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#Post#: 330--------------------------------------------------
A Conversation With A Cultist
By: Eloise Date: May 10, 2015, 9:41 am
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(( [s]did not know where to post this[/s] AKA why we don't say
anything about the Old Gods around Eloise -- tw; strong
language, PTSD flashbacks, drunkard, allusions, gore and verbose
dumb rambling. And this is also why we don't let me get inspired
off other works around the forum =P Let me know what you guys
think and if you'd like to see more of these! x'D Please I need
the ego stroke time to time. ))
[hr]
The night fog was too thick to trek through, and despite every
ounce of her wanting to run out the door of this dusky old
tavern that had thicker cigar smoke than the night's fog; the
shaman remained in her seat far in the utmost left corner as she
hugged her mug close to her. Her eye was glued to the mysterious
substance serving as her mug's contents, and quite frankly she
hadn't taken a single sip out of it since receiving it from the
innkeeper as a 'housewarming gift' from how jittery she seemed
earlier. Or now, even. Her fingers practically drummed to her
elated heartbeat on par with how uncomfortable she felt hearing
of a boasting man - he looked to be near his twenties from her
peripheral, but such a peripheral was also obstructed by her
hair and thus couldn't make all the details out - his drunken
town with the delighted morbidity dripping from every chipper
confession would have most priests clutching their chest in
prayer for this damned soul. He spoke of sacrificing animals at
first, which was mildly normal, but as he got into detail about
them it became satanic and near-dementia based as it graduated
into human sacrificing. Ascendance, as they called it, was a
process of demonizing and dehumanizing an individual entirely to
rebuild them in their worship's image. Such an image could vary
between corrupt elemental furies, to transfigurations of flesh
into amalgamation of tentacles, claws or pustulant, multi-bodied
abominations. It really didn't matter to Eloise how cultists
worded it. It all fell to the same memory of falling into the
dark and being forced into a cage until she saw the altar and
the blood running through its carved veins for a lifeless statue
behind it. The screams that echoed through that cavern as the
slithering dark gurgled and delightedly intoxicated the air with
its putrid saliva as the bodies were brought to it - some
fortunately deceased, and the unfortunate unconscious - the
limbs of the amalgamation only continued to devour its share as
the arbiters of cultists sifted the grain from the straw. The
dreadful feeling that ran through her entire body being there,
she had been so silent from the shock of what lay before her in
body piles. She prayed to the Light that in that time frame,
they would successfully kill her with whatever they had to do so
that she would not be the ones screaming when finding herself
within the belly of that ... beast.
A shiver ran down her spine as she became aware of her
surroundings, her eye flicking in the direction of the cultist
whose obnoxious and nasally laughter hurdled the air about him.
Her ear flicked in response as her agitation rose. The innkeeper
could do nothing as the man paid for the alcohol, food and
general conversation in competent amounts of gold. Some of
which, from what her nose could pick up from the lingering
fingerprints, were wrenched from some body most likely dying by
this cultist's hands. Being that she belonged to no guild at the
time, she tried dipping her nose into the mug and hoped that
whatever the innkeeper managed to slide her way wasn't sour -
and was pleasantly surprised at the still-warm drink with a
honey-sweet aroma wafting from the sip.
"Aye what'sh that smell?" The cultist abruptly asked, his
nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air akin to a bull mastiff
seeking a particular scent. "Who'sh half-assed ah-as-hen-shion
ish permeating 'ere?" He glanced about, lulling his head side to
side and backward searching for the source. Well, so much for
enjoying herself as her body froze up at the fact that some
cultists were bloodhounds for those 'marked' by their God. Or
some shenanigans suchlike. "C'moooon; don't be shy, I'm pretty
shure my boys and I can help ya along with it," he paused, his
eyes lulling over from beneath his hood toward Elo - the eye
contact on her shoulders made her feel nauseous of the ill
intent, "ye know... if ye ain't lily livered." A low, grumbly
cackle escaped him. Eloise was perfectly ok with not furthering
the ascension, as her memories fell back to that time when one
of the arbiters made one last glance over at her and saw
potential for her earth-speaking abilities. This young Draenei
would have made a perfect puppet for their master's bidding, and
every fiber of her being still wished to of been executed during
sacrifice. Whence they had separated her, they took her to a
further chamber that was dimly lit and foreign incense invaded
her perception and violated her senses heavily - a drug that
they were immune to, but used on prisoners or sacrifices to dull
their sense of pain. She had hoped that, anyway.
"Ay, girl," the present-cultist called to her relatively gently
- for a drunkard, anyway - as he shimmied his way past his table
and sloshed his goblet's contents unto the floor and his sleeve.
Eloise did not move, and instead sipped on her mug opting to
ignore him so his interest would drop. Her expectations of
people needed to be rechecked. "Ayyyy girl," he called again,
this time she felt a poke on the tender core of her cut horn
causing her to jerk her neck about to snap her attention to him
over her shoulder with a lethal glare, "how'd ya loshe yer-- ohh
shorry," he apologized whence noting of her glare, "it looksh
infected," he commented, leaning in as if to inspect the damage
upon it - which, in turn, caused her to lean further away into
the corner, "didja get shomeone te look at tha'...?" This
cultist had no concept of hints. Then again. It was a drunk man
that was reveling in his recent conquers and he was probably
feeling a bit... 'tickled,' to say the least. She was not gonna
let him simply... have his way with invading her personal space,
and her farseer's axe sliding up in the gap between them was
proof of that. The sharp edge of it seemingly worked as he
leaned away with his arms raising and eyes widening underneath
the hood. "Wooow, ok lady," now that her eye could make out more
of his features as he had ever-so-dumbly revealed them in the
fireplace's glow; she could assume he was about 26 - 27, ivory
skin with dark brown hair that had inky black streaks and
lastly, but most importantly; sickly red irises underneath the
oily bangs. There wasn't any facial hair present, but the scars
on his cheek and lower jaw meant he had seen some pretty close
calls in his short life. The fracking of corruption in the form
of infected tattoos stemmed underneath his robe and around his
open palms - he was definitely a caster type, perhaps a corrupt
mage or deeply seeded warlock - she could almost tell his root
ethnicity through his drunken slurs.
"Please, stop." She asked politely. However, he didn't seem to
understand her. As what would be expected from a sod.
"Wha?" He squinted his eyes at her, as if befuddled from the
polite yet commanding tone of hers. "Lady I'm just makin' decent
conversation," he tried to explain himself, as what some people
would do when feeling guilt or wanting to play the martyr. If he
decided to play the martyr card, she'd complete it for him by
crucifying him to the nearest chapel wall. "Ye know, gettin'
comfy. And stuff." Getting comfy up to an alien chick. Sure.
That seems fairly platonic.
"Please. Stop." Her voice tensed as her eye narrowed at him.
Judging from his blank expression, she assumed the hints weren't
getting through. Just as his eyes wandered to her horn again,
they fell flat unto her eyepatch.
"Eh?" He wobbled on his feet to stay balanced, leaning further
onto her chair for support as his mug found its way on her table
as his now-free hand reached over to touch the patch. A facial
twitch at the cultist's touch, she reeled back and hopped up on
the table with her hooves clanking against it with a hefty
thump, shaking the candle and mugs with a softer ting. However,
he had begun lifting her eyepatch as she rolled away, and she
had only noticed such as he gawked at her revealed eye with the
patch lingering on his fingers. She really needed to get a strap
on that thing to wrap around her skull. It wasn't good that
literally anyone could remove it without much effort. "Yer
the--"
"Don't touch me," she spat venomously, interrupting him with a
vehement snarl, "you pigs make me sick." The cultist did not
proceed after her, merely placing the patch at her hooves and
watched her gradually return to a seat across from the one she
had been previously occupying. Her glower continued as she
reached over to retrieve the patch, having to switch her axe in
her offhand to do so. Now. Now he got the hint.
"Sho," or maybe he didn't get the hint, "like, ye weren't...
chosen te go through it, were ya?" After placing the patch onto
her sickly eye, an exhale through her nostrils confirmed his
question. He rubbed his chin with the webbing between his thumb
and index. He seemed to accept this, as perplexed as a fanatic
would be, but he still accepted it. Which was new. Suddenly all
of her expectations seemed irrelevant. "Aaaand tha's why ye
don't have the rest of yer horn?" He pointed toward her missing
horn, causing her eye to flick toward it and gave a slight nod.
"Damn," he picked up his mug to take a swig of the
high-alcoholic substance within it. She took this moment to side
glance to the innkeeper as a small plea of 'help or I will kill
him' before narrowing her visible eye at the cultist whom tapped
his mug against the table with a loud sigh, licking his chops
and staring at her with his brow raised, "that's rough, lady.
Must'a been hellish trying to scrub some of that off," a
sympathetic cultist was unheard of. He had an ulterior motive.
He had to. He glanced down to his mug thoughtfully, mildly
absorbed by the alcohol's influence, "which God were ya bein'
offered to?" Either he was curious, or he was checking if it was
his worship.
"The One of the Endless Maws." She muttered carefully, her teeth
baring at the slightest mention of Him. The cultist gave a slow
nod before returning his lips to his mug.
"Then it's a damn shame you didn't go through with it," Elo's
lips pulled in an inaudible snarl, "the Gods would'a loved to
further their goals with ya." Eloise kept a straight face with
her body completely frozen. He took that as a 'sure I'm
listening and interested, keep going.' "Ye know, like how I
would." Ulterior motive found. Eloise at that point took no
hesitation in reaching over, taking his mug from his hand with a
feigned, seductive smile before rearing it up and smashing the
bottom of it on the top of his skull, hearing a pleasant crunch
of his teeth meeting his tongue and each other. Grabbing his
throat and whirling him around to smack his head against the
table, her snarl resounded throughout the entire inn.
"You keep talking to me, scum; and I will make you beg for mercy
that even your Gods won't give you. Why do you worship the Old
Gods? The screams will hollow you out and leave you with nothing
but regret and the foolish hope of silence!" She pulled his neck
and skull from the impact on the table, lifting the cultist by
his collar as his eyes widened from not only his mouth felt
welling of pain and blood, but he felt his momentum shift
abruptly when she took to slamming his head against the wood
flooring of the inn. The innkeeper was seemingly unfazed,
although that was very far from the truth; his shock of seeing
this shy girl snap in what seemed like an instant had him
standing by with no ability to intercept. The barmaid,
surprisingly, had more reaction time than her employer; swiftly
going to Eloise and grabbing her wrist as she was about to bring
down a fist on the cultist's nose. Eloise felt the resistance
and paused, coming down from her momentary rage to glance over
her shoulder at the barmaid, whom gave a pleading stare at her.
The shaman's grip loosened and she rose to her hooves, turning
back to her table only to mournfully stare at the flipped mugs.
That was some really good... whatever-it-was that the innkeeper
gifted her. Seeing such kindness wasted was a real downer.
"W-wow," the cultist choked as he stood up, amazed at Elo's
swiftness and strength, "it felt like initiation all over again
there! Hah," he snorted loudly, swallowed back a bit before
spitting blood on the ground, "good times, good times." He
grinned wolfishly at Eloise and clasped his hands together.
"What do I need to do to convince you to convert?" He did not
just... Eloise stiffened visibly, her neck craning stone-faced
at the man whom could not take a hint and that she nearly
beheaded with her fist alone, now he decided it would be a good
time to open up on his religion with her? There was only one
kind of no to this; hell no. However, she was smart... she
wasn't going to string this guy's insides all over the tavern
that had been brutally kind to her since she walked in. Instead,
she removed her eyepatch and stowed it away in an extra pocket
before picking up the cultist by his throat one-handedly, and
walked outside as he struggled against her grip.
Outside, far enough away from the inn but still close to have
the lanterns glow, Eloise greeted all of the cultist's hint hint
nudge nudge from earlier with a swift, cloven kick between the
legs that earned a crumpling the moment she released his throat
and he hit the ground on his knees, then rolled forward gripping
at his broken family jewels. He gurgled in response, as she
assumed that she nearly killed him with asphyxiation alone. She
pressed her hoof against his back, further bending him over to
expose his hindquarters to kick him again, over and over; making
sure to abuse her gaunt yet sharpened toes to internally maim
him. Finding it satisfying when she heard crunches and coughing
of shallow gasps and wet thuds as he inched away from her,
Eloise coldly observed of how he reacted slowly. She knew these
cultists went through hell to be part of the ranks. Being a
seasoned veteran during the war in Hyjal, she knew exactly how
they ticked. That would not easily torture, torment, or wound
him for long. Cultists were, indeed, crafty sons of a gun and
they deserved no pity or sympathy. They cast themselves from the
Light, corrupt the earth, and twist the elements to how their
so-called Gods saw fit. It did not matter what pantheon this one
worshipped, as they were all the same in the destruction and
ruination of this beautiful world that they would throw away not
knowing the eons it takes finding a new home. In fact, as far as
she could tell; they had no home. Homeless pigs squealing in the
gutter as they hail the harbingers of the Dark and the Whispers.
They throw everything away so that they can bring upon an
apocalypse that they have very little understanding of... how
mortal. Her hoof overturned the helpless cultist onto his back,
and a satisfying crunch and scream as her hoof felt two distinct
pops beneath it. The cultist wheezed, shallowly breathing as his
lips were flooded by his own blood as he desperately clung to a
loose-lipped chant. Her brow perked before she raised her hand
with a watery element shimmering from her fingers.
"Oh no... I'm not done with you yet." She murmured before using
a stream of healing water on his wounds, allowing it to
incrementally heal him as she continued to beat him senselessly
for another ten minutes. At some point, she triggered and lost
all perception of time and begun utilizing her elemental
enhancements; the earth shards wrapping around her fingers and
fire sprouting in pilot lights from her corrupted fracking, air
shrieking silently and slicing cleanly through and through, with
the water fully healing gradually all of the wounds made by the
prior elements. The cultist contorted and was silenced by the
earth shards being embedded in his throat, and the consistent
healing had choked his trachea as she continued gleefully. Some
sick part of her found it sadistically entertaining, some part
of her self righteously proclaimed that he deserved it for what
he's done, the rest of her turned a blind eye as she hadn't
known that this still existed inside of her. But the insisting
flashbacks of her own trauma fueled her, and she no longer felt
her own pain from the adrenaline rush as a smug smirk came
across her lips.
Pigs deserved nothing more than to be baked in holy flame, she
thought; they deserve nothing more than to be my plaything until
I find them bothersome.
These thoughts were quickly shut out as she snapped back to
reality of regaining her mind and recollected her thoughts as
she flexed her fingers of the agile, armor-like claws that had
built themselves over her joints. "Kadja... Shaa... please, do
not hesitate in punting me into reality again," she whispered to
herself as the cultist whimpered for mercy, and as her eyes
trained to him; she noted of his sorrowful state elsewhere and
rolled her eyes. "The lot of you are perverse freaks." She honed
the claws into a full earthen scythe that, with her momentum
turning away, sent it directly to meet the earth shards in the
cultist's neck. With the last blood splattered across the mud
and the whimpering utterly silenced, she gave a long, drawn-out
sigh to herself and begun repurposing the water to cleanse her
of this unholy red. Prayers were muttered of different deities,
people, and general apologies to the sin she had committed; to
the extent of cleansing the earth and sanctifying the cultist's
grave to shamefully apologize for his early death. If he could
have been convinced to leave that pantheon, she was certain he
would have made a good person. A few minutes of paid respects
after burying him within the hallowed earth, she directed
herself in the direction of the tavern only to meet eyes with
the barmaid holding a lantern, patiently waiting for the shaman
to notice her. Upon inaudibly apologizing and greeting the
woman, the human barmaid merely smiled sheepishly at Eloise and
explained that they had seen odder brawls happen and end in a
similar fashion. This was nothing new. They would simply explain
that the mud had gotten too high and they asked a shaman to
re-earth it for them. Surprised at the barmaid's cool demeanor,
and somewhat unnerved by it, Eloise followed her back into the
tavern where she was promised more of that warm drink as the
innkeeper was refurbishing the table and cleaning up the wood
boards.
#Post#: 331--------------------------------------------------
Re: A Conversation With A Cultist
By: Caleb Norwill Date: May 10, 2015, 1:15 pm
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(( I love this! ))
#Post#: 333--------------------------------------------------
Re: A Conversation With A Cultist
By: Sila Date: May 11, 2015, 1:40 pm
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Wow this is awesome! I'll have to finish reading it when I get
home :D
Reminds me of how much I like your char, Eloise!
#Post#: 334--------------------------------------------------
Re: A Conversation With A Cultist
By: Eloise Date: May 11, 2015, 4:06 pm
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Thank you both! I had fun writing it (probably too much fun) and
it shows that just because Eloise is chill around the Silent
doesn't always mean she's chill other places. xD [s]And Mouse
makes everything quiet, therefore Eloise can roll around on her
back and paw for belly rubs while in ghost wolf form.[/s]
All in favor for more? =o Yay, nay?
#Post#: 339--------------------------------------------------
Re: A Conversation With A Cultist
By: Sila Date: May 12, 2015, 12:48 pm
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I'd always like to see more! Lol, and Mouse is all for belly
rubs.
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