Gladiator Whumpees; whumpees raised and trained to fight against each other as a performance. They were trained for entertainment value rather than efficiency in battle, but the fight is real nonetheless.
All of them sleep, train, eat in the same compound. They’re friends, until they enter the arena. Until they are screamed at, until they have to perform or risk being killed by each other or the handlers.
They have mastered the art of performance, of fighting with flourish and avoiding deadly injuries. When one of them falls, the others are not victorious, they are in mourning.
When two particular close fighters face off in the arena, their eyes meet from behind their weapons and both are crying silently. The audience is too far to see it, this short moment is just for them.
Tags: vampire whumper, vampire hunter whumpee, defiant whumpee, mind control, brainwashing, knives, blood, forced to murder, whumpee forced to whump or whatever you call that. | Words: 2.5k
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Cassian startled at the sharp creaking of hinges when the bathroom door swung open. No knock? he thought, but didn’t say anything. He only frowned at Rahadin as the elf entered the room, looking satisfied when he saw that Cassian was dried and dressed.
"If you're finished, I'll escort you to the master's suite. He's ready for you now," Rahadin said.
Cassian silently seethed in the stuffy outfit. It reminded him of Escher, that damned blonde vampire. Wearing some shit like this, getting groped and manhandled and bitten and worse probably.
Cassian didn't like this. He didn’t like this at all one fucking bit. But he wore it anyway, with his old clothes unusable. He grit his teeth. It was better than nothing, he told himself.
Eye twitching slightly, but biting his tongue, Cassian followed Rahadin out of the bathroom and down the castle hallway. He vowed to give Strahd a piece of his mind as soon as he got the chance.
Down more dimly lit stone hallways, until Rahadin escorted Cassian to an ornate door. Cassian could hear a faint whimpering through the carved wood. Rahadin opened the door, bowed, then gestured to Cassian to go inside.
"Here he is, my liege."
"Excellent, thank you, Rahadin," came Strahd's voice.
Rahadin stepped aside, revealing a large, ornate, four-poster bed with red sheets and black curtains. Strahd was laid across it, in a satin dressing gown.
Cassian slowly stepped inside, then visibly recoiled.
A human woman lay face-up on the bed beside him, paralyzed. There were two puncture marks in her neck, which were still dripping blood. Strahd licked a drop from his lip, then beckoned Cassian to approach with one curled finger.
“Wh-what are you doing to her—!?” Cassian exclaimed, even though it was pretty obvious. Strahd was going to feed from that woman right in front of him. Shit— what was Cassian supposed to do?
Was not his whole entire job—his reason for existence—predicated on the premise of rescuing innocent human life from the jaws of greedy sadistic vampires? And here was the king bastard himself, feeding on an innocent human being right in front of him. He had to do something.
Cassian’s wrist instinctively flew to his hip, where his silver dagger typically rested—where it always had, before it’d been knocked loose when he’d been dragged through brambles and boulders on the Old Svalich road. A jolt of panic hit him when his hand found nothing there but empty space and the textured embroidery of his too-fancy regalia.
Strahd let out a purring laugh. "Even if you had your knife, you'd still be just as helpless. I appreciate the effort, though. The fear in your eyes."
Strahd sat upright, looming over the woman on the bed next to him.
"Come here, Cassian. Come sit with me. Tonight, I am going to make you the thing you hate the most: A murderer of the innocent, to take their blood. And you will not even have the excuse of being a spawn under my control to shield yourself."
Cassian stepped back, recoiling in horror. “No—!”
He didn’t even fully know what he was objecting to. But it sounded like Strahd was going to make him kill that woman. Or turn him into a vampire and make him drink her. With his shit luck, it’d be both.
“No,” he said again, more resolutely this time, voice shaking a little less.
“You’re going to let me fucking go. And her too. Im not here to be your fucking plaything,” Cassian spat.
"That is exactly what you are here for, foolish boy."
Strahd's eyes flared with hypnotic power--not enough to completely overwhelm him, but just enough to make him squirm and struggle to keep his resolve.
"I said, come here."
Cassian’s breath hitched as he felt Strahd’s will overtake him— not fully, but enough to muddle his senses, to compel him to move his feet without his fully sober consent. He didn’t feel sober anymore—Fuck— Was he actually intoxicated? Was that how Strahd did it?
Strahd’s face shimmered in the light now, just a bit. The rest of the world seemed to warp around the vampire lord’s face. Cassian loathed the way it made him feel—like that time his friend had dared him to try those weird mushrooms they had found in the woods. It had made the colors all weird—made everything hum and buzz and glow— it had warped his senses in a way that went galaxies beyond his control.
Strahd made him feel a little bit like that, every time he’d encountered him, but this time the feeling was radiating through him—penetrating through bone. Strahd seemed to zoom closer, getting larger and larger in Cassian’s narrowing vision, before Cassian realized with horror that it was himself that was moving, not Strahd.
It was like being ridiculously high with moments of stark sparkling blinding clarity. Clarity that horrified.
He was within Strahd’s reach now, some awful invisible gravity pulling him closer to him against his will.
Cassian found himself kneeling on the mattress in front of him, gazing up at Strahd with slightly glassy eyes that still shook with fear.
Every rational inch of him wanted to scream. To run away. To stab and kill and— but with what?
Cassian tried to move. To lunge at Strahd.
But it just felt like so much effort. He couldn't bring himself to move from the kneeling position. Every fiber of his being felt woven of lead.
"There you are," Strahd said, his face twisting into a smile.
One talon came up and ran through Cassian's hair.
"You've cleaned up so nicely. To think a few hours ago you were being dragged through the mud behind me."
Cassian felt something metal pressing into his palm, then looked down to see Strahd handing him a knife. He leaned over and whispered into his ear, almost sensually.
"The knife you wanted so badly. Slit her throat. Make a feast for me. Do it by your own hand, knowing that if you'd only been just a little stronger to resist, she would still be alive."
Cassian felt his fingers grip around the knife. Shaking, he looked down at his own hand, and knew that this arm was no longer his own. It belonged to Strahd now, his authority sealed the moment he’d uttered the words and given him the weapon. Strahd could order Cassian to slit his own throat right now, and Cassian’s arm would probably move to make it happen.
Cassian could only hope he had control of his other arm at that point, but he had no idea how any of Strahd’s mind control abilities worked. He was worse off now especially, his mind still swimming in the swirling notes of the mushroom’s haze—of Strahd’s particular haze, he had to remind himself.
It was like he'd been drugged. He hadn’t let himself be dr— or—or he had? Had he? Maybe?— fuck— it was getting so hard to think.
“Please don’t make me,” he managed to say, but it came out still weak and hoarse. A desperate whisper.
He wouldn’t do it. What Strahd wanted. He couldn’t. He willed his arm to raise and sink the knife into Strahd’s own chest instead, just to make a point.
’You will never own me,’ the point said. ‘I will never be your puppet.’
Raise, his arm did. Sink into Strahd’s chest, it did not.
Instead, it rose to meet the woman’s quivering form.
“No—!” he cried out, not recognizing his own voice.
Cassian felt the liquid in the corners of his eyes swell in anger—in frustration, terror— in anguish at his own sheer fucking helplessness. He had to fucking do something.
His hand quivered with the blade just above her throat. Why wouldn’t she resist? Why wouldn’t she stop him? Do something!
‘Resist me, please,’ he thought desperately. His hand quivered, the blade just above her jugular.
The woman's cloudy eyes fixed on the knife. Strahd stretched out beside her, propped up on his elbow. He reached out and curled a lock of her hair around his finger.
"What did I tell you, Gertruda? That your knight in shining armor was coming? You probably didn't expect which of us he'd be killing, though."
She strained against whatever force was holding her, raising one shaky hand to press against Cassian's wrist, as if to say, please don't.
"Go on, then," Strahd said.
Despite Cassian's desperate prayers, his hand moved and brought the dagger down on the woman's throat, slicing it open. She gurgled and thrashed weakly.
Strahd leaned over and took her in his arms, like they were going to make out, except his mouth went to her neck, not to kiss, but to sip at the open wound. He swallowed over and over as though it were the sweetest nectar. The color gradually faded from her cheeks, and her eyes rolled back in her head.
Cassian shuddered in horror at what his own hands had just done. The way it had felt. How soft her flesh had been beneath the sharpened blade of the knife. How easy it had opened before his eyes. Beneath his own fingers.
He felt the tears falling before he realized he was crying. He was crying for this woman, shaking for her and for the anger he felt—at Strahd—at himself, for being too weak to resist it.
The blade slipped from his fingers and he numbly sat back on his knees. Cassian watched helplessly as Strahd sucked at the fresh corpse. It was nauseating. It was revolting. Cassian felt his stomach churn and his fingers itch for the blade again just so he could sink it into Strahd’s throat. If even just in protest for this woman’s death. So it wouldn’t have been for nothing.
The desire to stab Strahd was a funny thought, considering Cassian had done it before. Shoved his own silver dagger straight through Strahd’s neck only a few days prior. Not that it’d had much effect on the vampire—the wound had healed in seconds—but Cassian didn’t regret the choice, even though it had gotten him bitten nearly to death. It was worth it to save Veruska, the dusk elf paladin who was, when Cassian really thought about it, the only one in that ragtag group of travelers that he actually sort of liked. He had respected her. He wondered if he would ever see her again.
Cassian found himself twitching to grab the knife again. The memory of Strahd choking Veruska out with his superhuman strength, the image of Strahd right in front of him, sipping from a fresh human corpse—Cassian couldn’t take it. He couldn’t just sit there and let it happen. He had to stop being so useless.
But Cassian found he once again couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak. Could only sit there and watch and let the tears silently roll down. Strahd’s will held him completely still, and he knelt there, petrified.
The world still shone and glimmered around Strahd, even as he fed from the corpse. Everything sparkled off of him as if light and shadow themselves were forged to accent the peaks and valleys of his face. The woman’s blood ran down his chin, a bright vivid crimson against his snow-like complexion.
Strahd picked up the knife, licking the excess blood off it like it was cake frosting. "Poor Cassian. All alone with me now."
He tossed the knife away, then held Cassian's face in his hands, wiping Cassian's tears with his thumbs. He released his hold over Cassian—au natural—for whatever delicious struggle he was sure was about to ensue.
As though plunged into an icy pool of water, sobriety hit Cassian and a freight train of horror came with it. Whatever part of him Strahd’s magic was keeping at bay broke loose like floodgates, and Cassian found himself shaking miserably with hatred and heartbreak in Strahd’s proximity.
Strahd tilted Cassian's head and leaned in, very delicately licking Cassian's cheeks, tasting the salty tears and the remnants of smeared blood from Strahd's own hands.
Cassian flinched hard, letting out a noise of panic when he felt Strahd’s tongue on his face. Instantly, his hands rose to push back against Strahd’s chest. It was more unconscious than anything. A normal, confident version of himself would’ve decked Strahd right in the face. But there was nothing normal about this. Nothing normal or sane about what had just happened, or about where he was, or about who was in front of him, pulling all his threads like he were a mere toy on a string.
“Let me—fucking go—!” He shouted, trying to push Strahd away and scramble back on the bed. The other human was dead. He’d surely be next. He had to get out of here now.
His eyes flicked to the door behind him. Could he make it? Maybe if he managed to injure Strahd somehow, he could make a break for it. His leg was still fucked, but what choice did he have?
Strahd noted the direction of Cassian's gaze and smiled, showing his teeth had shifted into something more wolfish. An animalistic growl rumbled in his throat. "Go ahead, hunter. The chase is fun. Seeing you be hunted is thrilling." He nibbled on Cassian's earlobe, breathing heavily. "Run, then, if you want to go so badly."
Cassian scrambled off the bed, losing his balance in his panic and crumpling to the floor in a heap. He groaned at the pain in his leg before staggering back to his feet.
No, no— Cassian remembered the last time Strahd had ordered him to run. He’d ended up harpooned through the leg and dragged around through the mud for miles.
Cassian knew this was just another game to him, Strahd was only playing around. But this was no game to Cassian. This was life or gruesome fucking death.
He would just have to find somewhere to hide. Maybe something to cover his scent so the vampire couldn’t smell him? But fuck, what could he use?
There was no time to think about it. He took the opportunity for what it was. A chance, however slim, to put some distance between himself and this monster. Strahd really did look monstrous once again, to Cassian now. The warm glow around his skin was gone, the light no longer shined to reflect in his eyes. He was a gruesome horrid sight, covered in that poor woman’s blood and bloody fanged smile splitting his face apart. Cassian wasn’t going to spend another second in here if he didn’t have to.
Pain from the harpoon’s bloody performance radiated up his leg, but he found he hardly cared now. Finally free of Strahd’s persuasion, adrenaline once again flooding his system, Cassian bolted to the door and booked it.
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More is written and lemme tell you— It only gets worse from here!! Worse for Cassian. Not worse for us. If anything, things will be even better for us. Hell yeah.
Song is calm. She ignores the begging and sobs of the prisoner bound before her. This is what they are trained for. This is what she must do. The trainer gives the order, and Song moves before the words have fully settled. It’s over in seconds. The room goes quiet except for her breathing, sharp and ragged, hands still pressing the knife into the prisoner’s ribs. She stares at what she’s done, waiting for the horror to catch up, for something inside her to scream stop. But all she feels is satisfaction at a job well done.
“Good,” Lieutenant Graves says. She smiles. Not wide, not cruel like she sometimes is. Just… satisfied. She makes a note on her clipboard. “Fastest neutralization we’ve had with your team. No hesitation. Excellent work, soldier. Now do the rest.”
Song breathes. She isn’t sure she wants to be praised for this. But she is. She finishes her task. She goes back to her team, waiting outside, and says nothing. Doesn’t reply to Kat. Pays no attention to Maddox’s teasing.
Back in the room, she sits on her bed and stares at the wall blankly.
They’re given sugar for the next meal, and the staff member who brings the food announces cheerily that it’s because of Song’s result.
The door barely closes behind them before Song’s knees hit the floor.
“I didn’t hesitate,” she says. Like a confession. Like an accusation. “You all said you did. Every one of you. I didn’t.” Her hands shake, pressing into the concrete as if she can pin the memory down. “I’m still—still Song. I’m still the one who’s got your backs. So… please don’t leave me. I just… I protected you. That’s all. I’m not—” Her voice cracks. “I’m not a monster, right?”
No one answers.
The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. Song curls in on herself, arms wrapped tight like restraints, eyes fixed on the floor. She’s afraid that if she looks up and sees fear in their faces, it will mean the prisoner who cursed her was right.
Then Bryony moves.
She drops to her knees in front of Song. Her hands — small, tiny hands, find Song’s wrists and hold them gently. Like Song is precious.
“Hey,” Bry whispers. “You’re still you. Okay? You’re still the one who dragged me out of the rain last month when I froze up. Still the one who yelled at the range officer for calling my shot ‘lucky.’ You’re still Song.” She swallows. “We’re not leaving. Okay? You’re not a monster.”
Phoebe steps in next. She crouches and presses two fingers under Song’s jaw. “Look at me.” Song’s eyes flick up. Phoebe doesn’t tell her to get away. She looks at her for a long moment, then pulls her into a hug. “You did what had to be done.” She pulls a small packet of sugar from her pocket, the one they’d been given for Song’s ‘excellent work’, and presses it into Song’s palm. “Eat this. You’re shaking like hell. And stop thinking you’re the only one with blood on your hands.”
Maddox lingers behind. He tries for a grin, then lets it drop. “Yeah, uh… what she said.” His voice is thick and wobbly. “You think I was perfect the first time? I was scared. I felt like I wouldn't be able to do it. But I did. Missed, though. Splattered the guts and blood everywhere. And then I kept going. For you guys.” He shifts closer, crouching. “You’re not alone in the shit, Song. We’re all wading through it. You’re just different.”
Katya hasn’t moved from the door. Back straight, arms folded, standing guard. She says nothing. Just makes sure the rest of them are safe to fall apart.
Lilith comes last. She’s stayed in the shadows until now. She steps forward silently, sits beside Song, and places one hand flat against her back. Her other hand finds the hem of Song’s sleeve, holding it — not tight, just there. A tether.
Song’s shoulders jerk once, twice. Then she leans back into Lilith’s palm.
The room stays quiet. But the silence isn’t suffocating anymore.
Altair's Dark Years, Chapter Seven - A Fighter Or A Corpse
young whumpee, non-human/monster whumpee, fighting, forced to kill, death, blood, defiant whumpee, healing abilities/healing blood, punishment, bloodletting
Altair grew up. Grew up in the same fashion a broken sapling does – twisted, weird, but still fighting for its life tooth and nail.
She took Beorn’s advice to heart. Become a warrior, or become a corpse. And though the latter would surely be less painful, she still fought for every second of the miserable life she led under the rule of Orcs. Altair was not really sure why, what the point of fighting for every scrap of food and every sip of water was, but she kept on doing it anyways. Maybe it was her childishness, she thought, though that was soon beaten out of her. Yet, the perseverance continued.
Not after long, the presence of the skin-changer became Altair’s main reason to stay alive. Beorn was huge, strong, fierce, and kind. He reminded her so much of Alderan, who tried to help her and protected her from others. Beorn did the same now; in his bear form, he was a formidable beast, and the wargs did not want to mess with him when he was out of his cage. He chased them away when they were tormenting little Altair, until her fangs grew long enough for her to do it herself.
And Altair found that she could help him, too – the first time in her life she could actually be useful to another. The healing properties of Dreamwolf blood were not previously known to Beorn, not until one day.
When they dragged him back from the pit, Altair already knew something was wrong. Beorn was a fighter who walked away from the fights on his own legs. But now, his unconscious human form was thrown into his cage, next to Altair’s. The space between them was just big enough so that she could not reach over it.
,,Avake avhe Hundur,” snarled one of the Orcs and nodded to her. ,,Iav liwo niukh iav.”
After the few weeks that had passed – or was it days? Months? –, Altair had begun to pick up some of their words. Hundur was what they called her. Hound. She did not feel like one, small and scared and beaten. But that was what they were going to mold out of her. Niukh iav, she knew that one. Finish it. It preceded death.
She was dragged out of the cage now. It still angered her how the Orcs just grabbed and threw her around, and she snarled and nipped at them. When she was successful, she could take a whole finger like that, before they found something to muzzle her.
Not today, though. A sharp whack of a club made Altair yelp and cower, sharp pain shooting up through her left shoulder and wing.
,,You try that again and you get the Tamer,” the Orc hissed, making sure that she understood. Altair growled at him defiantly, but still, a chill ran through her spine at the mention. She shut her mouth. The Orc’s eyes squinted and he grimaced at her, showing his teeth.
,,That’s a good dog,” he jeered. His companion shoved her forward. ,,Parpara.”
Forward. Her stomach churned with anger when she was faced with no other option than to obey, burning with a hurt pride she did not even know she had. When her siblings overlooked her or when the Queen berated her or when the other wolves mocked her, she didn’t feel like this, because they were in the right – she was inferior to them, in every aspect. She couldn’t blame them for being disappointed in her. She did not feel angry at them, only at herself, angry and sad for not being better. But the Orcs? What right did they have?
It took Altair a long time before she came to terms that this was not a mistake. That Queen Aldebaaran did really, really trade her for peace. And that it meant that the Orcs – and mostly, their leader, whose pale hand rested upon the handle of the Tamer tucked behind his belt – were given every right to do with her whatever they wished.
But not in those first few months, while Altair was still coming to terms with her situation. In those first few months, she was still fighting back.
That anger was a great fuel. Under the Orcs, she was behaving in all the ways she could not even fathom while living back with the Dreamwolf pack. She snarled and growled and gnashed her teeth, bit and tore and mauled when she could. She barked, hissed, clawed at the wargs that bit her. She hurled insults at her captors. Never before had she been so loud, so willing to fight for herself.
So, when they had tossed her into the pit, Altair was almost glad to have something to take all that anger, desperation and fear out on.
She had seen mountain lions from afar before, but they were never this huge. The animal hissed and snarled, fur bristled, its greyish yellow fur stained by blood running down its chin onto its chest. Beorn’s, as Altair realized.
The lion pounced at her the second it saw the wolf. Altair’s wings flapped as she jumped away from its attack. She was less than half its size, it was almost as big as Beorn in his bear form. Only her speed – and her blood – were the only reasons Altair had not yet died in the pit fights. So she dodged and tried to get behind the beast, but the lion was faster. Its claws dug deep into her skin, tearing out pieces of fur, and she cried out. Kicking and squirming, she backed away. The cat was still at her tail, pupils almost invisible in its widened eyes. They were both terrified and angry, and at least one of them was going to die because of it.
Altair’s heart was beating in her throat now. What was she supposed to do? Gashes on her back bled and burned with strain, four claw marks carved into skin.
The lion chased the wolf around the pit, leaping from place to place, trying to pin her to the ground and finish her off. The Orcs jeered and shouted, watching impatiently. Panic clouded Altair’s mind. After a few successful fights, she had almost thought that she could take anything. A foolish thought, as she now realized. The stupid pride of a young pup learning how to bite and feeling that it is invincible.
I do not want to die. I don’t want to die, rang in her head dreadfully. Not here. Not like this. Please. Someone–
Something heavy swished through the air, and then, a pained roar was elicited from the mountain lion. Altair turned around, and saw that a thick jagged spear was struck through its hind leg, burying itself deep into the ground. Red blood seeped through the mud and stained the stone. The cat cried and struggled, trying to rip it out, but to no avail. The weapon had lodged itself deep, and the back hooks running along its tip made removal of it almost impossible. The weight of the spear had slowed the lion down, one of its legs now immobile.
Altair looked up, and a chill ran across her spine – because she saw the Pale Orc standing at the brim of the pit, Tamer in hand. His cold eyes burned down on his wolf. He scowled, gesturing towards the animal.
,,Niukh iav, woravhleuk Hundur.” Finish it, you useless mutt.
Altair winced. The scorn in his voice was clear to hear, even if she couldn’t fully understand him. The lion still hissed and barred its fangs at me, but its pale eyes were now wide with fear.
She had gained an advantage.
Her throat was almost closed with the ache burning through her heart. She felt so sorry, so sorry for the formidable beast now rendered slow and weak by one strike of a weapon. She did not want to kill the lion, not now, when it was no longer coming after her throat. But she had to. And in the end, making its death as quick as she could would be the kindest option.
It could have ended up like me instead, Altair thought bitterly. And that wasn’t a fate she would bestow on anyone.
And so she approached. The lion growled and snarled at her, snapping its teeth in the air. She dodged a tired swing of its paw. The beast’s breaths had become labored now. It was losing blood.
When her jaws wrapped around its throat, bit down and snapped, its last roar rising to the dead sky was an angry confession to the injustice that was dealt.
Altair stepped back and spat out the blood running down her chin and her heaving chest. Only now she realized that she was shaking, shaking with the closeness of death that breathed on her neck. It could have been me, rang through her head as she stared at the corpse of the majestic animal, a mountain of muscles and strength. It was almost me.
She slowly looked back up and dread overran the brief relief of surviving. The Pale Orc was scowling with disdain, his right hand impatiently playing with the whip’s handle.
,,Thrak Hundur avo alnej,” he gestured to two Orcs standing nearby. Bring the mutt over, he said. ,,Iav ukhall geav ij leukon.” It shall learn a lesson.
No, rang through Altair’s head. No, no. Please, no. Not another beating. Now she wished that the mountain lion had ripped her to shreds. A desperate whimper slipped through her teeth, but there was nothing that she could do to stop the punishment from coming. Her skin prickled with anticipation as dread started to close up her throat.
When the Orcs jumped down into the pit, Altair had no longer any space to back down. With fur bristled and mind clouded, a single thought circled through her head – there was no way out.
No other way but through.
The first Orc tasked with retrieving me to her Master tried to grab her. Teeth snapped, a sharp bark rang out, and before Altair knew it, her fangs were sinking and tearing through his flesh. The Orc shrieked and toppled back, kicking and squirming underneath her. A kick to the stomach made her convulse and a ragged howl flew out of her, but she did not let the Orc go. She was skinny, small and underfed – if her fangs yielded, he would kick her right off.
And so, instead, when she saw a glimpse of the creature’s softer, lighter neck, she spat out his arm and sank her teeth right down into it.
His flesh yielded, and blood spurted out. She tore out his throat. The Orc’s howls were muted by the blood he choked on, his hands grasping to his collarbones in useless panic.
Altair didn't have the time to see his fight subside. Anger and helplessness built up from everything, from Beorn’s injuries, to the death of the mountain cat, to the beating she was supposed to endure, how unjust and cruel it was and there was nothing she could do about it — it all swarmed through her, making her blood boil.
She turned to the second Orc before he could have the time to attack her. She did not give him time to move. Two leaps and she was at him, going straight for the throat this time. He collapsed, sputtering and squealing.
Fur bristled, blood running down her chin, Altair looked up at the Pale Orc, almost prompting him. Come on, come down here. She was not going to take this whipping without a fight.
What was on the face of the Pale Orc was not disdain now, no; Altair felt a bolt of surprise when she realized that he looked almost pleased. He nodded to another Orc now, prompting him to come down. The Orc snarled, but he did not dare to disobey. Drawing his sword, he jumped down into the pit.
Altair backed up, a faint growl coming out of her throat without her even realizing. She eyed his blade cautiously. The Orc hissed, waving it in front of him.
Azog, standing up high above him, nodded and moved two fingers from Altair to the Orc. ,,Sulmog,” he ordered her. Attack.
Like a snake, she bolted forward, keeping her head low and her stomach close to the ground. Her teeth clamped around the Orc’s leg. She bit down fast and hard, tearing through muscles, and jumped back before the Orc could swing his sword at her. He cried, leg yielding underneath him. Another swift lunge, and she managed to get his arm. The blade rang against the ground. He could not stop the wolf with bare hands. A snap and a thrust against the stone and the Orc was down.
Before Altair knew it, there was another one, running up to her. She dodged his spear at the last second, scurrying away. She snapped at his heels, jumping at his shoulders from behind. He toppled, falling to the ground.
Azog looked down upon his Hound, and slowly, a wicked smile widened his mouth when he saw it tear another one apart. Blood matted the grey fur.
Good. He just might make something out of her.
>><<
Dragged back to her cage, Altair was covered in blood, both hers and Orkish. Legs weak and wobbly, head spinning, and mouth perched and full of the taste of death, she had no more strength to fight the hands touching her.
She got her beating nonetheless, but not before the Pale Orc tired her out. She lost count of how many throats she tore today, but she still knew that her success lessened her punishment – nine lashes. When she tried really hard, she could stay on her legs for a while. Still, the blood weeping from the injuries was making her head spin. The exhaustion ringing in her head was unbearable.
Beorn laid in his cage, curled up in a ball, naked and covered in claw marks. It snapped Altair out of her haze. She realized she had completely forgotten about him, about how they dragged him in unconscious.
,,Beorn,” She called out his name, outstretching one paw through the bars as far as she could. ,,Beorn, please, wake up.”
A low, tired grunt could be heard from the man. Altair whined, all tiredness now washed away by the sheer fear for him. Because if Beorn could not get up and go on, how could she survive?
,,Beorn!” She cried, voice strained and broken. At last, the man quietly grunted, shifting slowly. Quiet whines escaped Altair’s mouth. Without her even realizing, she was almost hyperventilating now. I cannot lose him.
,,Beorn, look at me.”
He did so, slowly, with great difficulty. His eyes were half closed, his face pale and strained. He had lost a lot of blood, and he held on only with the last bits of strength.
,,Altair,” he let out a raspy breath. ,,You… Still alive.”
,,Yes,” Altair whimpered, trying to reach over the vast stretch of stone that divided them, smudging the dark ground with red. ,,Beorn, listen to me. Give me your hand.”
Beorn shook his head, an amused tired smile appearing on his worn face. ,, …No point,” he breathed. ,, ‘m… Dead soon.”
,,Give me your hand, I say!” There was resolution in her voice not heard before, and her command was so demanding that Beorn, at last, did as she said so, outstretching his shaking hand over the cold stone. The red liquid pooling up on the rock, seeping from the lashes and marks crossing Altair’s battered body, slowly crept its way towards his own cage.
With desperate frustration, Altair gritted her teeth. It was not enough, she realized, watching the blood drip. Beorn still could not reach it. Resolution to save him hardened her will, and she sank her fangs down into the already torn fur on her shoulder. Pain surged through her, the lashes burning in agony, but she did not yield, forcing more blood to spill on the cold stone.
,,Beorn,” she urged the man. ,,Beorn, put it on your wounds. I beg you.”
The skin-changer’s eyes, half-closed with exhaustion, flickered weakly. He saw now that Altair was bleeding, and he frowned, his hand shakily threatening to withdraw.
,,Beorn!” she snapped at him, voice almost cracking. ,,Do as I say, please, please. You can’t… You can’t die.”
Beorn was too tired and too confused to have a reason to argue with her. His great palm smeared some of the red liquid as he tried to pick it up with the last bits of his strength. He pressed his trembling hand onto his stomach, onto the seeping gash. His face contorted in pain as he put pressure on the wound. Altair watched impatiently, pressed against the bars of her cage, eyeing him closely. Please, please, let it be enough.
Beorn drew in a sharp, hissing breath through his teeth, as his side had started to burn.
,,Take some more, come on,” the wolf urged him, her heart beating with impatience and desperation. Beorn did as he was told. He gasped for air suddenly and withdrew his hand – and Altair could see the bleeding ceasing and his flesh scarring over where the wound previously gaped.
Relief crashed over her like a wave, and the last bits of strength, fueled by panic, dissipated away. She laid my head down, her nose stuck through the bars.
,,How… How did you do that?” Beorn gasped, not believing his eyes. His hands wandered around his muscles and the fresh scar.
,,That’s what our blood does,” Altair breathed out. ,,That is why Dreamwolf warriors are so feared. They heal fast.”
,,Then why don’t your lashes heal?” the skin-changer frowned. Altair sighed, shifting in a vain attempt to gain a more comfortable position. Her stomach tightened as she searched for as indirect answer as possible.
,,The only reliable thing that can leave scars on Dreamwolves’ skin is another one of their kind,” she managed at last, avoiding Beorn’s eyes.
Beorn’s brows furrowed, then worry appeared in his eyes.
,,So that thing was forged by one of your kin?” His gaze widened when the horror dawned upon him.
Altair tucked her nose under her wing, closing her eyes shut. ,,I don’t want to talk about it,” she mumbled.
I don’t want to think about it.
A sudden clamor awoke her from her thoughts. She jumped to her feet when she saw the Pale Orc standing there in front of her cage. Beorn shuffled back in his own one, growling at him, and so did Altair, barring her teeth, still bloody from the fight.
,,Lathugi avo avell uuk liav ukecreav, Hundur?” he snarled. Altair could not make out what he was saying, but her heart still beat loud with terror. He opened the cage now, and stooped to grab her. Altair snapped her teeth at his huge hand, pale and merciless, but it only slapped her over the nose and yanked her out. He grasped Altair by the scruff of her neck, lifting her off the ground. The wolf hung in his clutch helplessly, whimpering in pain from the strain put on the lashes crossing her back.
Azog gestured to one of the Orcs he had brought with him to come forth. When the warrior did so, Azog drew a crescent knife from his belt, and slashed him right across the face. The Orc shrieked, toppling forward and grabbing his cheek, from which dark blood now poured, and his companions snarled and barred their teeth at Azog, but their leader only carelessly turned his knife and struck Altair’s neck with it, not heeding Beorn’s angry yelling. The wolf yelped out, feeling the burn as the blade cut, more blood pouring out from the loose skin between the nape of her neck and her shoulderblades. Azog threw the blade to the ground, collecting the red liquid with his other hand. He stepped closer to the wounded Orc, sitting on the ground and clutching his cheek, and crudely smeared the blood over his face. The Orc squealed, but soon his slanted eyes squeezed shut and the cut on his face closed itself slowly. The watching Orcs hummed in wonderment.
Azog chuckled, throwing Altair to the ground. She scurried away from him, hissing and growling like a rabid animal, but to no avail. No matter what she would do, she could not get away from him.
,,Gijak lav-li thag,” he said to the Orcs, pointing at the wolf. Altair did not know what his words meant, but she learned their meaning soon.
Bleed her dry.
taglist - @painwithoutplot
i dont know why this took me so loooong, ahah. anyways, enjoy altair going through the horrors:) i'm thinking of skipping forward and posting something with thorin and the main timeline of altair's story already.
16. Do they have a person they care for? Is it someone they are supposed to protect or is it in spite of orders?
Thank you for another ask!! :3
(Ask game) - (Curse of Withering masterpost)
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16. Do they have a person they care for? Is it someone they are supposed to protect or is it in spite of orders?
Well, this gets sad quickly :')
Cyrus doesn't gave any family or friends, not ever since he was made into a living weapon. So there's not much anyone for him to care about deeply, he's surounded by doctors, handlers and soldiers.
He is half friendly with one member of the medical staff, but again... not a friend, not anyone close. He's not allowed to have those.
But he's a very caring person, and being forced to use his magic to kill people... well... he does care a lot about their death. If that counts.
:')
(He does care about people in his recovery arc, though! He gets to be happy then, that... will just take a good while to happen...)
As a circus sideshow act, Pythias is forced to kill her immortal friend Damon repeatedly.
658 words
CWs: immortal whumpee, multiple whumpees, temporary character death, resurrection, forced to kill, forced to whump, blood, public whump, circus, on display, captivity, past caning, implied past starvation, exhaustion
"See the incredible resurrecting man! Watch as he comes back to life time and time again! Experience the thrill of seeing death, safe in the knowledge that it won't be permanent! Be amazed at the perfect resurrection! No wires, no tricks! Within minutes, the resurrecting man will be back on his feet!"
Pythias takes a breath, gesturing to Damon with a flourish as he steps out from behind the screen in a loose white blouse and trousers, his little stumble going completely unnoticed by the crowd of onlookers. He's exhausted, the dark bags under his eyes hidden by a thick layer of make-up, but he manages a smile that just about covers the dullness of his eyes.
He knows the score. So does she. It was taught to them both at the stroke of a cane. They've got to do this, got to do it well, so convincing in their enthusiastic participation that no-one suspects they're trapped here.
And they have to turn a profit. Or they won't be eating tonight.
Pythias smiles wider. She knows her spiel off by heart now, as she pulls an ornate dagger out from beneath the folds of her blood red dress, twirling it in her hand.
Her elbow-length gloves are a delicate white, but even when they're clean they're covered in his blood.
"Are you ready, folks? Prepare for the show of a lifetime! Gather in and watch closely!"
The crowd shuffles closer, whether through obedience or curiosity she's not sure. The sideshow tent they're in is rather small, and with the onlookers so close... well, the circus director calls it intimate. Pythias prefers claustrophobic.
Pythias lifts the knife, the ornate golden handle glinting in the warm light of the lanterns, and plunges it through the slit in Damon's blouse.
Damon lets out a little gasp as the knife enters, shuddering, before he falls, boneless and empty-eyed, into Pythias's arms.
"Like a reverse damsel in distress, darlin's."
This is the worst part of the act. The lifeless body in her arms, blood spreading, staining the white fabric, covering her gloves where it comes out through the slit in the blouse, red, red blood, matching her dress, contrasting with the white, a contrast the director is so fond of. There's the incessant nagging worry that this time Damon won't return to life, the tense silence that allows the director's voice to worm its way through her brain, leaving nothing to banish it with.
It's only a few minutes but it feels like an eternity every time.
Damon awakes with a groan and a jerk, and the crowd gasps. Someone swoons. Some people step backwards, out of surprise or the fear that his abnormalities are contagious. Pythias wants to scoff. They were fine with his suffering until just now.
She helps Damon to his feet, placing a hand carefully between his wing stubs to support him as he sways very slightly. He grins and waves at the crowd in his blood-soaked blouse, although she can see the discomfort clearly in his face.
This seems to break the onlookers' silence and they break out into cheers and applause.
Pythias smiles. "Thank you, folks. Tell your family and friends about us, come and watch us again, and don't forget to visit the other sideshow acts before you leave!"
The crowd disperses after that, and Damon heads behind the screen to change his blouse, stumbling as he goes. Pythias wipes the knife on a rag until it's gleaming again and peels off the bloodied gloves, surreptitiously handing them both to Damon, to be swapped with clean white gloves that are a lie in their semblance of innocence.
As new people enter the tent, eating candyfloss and toffee apples and chatting happily amongst themselves in a way that makes her hate them just a little bit, she slips into the gloves and prepares to do the whole act all over again.
Do you like Brantsteel's Hunger Games simulator? How about The Team is forced to play the Hunger Games by some "mysterious entity" and if no one dies there will be... consequences.
