the contact between his skin and clothes hurts... probably, no, he definitely has a fever.
It could explain the delirium of the day before.
Because it had to be delirium...
A feeling of pressing despair takes hold of him; they sold him...
Who?
Why?
Whoever it was, as soon as he got out of there he would surely make them pay and, by the Creator, he was damn good at stalking a target.
"LUCANIS!"
A shot! The air that catches in his throat, his eyes wide again, the pain in his head that he ignores by force of circumstances; there is someone watching him.
Silence, again.
Who is it?
For the umpteenth time his eyes fly quickly from right to left, searching above and below for anything that could continue to call him.
A drop.
Beyond the beating of his accelerated heart, beyond the muffled breathing and the crackling of the fire, it was the only thing he heard.
For a moment, as the pain passed, he thought he had imagined that too.
Ok, calmati...
They had done something to him, it hadn't just hallucinations or a bad dream, those events of the other day, he had really experienced them.
A deep sigh through the nose, like when he wants to force himself to stay calm; like in training, when his grandmother trained them when they were little. And right in that little breathing exercise he suddenly feels his nasal septum full, a retching that forces him to swallow and then, disgusted, to spit on the ground. It's not mucus, it's darker... it's blood.
Realizing this in the crackling light of the torch, he brings a hand to his face, finding his chin and mouth wet with the blood that was dripping from his nose.
Quando...?
Are the twinges making him bleed?
For a moment he had a thousand thoughts in his head; almost none of them positive.
It's not good to lose blood from the head, is he dying? Have they poisoned him or done something that will make him die soon?
His pupils completely dilated as he searches for anything in the dark; why not just kill him?
Why do Venatori always have to torture people??
Then, calm, lucid.
To each his own job...
He was the one who, for ethics, would have made them stop suffering right away; and he would have done it. Yes, he would have done it this time too.
He had to get out of there, he just had to.
It doesn't matter the pain, the fever, or whatever the fuck happened before - days ago or whatever - he had to get out of there!
He carefully crawls like a shadow towards the bars: thicker than usual, but above all, running two fingers over them, he feels an unusual roughness. No, they are not rough: he puts a hand on the bar, rubbing his palm against it and notices that they are clear signs, deliberately engraved; claw marks from a poor guy who got there before him?
He gets close to almost touching them with the tip of his nose, before focusing and realizing that they are completely covered in symbols; strange writings...
Only then does he realize that, although there is a door... there is no lock.
A glance upwards, a quick glance to the left, towards the light source: proviamo.
He starts to move forward with conviction, hands open to grasp the bars, when a jolt, as soon as his fingers weld around them, forces him to scream once again and to a disastrous fall that leaves him exhausted.
"DON'T TOUCH IT!"
<<Enough!!>> he shouts back this time, panting, trembling on the ground, while he feels his eyes heavy and everything around him fading.
Stinging pains in the back of his neck:
a voice.
A voice, or maybe a thousand, begin to speak animatedly in his head; he doesn't understand what they're saying, they speak a language he doesn't know.
Like that dream, the one with the hurricane, he feels them mounting in his head and whirling around him along with the walls of the cell that tighten and the ceiling falling on him.
"Captured by the Venatori and taken where a ritual is about to take place"
[mature/violence - 2/?]
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Jolts.
He opens his eyes again but everything is blurry; he loses consciousness.
Jolts again.
He blinks: it's not him who can't see this time, he has something in his head... a burlap sack perhaps.
His shoulders hurt and realizing this, the world around him suddenly comes to him, violent. He finds himself dragged, still with the hands tied behind his back and he feels the legs dragging on the ground.
When he tries to put a feet down, he gets a punch in the stomach that makes him spit up blood.
<<Dear sirs... with whom I have the pleasure?>> he mumbles.
Oh... how long has it been since he heard his own voice?
<<Don't, talk, Crow.>> one of the two tersely silences him with a slap on the back of the head.
Ouch... how come he can feel the pain so well now?
He feels exhausted, but above all, after the punch he can't feel his legs anymore.
How long has he been a prisoner?
Where they are?
He tries to get up again, but his head is terribly dizzy and he falls back almost unconscious; the two men who are carrying him around badly keep him awake.
He has terrible stomach cramps; how long has it been since he last ate?
The memory of what happened before comes back to him horrifyingly; what kind of place was he in? Who are these fanatics who continue to lead him who knows where?
The only thing that is certain is that they are no longer on the ship.
He struggles to speak, even if he feels a little more lucid; he is completely drained of strength.
<<Don't be shy gentlemen, I swear I don't let you suffer when I'll take off your lAH!>>
One of the two doesn't listen any longer: he throws him to the ground, making him escape from the other's grip as well; he falls forward heavily, hitting his face, immediately feeling pain in his nose that begins to bleed profusely.
A hand tightens on his head, taking sack and hair, yanking him back hard enough to make him fall back sitting; he feels something terribly familiar at the throat.
<<Talk again and I swear I'll personally beg for sorry to the mistress for having killed you!>>
The blade caresses his skin as it rises, scratching at his bristly, unkempt beard.
How long has he been there??
<<No, you'll don't want. Trust me.>> The other mutters: <<She's intrigued by this one, couse of that name of his "the Demon of Vyrantium"... She's excited about making the name come true>> he takes him by the arm, lifting him as before: <<She don't want to be disappointed>>
Who are they talking about? What do you mean 'become true'? He should tell that to all those who died in Vyrantium by his hand.
The other hothead takes him in turn and they start dragging him again along what seems like an endless corridor; is he the only one who feels a slight slope going down?
<<Just that she do it! We've been looking after this one for a week! Let him die or let her do what she has to do!>>
A week?!
No, no, no, what are they talking about?
In a rushing motion he shoulder-slams the irritable guy on his left, making him lose the grip and feels him hit against something.
He slides to the other guy and finally gets to his feet, risking a kick in mid-air that hits him; but not hard enough.
He loses his balance and the fallen guy grabs him violently from behind, throwing him to the side; he hits something that opens, a door or a gate, and falls on his back, out of breath.
Why?!
He hears someone curse and crawls back, trying to figure out which side they'll hit him from, because he knows they will.
<<Stop jokin' the three of you!>>
<<Yes, ma'am!> The two guards answer in unison.
There's a persistent smell that he doesn't identify, however... a vacuous smell like what it reminds him of.
<<Bring him to me>> the woman urges in an imperative cold tone.
Fog and burnt cinnamon...?
The air is so full of it that he can feel it through the fabric, despite the blood coming from his nose.
The two men retrieve him, this time without taking the trouble to turn him in the right direction. He tries to wriggle in vain, he can't feel his arms anymore; if only he could free one hand...
As if they had heard him, the guys throw him roughly to his knees. There is something hard and irregular under him, like a grate. They remove the hood from his head without warning: the light, although dim in the room, hits him like a knife in the eyes that for the umpteenth time moisten in defense.
When he finally manages to open them, he identifies the woman crouched in front of him as the same one from the previous time:
She has long black hair, elegantly tied with two thin braids and clear eyes, cold as ice. She is wearing a ceremonial venatori's dress, a dark red tunic, adorned with gold-embroidered snakes, with wide sleeves, and a large hood covering her shoulders. She has an almost sorry expression, but it is completely sly.
She signals to the guards and one frees his hands.
Without thinking, he has the impulse to try to attack her.
She sneers when he finds himself completely immobilized at the wrists and only then does he waste time looking around.
He has never been freed, simply the handcuffs have split between them to connect to two small pedestals on the ground; the unmistakable vermilion glow makes him understand that the spell imprisoning him is based on red lyrium.
He is short of breath.
He is on a platform, or so it seems and yes, it is a grate; something gushes out from beneath him, only then realizes is the room’s greatest source of light. It looks like water, but it’s cloudy in its fluorescent reflection.
What the...??
<<The Demon of Vyrantium...>> she shakes him
And with a calm, slow movement, he turns to look at her.
He can’t possibly make it clear that he’s shocked by what the fuck is going on:
<<And you are...?>>
The slap hits him regardless; ouch.
<<You scared me, you know?>> She says, getting up, turning toward a massive stone table nearby: <<I tought you were dead the last time we saw>>
Dead?
The memory of that thing in his throat, a burning sensation that started from inside, then nothing.
<<Oh, my... I was so rude? I didn't mean to obfend such an elegant and gentle psychopath-miss... I was truly unforgivable.>> He ends up spitting out a trickle of blood that had returned to his mouth from the slap had just received.
She doesn't even turn her face and only then does he notice a background buzz.
His blood runs cold when he realizes that there are other wizards arranged in a circle, a short distance from him.
And it can only mean one thing...
<<I was wonder why they sold you... Such a good manners child>> she turns with a playfully annoyed expression;
it would also be fascinating, if she didn't hold a glass vial in one hand and a small dagger in the other.
He has an imperceptible glare, he pulls back his shoulders and barely moves his head; a gesture that in full possession of his faculties would never have let slip.
What witchcraft do they have in mind?
Since he was little, he has been trained to do his best, to be the best, to survive at any cost; cruel ways for children, ways that have aroused hatred, but have soothed fear.
So what is that cold shiver that runs down his spine now?
<<You don't talk anymore, sweetheart?>>
He would like to answer her but he forces back a grimace of contempt, while she kneels down to his height again.
She moves his short hair from the eyes, placing two fingers under his chin for the umpteenth time: <<Don't be so grumpy. If you're still here it's only because I wanted it. I deserve a little more affection, my child.>> she whispers, caressing his lips with her thumb.
Megera.
He narrows his gaze as his head, at her scent, starts to spin again; not because it's good, it has a certain narcotic something...
<<I'm sorry ma'am, I just spat a moment ago.>>
She shakes herself from a murky thought, looking him in the eyes again: <<Oh, you'll do it again.>> her voice is a hiss that comes out of her fake smile <<You'll spit your soul out.>> She winks darkly, resuming with a few scratches to that unkempt beard.
<<So, by assumption I should consider myself a deadman? Or a very lucky one?>> he replies with cutting nonchalance.
Smiling, she digs her nails into his cheeks, leaving a kiss on those lips she kept winking at; horrified, he turns away with a grunt.
<<You'll sure become my favorite...>> another caress while he looks away, and she biting her lip.
The cold eyes that return to his: a stab straight into the side.
Warm blood runs down his naked torso, straight into the vial that the woman held and then down, beyond the grate, into that enormous circular tub beneath them.
He holds his breath and stifles a low moan when that thin blade comes out of his flesh; I won't give you the satisfaction.
<<Don't want to scream, lil crow? It will happen. Soon>> she finishes, getting up, closing the small vial to which she leaves a possessive kiss.
<<So deep through my heart, and I neither know your name>> he replies, keeping a warm and gentle tone of voice, clearly betrayed by the grim look he reserves for her.
Brutta scrofa, if it were the last thing I do, I will hunt you down to the depths of the bowels of the Fade!
<<Zara.>> she replies running her open hand through his hair, where she then closes her fingers and forces him to raise his head to look at her.
<<I'll waiting for you. Don't disappoint me.>>
At these words, the pool beneath them has a... jolt.
The Venatori mages around him raise their arms and begin to recite a short repetitive chant, which echoes between the walls and in the water. The woman steps back to the marble floor and only then stops, getting into position like the others.
This is not good.
He tries to free himself, tugs at the handcuffs but they don't budge. He grunts and wriggles, to no avail, when suddenly the backs of his eyes start to burn; is the veil thinning?
An earthquake: the pool beneath him turns dark red, seething with rivulets of steam and popping bubbles; was it his blood?
A flash of green at the bottom of the pool:
<<Choose well, honey. You would make me really sad if you became something predictable>> she sneers, savoring that moment where she sees despair take over him.
Choose what??
Small tentacles of that strange red water shaken by greenish flashes, rise from the pool: they crawl between the mesh of the grate, sinuously they timidly wrap around his legs.
A nervous movement where he tries to escape that touch, returning to look frozen at the woman in front of him and then again at the tentacles that now, aggressive, have tied themselves like ropes around his thighs, quickly rising towards his face.
How the hell did he end up in a situation like this?! Who sold him out?!
<<Envy...>> she whispers. Her delighted voice that is heard so crystal clear in the repetitive murmur of the other wizards <<The must difficult to cultivate>>.
What the fuck is she talking about?!
No, no, no...
He has no intention of being used as some strange receptacle by those crazy sons of bitches!
He feels those things on the wound from earlier, they rub against each other, they almost seem like tongues that he feels painful in the flesh.
The sensation is like ice in the brain: an unspeakable pain, yet so immediate that it stuns him...
No!
He can't lose his lucidity!
Is that what they say, no? If you give in, they'll catch you!
He's not a magician, never! They can't have him, they just can't!
Hatred and a black fear mix together in an uncontrollable whirlwind of terror and hatred.
They can't...!
He can't!
Shaken by this state of mind, which for them resonates like a song in every fiber of his body, the enchanted waves withdraw and start rising again: he's sweating coldly, he's out of breath, his temples are throbbing and he feels completely helpless. The tentacles tighten his throat, forcing him to let out a moan as they continue to rise, caressing his chin:
<<Yes!! Make me proud, sweetheart!>> the woman gasps enthusiastically; with his abilities a splendid creature would be born and she wanted it all for herself.
Those slimy things on his face, while he feels many others around his calves, his thighs, he is so shocked that he is about to lose his mind:
<<You better hope I die, STREGA!!>> he shouts with hatred, turning angrily towards her.
Zara's gaze is empty; the tentacles suddenly retract.
<<Couse I swear that no matter far you could run, I will find you! Wherever you could try toARGH!!>>
The sentence in half:
Two long bony limbs, of a dark purple vein, stick into his shoulder blades with such violence that they break his bones, leaving him suddenly without air.
<<NO!!>> The other one shouts, trying to reach him and chase away whatever was coming out of the pool.
He finds himself still, regurgitating blood. He tries to turn his head: what hit him...?
He... can't see, can't see behind, what...?
It hurts.
Yes? Why can't he feel it? Or maybe he's feeling it too much?
The woman's voice doesn't reach him anymore, he only sees her slamming her foot on the ground, then, a jerk:
He is dragged violently into the pool below, so violently that the chains that imprisoned him simply break free from their lyrium bond.
In an instant he finds himself with his back to the bottom.
Air!
There's no air!!
The time to understand, that terror takes hold of him; something he hadn't remembered for a long time.
It was one thing to feel it indiscriminately, another to realize that he was actually feeling it at that precise moment and in every single cell that composed him.
He moves an arm, his legs, the water around him seems heavy, like glue holding him firmly to the bottom.
Then he feels it:
Another of those limbs sticks into his side, tearing it open. This time he feels it, he feels it well, he screams, but no one can hear him and he sees his blood filling the space all around.
He set himself with his elbows, tries to get out of there and again another of those bony members sticks in his leg.
The pain is unholy, but fear incites him not to let go, fighting desperately for his life.
He grunts and gasps. He has no intention of dying there!
He hears something, he doesn't understand what it says, it's a deep and penetrating voice, it seems like the voice of the water itself, but in reality it's only in his head.
Another claw pierces him in the chest.
He coughs, but he breathes water, he feels his lungs burning, he knows he's about to drown but he doesn't accept it. As a last desperate attempt he grabs that hook planted in his thigh and the one harpooned in his side.
Zara, leaning out from the platform, watches the pool boil, sees blood, sees black, feels the Fade a step away from her, and yet she prevents her followers from stopping the litany; maybe, maybe something good can come out.
She sees the boy struggling under the murky surface. Between frenetic waves and bubbles, at a certain point an arm emerges, desperately looking for something to hold on to.
Instinctively he puts a hand to his throat: he won't die there! He has to! He has to kill that whore!
The black:
like ink, a dark curtain envelops him as he lets go of the last bit of air he had left; that little bubble, which as it rises, begins to look more and more like... a feather. A feather that the voice, which he doesn't understand, tells him to grab.
Everything fades, nothing reaches him anymore, the feather, the air, the fear, the voice...
He barely touches with two fingers that fleeting figure that moves away from him, as if it were his own soul that finally abandons him.
Eyes wide open, inert, the body becoming light, the water no longer making him feel the weight, everything returning to being so empty and white... and that feather...
-An idea of something I was writing, my version of the Ossuary from Lucanis' point of view...-
[ mature/violence - 1/?]
next ->
The Ossuary
A penetrating smell of damp...
A hint of salt and a metallic taste in his mouth...
Blood?
He opens his eyes, he tries:
Everything is blurry, undefined, he can barely see any colors; a retching.
He closes his eyes again and forces himself to breathe deeply, he finds himself very out of breath.
It's dark, or maybe he can't focus; in any case the light is poor.
Everything comes to him disconnected, a black hole every time he blinks.
Does he hear noises? He doesn't understand...
People...?
He blinks a couple more times, but his eyes burn too much and he feels hot tears running down his face.
He would like to try to get up; he's lying down?
There is a pressing sensation in his ears, as if he were deep in the earth.
He can't feel his hands, his legs are numb and when he tries to move a foot, a cramp forces him to contract.
He opens his eyes again, there is light filtering from above, waving gently, and shadow, so much shadow...
The voices are further away.
He tries to get to his knees, but everything spins and rumbles, he struggles to see the outlines of things and feels, even on all fours, that his balance is precarious. A violent blow to his back knocks him face down again; sand and blood mix in his mouth.
Cold and wet.
A vacuum of air, he feels his lungs empty.
He finds himself shaking, his clothes are damp and he feels slimy on the ground.
He opens his eyes wide:
Darkness, damp stone beneath him, his clothes are wet, he is in a small empty room; the ship?
Cramps.
He feels all shaken by cramps. Poison?
He tries to pull himself to his knees, but everything is spinning terribly. He closes his eyes and even though he is on the ground he loses his balance; they've drugged him? He stretches out a leg to stay stable, he realizes he is not wearing his clothes.
A moment of agitation where he loses lucidity: he does not have the knives, the poisons, his equipment? He's dressed in rags of canvas, what happened?!
A sharp pain in his head, the air suddenly fails him and he does not understand why, he feels cold but is sweating, before he understands he finds himself bent over vomiting his soul.
A cough, a strong dizziness, he can't stand up straight and falls on his back.
Everything throbs: his head, his ears, the room...
He is jerked roughly, his eyes widen: there is a man in front of him, he recognizes him as Venatori by his clothes.
He shrugs his shoulders and tries to free himself, but he finds caught in the grip of a second element that forces him to remain still on his knees.
He has no strength, why?? His head is dangling, he struggles to keep it up...
The individual in front of him says something that his brain, however, cannot process.
A blow, a slap straight to the face makes him fall back on the other side; why he can't react!?
Footsteps.
He sees someone approaching, but only after emerging from the shadows does he identify her as a woman: dressed like the others but better made, more adorned, probably the person in charge -well...- wherever they were at that moment.
She bends down to look at him as, like a worm -and his pride is dying-, he tries to get back on his knees.
He can't see her face, but he distantly recognizes a dark grin in the shadow of the hood.
Her lips move, she's saying something... A hand rests under his chin, forcing him to finally raise his head.
She looks up at the two men who are yanking him back to his knees.
<<... glad you survive...>> <<... a gift for you...>>
She speaks, but he can't understand what she's saying, while she remains with one hand still in mid-air as if waiting something.
Something that comes after shortly.
Another man advances toward her: he holds a basin of smooth gray stone in his hand, he offers it to the woman who dips two fingers in it, in a seductive gesture of the hand.
She whispers something that he doesn't hear, while that movement becomes almost hypnotic. Until she extracts the hand and her fingers drip with red liquid that runs down her bare forearm.
It's blood.
She places it right in front of him as she kneels down in turn; there's something moving inside...
Muffled by that thought, the woman shakes him by placing her dirty hand on his face, marking it. She turns her face away, a gesture that costs him a moment of emptiness.
She sneers <<You don't want it, sweetheart? But it's not your first time>>
Wha...?
When?
He frowns as he looks at her without understanding; he feels his heartbeat increase. No no, it's not good, he must not show it.
<<It seems to me you weren't so reluctant last time. Well, we will see if they'll want you>>.
The smile distorts into a chilling grimace as one of the two men hits him first in the stomach, knocking out his air and the other pulls him back roughly by the hair.
The woman has put both hands in the basin and has pulled out what looks like a small pulsating viscera.
He feels sick just watching her lick it, when one of the two henchmen cover his nose and force him to open his mouth.
No...
The hand that presses to his face is as violent as a slap, as he tries to free himself in vain.
The woman stands up, maintaining that grin with that sadistic shadow in her eyes.
No.
If the head doesn't cooperate, then the body will.
Survival: it's no longer a matter of thinking about acting, but of simply doing it.
He points one foot well enough to slide the other leg forward and it flies like a whiplash upwards; he wanted to hit the woman, but instead he barely manages to knock over the stone bowl.
She screams, as the men push him to the ground; without putting up any resistance, this time, he wriggles free from the grip of the one holding him by the shoulders.
He feels heavy, he struggles to keep his eyes open, he knows he's about to pass out...
He shivers when he realizes that the floor where they are is covered with geometric shapes and symbols deliberately drawn by hand. Blood? There are some that shine with an unnatural light.
Something white and grainy on the outer edges, to delimit the area where they were. The smell he felt before somehow makes him connect it to salt.
What the hell...?
A guy from behind tugs at his shirt, which tears; he suddenly stands up, bumping him with his shoulder right under the chin, making him fall back down.
He doesn't have time for satisfaction, his leg gives out, a dizziness and he finds himself on his knees again, a violent kick in the middle of his sternum makes him fall badly on his back.
He hits his head, he can't see anything for the umpteenth time.
He can't breathe, but when he feels the hands of the two men behind him again, he prefers to bite his tongue rather than give in.
The woman's heel hits his throat overbearingly, forcing him to open his mouth wide to gasp for air; she slaps that slimy, creepy little thing in there, shoving it all the way down his throat with those cold, well-groomed fingers he feels in the spasms of his throat.
Air!
He starts to cough reflexively, while she gets on top of him on all fours, covers his mouth and nose, cursing something. It's all spinning too hard and he feels that disgusting thing in his throat moving, causing him to retch yet again.
The urge to throw up is pushed back by the fact that he is finally forced to swallow.
Tears begin to fall uncontrollably as the air returns violently to his lungs.
He gasps, she gets up and, muttering something, kicks him in the stomach, folding him in half.
What was that??
What disgusting thing did he swallow?!
He coughs, turning around and finds himself crawling in his own saliva; it burns...
A scream comes out of him interrupted by violent coughing fits, cramps, he can't see anything anymore, he can't hear anything anymore, the air doesn't come in anymore...
areudirty
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