11-14-2011, 09:55 PM
Act I: Fall
The whip came again, and the elf screamed. His voice echoed throughout the dark cell, and as the lashes continued he felt rising guilt and sorrow bubble through cracks in Pain's steel bulwark. With each crack of the whip, familiar voices hissed in his ears.
He heard the whispers of his mother and father.
Astus bit back the tears.
It was damn hard, though. Impossible, in fact.
The liquid ran down in lines from his face, dripping onto the floor, which spat and steamed in reply.
The smell of roast-elf was in the air, now, the
coals beneath the man alight once more from below.
He wailed again, the fire seeping through the cracks all around him.
And he awoke, breathing heavily. His chest heaved
and he coughed, trying to regain his breath to no avail.
The tiny little shack was filled with smoke, the air so thick with
vile fumes it seemed rather like he'd been painted in place.
He'd done it again.
Burned the bed in his sleep.
One might suppose it's like wetting the bed.
Only worse.
He stumbled from the burnt sheets, his feet and legs covered in
blisters from the fire. Each step stung like poisoned, skeletal
spines digging into soft skin, but he made it to the
door after some stumbling. His lungs begged for
oxygen, and as he slammed the door open with his
fists and fell into the cool night air, he soon was asleep once more.
And this time he was left in an iron maiden.
It was dressed like a beautiful saint, and as the doors of it
closed, she seemed to hug him tighter and tighter until...
The whip came again, and the elf screamed. His voice echoed throughout the dark cell, and as the lashes continued he felt rising guilt and sorrow bubble through cracks in Pain's steel bulwark. With each crack of the whip, familiar voices hissed in his ears.
You know why you're here, murderer.
You should've tried harder.
Breathed harder.
You should've tried harder.
Breathed harder.
Death isn't pleasant for wretches like you.
He heard the whispers of his mother and father.
Shouldn't we help him, dear?
No. This is what he deserves.
No. This is what he deserves.
Some son you turned out to be.
Astus bit back the tears.
It was damn hard, though. Impossible, in fact.
The liquid ran down in lines from his face, dripping onto the floor, which spat and steamed in reply.
The smell of roast-elf was in the air, now, the
coals beneath the man alight once more from below.
He wailed again, the fire seeping through the cracks all around him.
Burn, sinner. Burn for your sin.
And he awoke, breathing heavily. His chest heaved
and he coughed, trying to regain his breath to no avail.
The tiny little shack was filled with smoke, the air so thick with
vile fumes it seemed rather like he'd been painted in place.
He'd done it again.
Burned the bed in his sleep.
One might suppose it's like wetting the bed.
Only worse.
He stumbled from the burnt sheets, his feet and legs covered in
blisters from the fire. Each step stung like poisoned, skeletal
spines digging into soft skin, but he made it to the
door after some stumbling. His lungs begged for
oxygen, and as he slammed the door open with his
fists and fell into the cool night air, he soon was asleep once more.
And this time he was left in an iron maiden.
It was dressed like a beautiful saint, and as the doors of it
closed, she seemed to hug him tighter and tighter until...
Shhlink.