7 Fourth Age: punishment of the f o o l i s h

7 Fourth Age: punishment of the f o o l i s h; tag; open
Topic Started: 20 Dec 2008, 03:57 AM (127 Views)
Deleted User	20 Dec 2008, 03:57 AM Post #1
Deleted User	Torture, an act or practice of inflicting severer pain on someone as punishment or to force them to do or say something, or simply for the pleasure of hearing them scream, it was an act that Morion knew well. He was well experienced in the quickest and the slowest ways to coax out harrowing screams and demoralized pleas from his victims lips as he pleased. It was almost like a pastime, something he did to relax, and how wrong that was made him relax even more. He didn’t want to be right, he didn’t want to be good, he wanted to be the most vile thing out there. Second to the Hand of Sauron, of coarse, even though he would love to just off everyone he met, he knew that the Hand might have a slight problem with that, and so he resisted, as hard as it was, he resisted and everyone he did take, he tortured for weeks, before allowing them release through death. Death. What a lovely release. Morion himself almost craved it, wanting to know what it felt like, to have a sweeping feeling of darkenss come over you, to have everything turn dark and warm, to slowly hear your heart stop beating and them have those few fearful seconds afterwards where you were still on the brink of life and death, before you brain cells died, and you were taken from the world forever. It was the thought of afterlife that mortals had that intriqued him the most, the elves had their own places – admittedly he would never go there – so surely the humans had their own too. He wanted to see, even if he lay within limbo for all of eternity, he wanted to see it. Sick, wasn’t he? It was his obsession, and he had little control over it. It was like his obsession with his potions, with blood and the sweet taste of it. It was his weakness, his curiosity, his want, his desire for the morbid, the dark and the dangerous; it was everything he was not supposed to love were the things he could not give up. He didn’t care, he never cared, he could yank the heart out of an enemy and hold it in the palm of his hand without his own jumping a beat in excitement or guilt. He felt nothing, he would never feel anything, it was simply what he did, and after so many years doing it, the feeling and the actions were as simply as breathing and walking, second nature, his nature. The soft scream behind him brought him back to his senses and the potion he was currently mixing, just in time to stop himself from blowing them both up. “Oh, I’m terribly sorry” he murmured softly, tilting his left hand slightly to the left once again and watch the blood red liquid spill into the small bottle of pure gold liquid and watching it twist and turn and bubble and brew with such a smile that one would double take if they saw it. The fumes rose up in a cloud of sickly green that encircled his senses for a brief moment, intoxicating him for a few minutes before it passed, his strange immunity to his own potions once again acting as an advantage, before he turned with a soft, knowing smile and a wicked glint in his hard eyes, to the prisoner he had strung up several days ago. He was a ranger, as far as he had managed to find out, one of those loyal to Ellessar, someone who would apparently be missed, someone who knew nothing of any plans and even if he did then he wouldn’t tell him. He had soft dark hair, matteded with mud, water and the sticky texture that anyone would know to be blood. His clothes were ragged and soaked with various other bodily fluids and the poor little thing did indeed look like death warmed up, the once green firey eyes that had glared at him when he had first caught him were not broken and shattered, having lost that firey glow many hours ago and were not dead, almost accepting of his cruel fate. Of being under the mercy to this incredibly insane man, this stranger who’s mind was unhinged so that the door to the darkness could swing open at random moments…and when it did. The world suffered. “My poor dear boy, I’ve neglected you so” His gaze rested momentarily on the blindfold that wrapped around his eyes and the binds that kept him hanging from the ceiling in the small, isolated, makeshift cave that he had called his den of torture, Morion smiled. Who would have ever thought to look for someone here, or all places, who would even dare to walk through the dark lands anyway? No. His dens were littered across the many realms, but his torture chambers, well, they were reserved for only the darkest of places. “Here. Drink.” Lifting the green liquid to the other’s lips with a soft grin he watched as the coloured liquid disappeared down the others throats, only for the foolish ranger to scream once again as the liquid burned his insides, setting his viens alight, his nerves to burst and explode in pain, and for those green eyes to lghten with emotion once more. He almost went deaf with the noise, although it died soon after as the liquid froze him, turning to ice just as quickly as it had burned him. It was with this that the man grinned, fingers trailing over the various instruments he had at his disposal before picking up a long thin needle in each hand, measuring them up against each other before grinning at his groaning victim. “Now. This may be tricky…” he started slowly, approaching the other, watching the panic rise as realization sunk in at how he couldn’t move, he couldn’t even rock back and forth within the binds. The sweet feeling of utter helplessness coming over him as the points of those two needles were placed softly against the edge of his wide, fearful green eyes. “It’s probably in your best interest not to blink.” Green eyes. Morion liked green. Edited by Lyda, 2 Jan 2009, 11:58 PM.
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