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Moon
- Joined
- Nov 26, 2019
Welcome to my dark and depraved corner of things. I hope you like your stay and read a bit about me!
Who I am outside of writing:
I am a twenty-eight year old who has been roleplaying since his early teens. I have a passion for both innocent and depraved writing though my preference is towards erotic fiction beyond anything else. I've worked as an actor both improvisational and otherwise, support my lifestyle and passions with Information Technology and have a lovely cat who sometimes loves me back and sometimes pretends I don't exist.
Who I am as a writer:
I am a person who has been 'around the bend' so to speak. I adore interesting twists on classic tropes but more often than not my most passionate and addictive roleplays occur when tropes are violated and tossed aside. I've played out the TeacherxStudent, the PrincessxDemon and just about every other generic erotic trope you can come up with and I am honestly sick to death of them. They don't really interest me anymore. The golden girl character, pure of heart and suffering the deprivations of some vile monster is tired and worn out like the batteries in your favorite sextoy.
If you want to attract me or entice me to craft with you then I need to have a stimulus that extends beyond these same repeatable options. Have you ever wanted to play a powerfully built, muscular warrior woman with scars from a life of hard battle and a chip on her shoulder? A hard-line prostitute stealing coins and humping in a gutter to give herself a better life? A matronly barkeep who has her eye on a down on his luck sailor? Bugbear women. Goblin women. Dwarves. Halflings. Monsters. Give me something different than the typical. You don't even need to play a particularly attractive character if that's not your kind of thing. Just bring me a character that breaks a mold. One that his lived life and has burdens and scars from that living. Virginal fonts of purity and light are all great and good for JRPG's and Storybooks but give me the gritty reality any day of the week.
In turn I also like to play characters that violate the traditional roles with erotic fiction. Beautiful, willowy men in flowing rich robes with the figure of a svelte acrobat and the domineering personality of a world conqueror. A cruel trickster or corrupter. Sure I can play the more traditional muscular hero or brooding detective but don't YOU want something a bit more unique as well?
My Writing Style:
I prefer third person, descriptive writing with a focus on the whole scene rather than just the actions taken. You can expect me describe detailed sounds, feelings and scents as well as sights. I want to transport you with my words. I want you to travel with me while we write. I typically write 4-6 paragraphs for a typical post but for openers or particularly important scenes can write even more and I love a partner who can match me. I am not a grammar nazi but running your post through a spell checker is nice and a few errors of syntax or grammar here and there does not bother me.
My Ideal Partner:
Someone who is willing to explore the boundaries of their writing experience with me. Someone who appreciates a darker story and who values smut and plot as both facets to making an erotic tale worth remembering. Someone who approves of the darker kinks and has few limits beyond the obvious no's I touch on below. In short, someone who wants to challenge themselves and me.
ONS:
Basically anything not on my offs! But let's lay out a couple key likes of mine.
Consent - Yes this can totally be a kink! I especially like it in stories that center around a character gradually being corrupted by their surroundings. Sometimes things can start out as dub-con or even non-con but those pale in comparison to characters who know what they want and actively seek it, even if they hate themselves for it later.
Bloodplay - Sexual and non! Bloody warriors coming home from a battle. The smell of it on a ritual altar. Residue after knife play. Puddles at a murder scene. The red stuff is good stuff by me!
Snuff - Not necrophilia really. But the threat of dying, dying during the act or sex with death being imminent? I mean there is a reason sex and death are so intrinsically interlinked in mythology and culture. This is the kind of dark theme that I love.
Watersports - Kind of goes hand in hand with Snuff theme above.
Nontypical Styles - Especially odd hairstyles, piercings or tattoos.
OFFS:
These are relatively simple
Scat - The golden stuff is fun for humiliation or scene setting play. Please none of the other stuff.
Underage - All characters should be 18+. I don't even want hints that the characters are younger than that.
---
Now here are a couple samples of my writing!
Who I am outside of writing:
I am a twenty-eight year old who has been roleplaying since his early teens. I have a passion for both innocent and depraved writing though my preference is towards erotic fiction beyond anything else. I've worked as an actor both improvisational and otherwise, support my lifestyle and passions with Information Technology and have a lovely cat who sometimes loves me back and sometimes pretends I don't exist.
Who I am as a writer:
I am a person who has been 'around the bend' so to speak. I adore interesting twists on classic tropes but more often than not my most passionate and addictive roleplays occur when tropes are violated and tossed aside. I've played out the TeacherxStudent, the PrincessxDemon and just about every other generic erotic trope you can come up with and I am honestly sick to death of them. They don't really interest me anymore. The golden girl character, pure of heart and suffering the deprivations of some vile monster is tired and worn out like the batteries in your favorite sextoy.
If you want to attract me or entice me to craft with you then I need to have a stimulus that extends beyond these same repeatable options. Have you ever wanted to play a powerfully built, muscular warrior woman with scars from a life of hard battle and a chip on her shoulder? A hard-line prostitute stealing coins and humping in a gutter to give herself a better life? A matronly barkeep who has her eye on a down on his luck sailor? Bugbear women. Goblin women. Dwarves. Halflings. Monsters. Give me something different than the typical. You don't even need to play a particularly attractive character if that's not your kind of thing. Just bring me a character that breaks a mold. One that his lived life and has burdens and scars from that living. Virginal fonts of purity and light are all great and good for JRPG's and Storybooks but give me the gritty reality any day of the week.
In turn I also like to play characters that violate the traditional roles with erotic fiction. Beautiful, willowy men in flowing rich robes with the figure of a svelte acrobat and the domineering personality of a world conqueror. A cruel trickster or corrupter. Sure I can play the more traditional muscular hero or brooding detective but don't YOU want something a bit more unique as well?
My Writing Style:
I prefer third person, descriptive writing with a focus on the whole scene rather than just the actions taken. You can expect me describe detailed sounds, feelings and scents as well as sights. I want to transport you with my words. I want you to travel with me while we write. I typically write 4-6 paragraphs for a typical post but for openers or particularly important scenes can write even more and I love a partner who can match me. I am not a grammar nazi but running your post through a spell checker is nice and a few errors of syntax or grammar here and there does not bother me.
My Ideal Partner:
Someone who is willing to explore the boundaries of their writing experience with me. Someone who appreciates a darker story and who values smut and plot as both facets to making an erotic tale worth remembering. Someone who approves of the darker kinks and has few limits beyond the obvious no's I touch on below. In short, someone who wants to challenge themselves and me.
ONS:
Basically anything not on my offs! But let's lay out a couple key likes of mine.
Consent - Yes this can totally be a kink! I especially like it in stories that center around a character gradually being corrupted by their surroundings. Sometimes things can start out as dub-con or even non-con but those pale in comparison to characters who know what they want and actively seek it, even if they hate themselves for it later.
Bloodplay - Sexual and non! Bloody warriors coming home from a battle. The smell of it on a ritual altar. Residue after knife play. Puddles at a murder scene. The red stuff is good stuff by me!
Snuff - Not necrophilia really. But the threat of dying, dying during the act or sex with death being imminent? I mean there is a reason sex and death are so intrinsically interlinked in mythology and culture. This is the kind of dark theme that I love.
Watersports - Kind of goes hand in hand with Snuff theme above.
Nontypical Styles - Especially odd hairstyles, piercings or tattoos.
OFFS:
These are relatively simple
Scat - The golden stuff is fun for humiliation or scene setting play. Please none of the other stuff.
Underage - All characters should be 18+. I don't even want hints that the characters are younger than that.
---
Now here are a couple samples of my writing!
The man looking down at him was an angel.
He lay sprawled upon his back in a sky of pillows, red and gold cushions of the softest velvet. Everything about the figure was a vision of perfection, glittering silver bells hung from corded bands around his perfectly turned ankles, tinkling softly as the vision extended one sinuous and powerful leg and curved the other beneath the raised legs knee before the other lowered, pushing aside part of a dark blue silken robe that pooled around and across the figure. The movement drew one of the ties from the robe, snakelike down across a bare midriff, lean and toned with muscle that seemed not so gross to have been formed of excersize and labor but as though nature herself had molded the man's body from clay to be a masterpiece. The figures flesh was the soft tan of the southern deserts and whirls of black ink crossed his body teasingly, the sinuous wisdom of dead kings and mad prophets scrolled into art that drew the eye to each plane and curve of his body.
Only a single thin piece of silk still lay over the figures groin, hiding from view the place where all the taunting lines seemed to lead and forcing the curious eye to wander upwards to a toned chest, slightly narrow but perfectly proportioned for a dancer's frame. The tattoos that traced the figures body seemed to start here, each breath of the figure seemingly causing the lines of script to wind and shift across his flesh. One arm lay across the chest, pulled from the robes sleeve and the other was flying above the figures head carelessly, gripping a golden pipe from whence heady orange smoke curled, reaching towards the ground far below. The angel's hair was dark and braided along his temples in the front but loose and messy in the back, hair that looked like it would be devilish fun to run fingers through and to grip in the heat of passion.
The figure seemed aware he was being watched, his face clean shaven and smooth turned towards the earth, as though observing those who observed him. His lips, teased by a gentle smirk, soft and gently plump parted as the figure brought the pipe down to inhale deeply of the orange smoke. Eyes, ringed with kohl and golden like the crowns of kings widened in pleasure as whatever narcotic filled that smoke lit the godlings blood aflame.
----
"I don't trust her." The words broke the spell, undid the daze and returned perspective to the world. The words themselves had no power. Nor did the voice. But they were a reminder... a reminder of business.
Pontius, Master of the Carnival of Night, Wishmaster and many more titles besides felt the weightlessness leave his body as his practiced mind cleared. He gazed up into the mirror that hung above the pile of pillows that served as his throne and felt the sense of his own flesh return to him. He was in his tent, at the carnivals traditional grounds on the outskirts of Rowanheath, the largest city in the western territories. His lungs burned and slowly he let the heady narcotic smoke leave his lungs and float towards the mirror like the ha d of a longing lover. The grin remained on his face despite the disturbance of his reverie, for who could begrudge being reminded of such a body as his?
He draped his clothed arm back again and tilted his head backwards, letting the soft pillows cradle his neck as he sought the speaker.
He found her legs first, standing only a few feet away having stepped from the shadowed rim of the tent as she spoke. The figure was a tall half-orc, her skin tinged slightly green. Her legs, like most of the rest of her were bare of clothing and showed off powerful muscles, her calves corded with the power of a woman who could run for days and nights, her thighs thick and strong enough to crush an ogres skull. Pontius moved his eyes upwards, to meet the woman's gaze before he took in anymore of her, his golden eyes teasing and his voice like honey.
"Bruuna, my love. Part of your service to me is trusting nobody." He purred, his words trailing off into a chuckle.
The woman, Bruuna did not so much as crack a smile. Her face was ruggedly beautiful, her short tusks barely sticking past her lower lip. A scar, slightly silvery crossed a short part nose and then curved up towards her right temple where her hair was shorn close to her scalp while on the left side and top of her head her black hair fell in a wild mane down to her shoulder. Her powerful shoulders flexed as she crossed her arms beneath heavy breasts, the scowl on her features only deepening as Pontius let his eyes prove from her face down across her bare chest to the matching black curls just above her mound, curly and thick.
Bruuna spoke again, her voice hard from years of commanding men in battle, stepping closer to Pontius as she did so. "My duty is to protect you Master. You endanger yourself by dealing with her." Her words were as clipped as she was imposing. Close to 6'2"" and built as only a lifelong warrior could be, even in the nude she seemed capable of crushing him. Of course she could... She wore no clothing, weapons or armor to speak of but her body was covered in ritual wards, wards that made her skin strong as steel, her blows powerful enough to shatter iron and destroy spells that even came near her. Wards that he himself applied to her every night to ensure their potency. A collar of copper clasped her throat, a symbol of her worship and loyalty. She belonged to her master body and soul and was his treasured bodyguard.
"Maybe. But I like a little danger. It arouses me." Pontius grinned, gesturing Bruuna closer off-handidly. The half-orc complied and then bent forward as he brought the pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply of the drug again. She watched him with her hard gray eyes, trying to force him to understand her displeasure with that statement. But he simply reached up, gripped her head with his free hand and brought her lips down to hover over his mouth.
The woman's whole body tensed, her arms increasing as they moved to the pillows either side of his head, her mouth falling instinctually open to welcome a kiss. But the kiss did not come, instead he breathed out, the narcotic cloud leaving his lungs in one breath and entering hers in another. His words filled her head like the drug filled her lungs.
"Do not fear my disciple, I know your true heart and I shall not neglect you. We have time before she will come..." He spoke the words but he also reached out with his mind, touching Bruuna's thoughts with his own, feeling her sudden lust for him as he gently placed his hands on her shoulders from his upside down position and urged her to straighten.
The pillows were a convenient height and he smiled as he always did as the warrior woman stepped a little closer allowing his arms to encircle her backside as he pulled her close, legs parting to let him slip between her legs, her knees slightly bending and thighs parting to reveal her slightly open folds, dripping with sudden need. He raised his back up slightly so that his mouth could taste her and he grinned... he knew how to calm her... he knew what she wished for and he would give it to her. He would give everyone what they desired...
He lay sprawled upon his back in a sky of pillows, red and gold cushions of the softest velvet. Everything about the figure was a vision of perfection, glittering silver bells hung from corded bands around his perfectly turned ankles, tinkling softly as the vision extended one sinuous and powerful leg and curved the other beneath the raised legs knee before the other lowered, pushing aside part of a dark blue silken robe that pooled around and across the figure. The movement drew one of the ties from the robe, snakelike down across a bare midriff, lean and toned with muscle that seemed not so gross to have been formed of excersize and labor but as though nature herself had molded the man's body from clay to be a masterpiece. The figures flesh was the soft tan of the southern deserts and whirls of black ink crossed his body teasingly, the sinuous wisdom of dead kings and mad prophets scrolled into art that drew the eye to each plane and curve of his body.
Only a single thin piece of silk still lay over the figures groin, hiding from view the place where all the taunting lines seemed to lead and forcing the curious eye to wander upwards to a toned chest, slightly narrow but perfectly proportioned for a dancer's frame. The tattoos that traced the figures body seemed to start here, each breath of the figure seemingly causing the lines of script to wind and shift across his flesh. One arm lay across the chest, pulled from the robes sleeve and the other was flying above the figures head carelessly, gripping a golden pipe from whence heady orange smoke curled, reaching towards the ground far below. The angel's hair was dark and braided along his temples in the front but loose and messy in the back, hair that looked like it would be devilish fun to run fingers through and to grip in the heat of passion.
The figure seemed aware he was being watched, his face clean shaven and smooth turned towards the earth, as though observing those who observed him. His lips, teased by a gentle smirk, soft and gently plump parted as the figure brought the pipe down to inhale deeply of the orange smoke. Eyes, ringed with kohl and golden like the crowns of kings widened in pleasure as whatever narcotic filled that smoke lit the godlings blood aflame.
----
"I don't trust her." The words broke the spell, undid the daze and returned perspective to the world. The words themselves had no power. Nor did the voice. But they were a reminder... a reminder of business.
Pontius, Master of the Carnival of Night, Wishmaster and many more titles besides felt the weightlessness leave his body as his practiced mind cleared. He gazed up into the mirror that hung above the pile of pillows that served as his throne and felt the sense of his own flesh return to him. He was in his tent, at the carnivals traditional grounds on the outskirts of Rowanheath, the largest city in the western territories. His lungs burned and slowly he let the heady narcotic smoke leave his lungs and float towards the mirror like the ha d of a longing lover. The grin remained on his face despite the disturbance of his reverie, for who could begrudge being reminded of such a body as his?
He draped his clothed arm back again and tilted his head backwards, letting the soft pillows cradle his neck as he sought the speaker.
He found her legs first, standing only a few feet away having stepped from the shadowed rim of the tent as she spoke. The figure was a tall half-orc, her skin tinged slightly green. Her legs, like most of the rest of her were bare of clothing and showed off powerful muscles, her calves corded with the power of a woman who could run for days and nights, her thighs thick and strong enough to crush an ogres skull. Pontius moved his eyes upwards, to meet the woman's gaze before he took in anymore of her, his golden eyes teasing and his voice like honey.
"Bruuna, my love. Part of your service to me is trusting nobody." He purred, his words trailing off into a chuckle.
The woman, Bruuna did not so much as crack a smile. Her face was ruggedly beautiful, her short tusks barely sticking past her lower lip. A scar, slightly silvery crossed a short part nose and then curved up towards her right temple where her hair was shorn close to her scalp while on the left side and top of her head her black hair fell in a wild mane down to her shoulder. Her powerful shoulders flexed as she crossed her arms beneath heavy breasts, the scowl on her features only deepening as Pontius let his eyes prove from her face down across her bare chest to the matching black curls just above her mound, curly and thick.
Bruuna spoke again, her voice hard from years of commanding men in battle, stepping closer to Pontius as she did so. "My duty is to protect you Master. You endanger yourself by dealing with her." Her words were as clipped as she was imposing. Close to 6'2"" and built as only a lifelong warrior could be, even in the nude she seemed capable of crushing him. Of course she could... She wore no clothing, weapons or armor to speak of but her body was covered in ritual wards, wards that made her skin strong as steel, her blows powerful enough to shatter iron and destroy spells that even came near her. Wards that he himself applied to her every night to ensure their potency. A collar of copper clasped her throat, a symbol of her worship and loyalty. She belonged to her master body and soul and was his treasured bodyguard.
"Maybe. But I like a little danger. It arouses me." Pontius grinned, gesturing Bruuna closer off-handidly. The half-orc complied and then bent forward as he brought the pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply of the drug again. She watched him with her hard gray eyes, trying to force him to understand her displeasure with that statement. But he simply reached up, gripped her head with his free hand and brought her lips down to hover over his mouth.
The woman's whole body tensed, her arms increasing as they moved to the pillows either side of his head, her mouth falling instinctually open to welcome a kiss. But the kiss did not come, instead he breathed out, the narcotic cloud leaving his lungs in one breath and entering hers in another. His words filled her head like the drug filled her lungs.
"Do not fear my disciple, I know your true heart and I shall not neglect you. We have time before she will come..." He spoke the words but he also reached out with his mind, touching Bruuna's thoughts with his own, feeling her sudden lust for him as he gently placed his hands on her shoulders from his upside down position and urged her to straighten.
The pillows were a convenient height and he smiled as he always did as the warrior woman stepped a little closer allowing his arms to encircle her backside as he pulled her close, legs parting to let him slip between her legs, her knees slightly bending and thighs parting to reveal her slightly open folds, dripping with sudden need. He raised his back up slightly so that his mouth could taste her and he grinned... he knew how to calm her... he knew what she wished for and he would give it to her. He would give everyone what they desired...
"In the far south there is a tribe... The Unam."
Words... Flowing... Wondrous words... Swimming in and out of her head and her heart like the fragrant smoke wafting from the clay pots set in the four corners of the broad tent. The smoke was so wonderful... It filled her nose with color and her mind with sparrows. She knelt in the center of the tent. She knew that because it was where He had placed her. Had that been hours ago? Moments? She could not sense the passage of time. She was naked... She was a petite figure with mousy brown hair, small breasts and narrow hips that the Ysgil found unbecoming of a woman, she knew she was considered unworthy of a good husband because of this. But that had not seemed to bother Him. He had taken her again and again. He had made her a woman in a thousand different ways that had seared his touch onto her spirit.
"They raise sheep and worship a godling called Sisithrax."
The words continued, haunting and pure. It was His voice. He was speaking to her. She wanted to turn her head to find him... But he had told her not to move. She would not disobey. She could not. Not after all he had given her. Even still, despite his prohibition she could feel her channel throb as a small amount of his seed trickled from her womanhood. She hated her body. How could she let any of it leave her? Any of that warmth? Any of HIM? She wanted to clasp her hands to her womanhood and force it deeper, to feel his seed take root.
"Sisithrax shows his favor by rendering their women and herds especially fecund... Twins and triplets are more common than single births. In fact single births are viewed as cursed."
Her eyes drifted to the bed of pillows across from her, to the place where he had lain her and taken her for the first time. Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips slowly, finding to her pleasure that some of the taste of his manhood remained upon them. She had never wanted him to stop, his hands knotted in her hair and his shaft so deep in her throat...
"On a particular evening every year the tribe makes it's most sacred offerings to Sisithrax... A pair of sisters are selected by the reading of omens and portents... These sisters are then offered to their fellows throughout the evening, servicing both male and female. At the climax of the ceremony, just before dawn the one who performed most earnestly is led to a golden bowl in the center of the camp..."
She could not remember from whence it had come... But she saw it now... A golden basin before her. She could see her own reflection in it... Her short hair... Her dark eyes... Behind her... She could see him. Standing there. Perfect.
"This woman is bent over the bowl and the tribes wiseman grips her by the hair..."
She felt his fingers now... Slipping into her brown lochs, gripping tightly at the roots. It hurt in a way. But it was also so pleasurable. She was his. He could grip her however he liked. She was like a favored tool who's grip had molded with sweat and time to the contour of his beautiful hands. He pressed her forward slightly and she willingly allowed herself to be pushed down over the basin, her eyes locked on his reflection in it's golden surface.
"She does not resist... She competed for this honor with her sister after all. She will live forever in the service of her god... So there is no fear as the wise-man draws a slaughter knife, like the one used for the sheep across her throat."
She did not resist when she saw the sharp dagger He held. She felt no fear as it's edge pressed against the pulse in her neck. But her heart beat faster. She knew. This was her purpose. This was what He wanted. So this is what must be. She loved him even more as the blade drew across her throat and her blood began to spill in a thick red rain from her vein and into the basin below.
"This is a variation of that ritual Moina. Your blood is an offering. Your spirit a goad. You die for Ingrila. You die for me."
She felt herself beginning to twitch... She did not want to move. She did not want to resist. But her body was not obeying. She felt her legs quiver and her lungs burn. But she focused... She kept her eyes on his reflection. Ignoring the sound of her blood spattering against the metal. Her back arched but he was steady... He held her so firmly in place. Not a drop would be wasted. She was glad for that. She did not know why it should matter whether her blood spilled into a basin or onto the furs that carpeted the tents floor. But she wanted to please him. Her vision was going darker... She was vaguely aware of the sound of her own heartbeat slowing... Finally she could hold back more and in a whisper with the last of the air her lungs could muster she felt herself drift away. "I... love... you..."
Miles away across the plains a sudden gust of wind swirled around the figure of a mighty woman leading men to war. This spell, fueled by the spirit of a slain sacrifice would cause arrows to veer off course and blades to be blown aside. It would make the woman it surrounded into an untouchable force of nature...
----
In the tent, Rashad smiled and released the freshly slaughtered woman's hair with a satisfied groan of pleasure as he felt the magic travel from the spirit of the slain woman, through his body and out across the plains.
He stood there, the corpse of the woman at his feet and breathed in deeply of the narcotic smoke that filled the space. He, like the sacrificed Moina was nude. But where she had been a most unimpressive specimen of womanhood he was something entirely different. Sinuous tattoos of blue crossed and danced across his mellow earthily toned skin with all the skill of a famous painter. Gold bracelets clung to his wrists and ankles. His dark hair was loose and messy with deliberate artistry and his thin, lithe frame was of a similar match to the dead woman's but for the toned musculature of his abdomen and chest. He stretched slowly, raising the copper blade he had used to cut the woman's throat high above his head and arching his back. Everything about him was lean and toned, from his arms to the smooth planes of his backside... Girlish would have been the term most men would have chosen to use. Hints of sweat glittered on him in the firelight and a sheen of fluids still covered the tip and first few inches of his flaccid cock, remnants of one of the sacrificial woman's lust.
"Mmmmm... With that done." He purred aloud to the empty air he turned his gaze back to the pillows that made up his bed and without a second thought stepped over the corpse at his feet, casually kicking the basin of blood aside as he strode towards his rest. It was worthless now that the spell was done... As too was Moina's corpse. Blood spattered across the furs on the floor and flecks struck his ankles and calves. He did not bother to wipe them away... They would only enhance the image he meant to project. He moved to settle back onto his throne of comfort and await the return of his mistress... He wondered what she would think when she saw Moina's corpse... After all she had chosen the girl for him. He had told her that a woman would be the price of this spell. She had never asked what that meant... Had she known she was dooming the girl when she chose her? Had she just assumed it was carnal need that she would trafficking in? It would be interesting to see and he had hours to contemplate.
Words... Flowing... Wondrous words... Swimming in and out of her head and her heart like the fragrant smoke wafting from the clay pots set in the four corners of the broad tent. The smoke was so wonderful... It filled her nose with color and her mind with sparrows. She knelt in the center of the tent. She knew that because it was where He had placed her. Had that been hours ago? Moments? She could not sense the passage of time. She was naked... She was a petite figure with mousy brown hair, small breasts and narrow hips that the Ysgil found unbecoming of a woman, she knew she was considered unworthy of a good husband because of this. But that had not seemed to bother Him. He had taken her again and again. He had made her a woman in a thousand different ways that had seared his touch onto her spirit.
"They raise sheep and worship a godling called Sisithrax."
The words continued, haunting and pure. It was His voice. He was speaking to her. She wanted to turn her head to find him... But he had told her not to move. She would not disobey. She could not. Not after all he had given her. Even still, despite his prohibition she could feel her channel throb as a small amount of his seed trickled from her womanhood. She hated her body. How could she let any of it leave her? Any of that warmth? Any of HIM? She wanted to clasp her hands to her womanhood and force it deeper, to feel his seed take root.
"Sisithrax shows his favor by rendering their women and herds especially fecund... Twins and triplets are more common than single births. In fact single births are viewed as cursed."
Her eyes drifted to the bed of pillows across from her, to the place where he had lain her and taken her for the first time. Her mouth was dry and she licked her lips slowly, finding to her pleasure that some of the taste of his manhood remained upon them. She had never wanted him to stop, his hands knotted in her hair and his shaft so deep in her throat...
"On a particular evening every year the tribe makes it's most sacred offerings to Sisithrax... A pair of sisters are selected by the reading of omens and portents... These sisters are then offered to their fellows throughout the evening, servicing both male and female. At the climax of the ceremony, just before dawn the one who performed most earnestly is led to a golden bowl in the center of the camp..."
She could not remember from whence it had come... But she saw it now... A golden basin before her. She could see her own reflection in it... Her short hair... Her dark eyes... Behind her... She could see him. Standing there. Perfect.
"This woman is bent over the bowl and the tribes wiseman grips her by the hair..."
She felt his fingers now... Slipping into her brown lochs, gripping tightly at the roots. It hurt in a way. But it was also so pleasurable. She was his. He could grip her however he liked. She was like a favored tool who's grip had molded with sweat and time to the contour of his beautiful hands. He pressed her forward slightly and she willingly allowed herself to be pushed down over the basin, her eyes locked on his reflection in it's golden surface.
"She does not resist... She competed for this honor with her sister after all. She will live forever in the service of her god... So there is no fear as the wise-man draws a slaughter knife, like the one used for the sheep across her throat."
She did not resist when she saw the sharp dagger He held. She felt no fear as it's edge pressed against the pulse in her neck. But her heart beat faster. She knew. This was her purpose. This was what He wanted. So this is what must be. She loved him even more as the blade drew across her throat and her blood began to spill in a thick red rain from her vein and into the basin below.
"This is a variation of that ritual Moina. Your blood is an offering. Your spirit a goad. You die for Ingrila. You die for me."
She felt herself beginning to twitch... She did not want to move. She did not want to resist. But her body was not obeying. She felt her legs quiver and her lungs burn. But she focused... She kept her eyes on his reflection. Ignoring the sound of her blood spattering against the metal. Her back arched but he was steady... He held her so firmly in place. Not a drop would be wasted. She was glad for that. She did not know why it should matter whether her blood spilled into a basin or onto the furs that carpeted the tents floor. But she wanted to please him. Her vision was going darker... She was vaguely aware of the sound of her own heartbeat slowing... Finally she could hold back more and in a whisper with the last of the air her lungs could muster she felt herself drift away. "I... love... you..."
Miles away across the plains a sudden gust of wind swirled around the figure of a mighty woman leading men to war. This spell, fueled by the spirit of a slain sacrifice would cause arrows to veer off course and blades to be blown aside. It would make the woman it surrounded into an untouchable force of nature...
----
In the tent, Rashad smiled and released the freshly slaughtered woman's hair with a satisfied groan of pleasure as he felt the magic travel from the spirit of the slain woman, through his body and out across the plains.
He stood there, the corpse of the woman at his feet and breathed in deeply of the narcotic smoke that filled the space. He, like the sacrificed Moina was nude. But where she had been a most unimpressive specimen of womanhood he was something entirely different. Sinuous tattoos of blue crossed and danced across his mellow earthily toned skin with all the skill of a famous painter. Gold bracelets clung to his wrists and ankles. His dark hair was loose and messy with deliberate artistry and his thin, lithe frame was of a similar match to the dead woman's but for the toned musculature of his abdomen and chest. He stretched slowly, raising the copper blade he had used to cut the woman's throat high above his head and arching his back. Everything about him was lean and toned, from his arms to the smooth planes of his backside... Girlish would have been the term most men would have chosen to use. Hints of sweat glittered on him in the firelight and a sheen of fluids still covered the tip and first few inches of his flaccid cock, remnants of one of the sacrificial woman's lust.
"Mmmmm... With that done." He purred aloud to the empty air he turned his gaze back to the pillows that made up his bed and without a second thought stepped over the corpse at his feet, casually kicking the basin of blood aside as he strode towards his rest. It was worthless now that the spell was done... As too was Moina's corpse. Blood spattered across the furs on the floor and flecks struck his ankles and calves. He did not bother to wipe them away... They would only enhance the image he meant to project. He moved to settle back onto his throne of comfort and await the return of his mistress... He wondered what she would think when she saw Moina's corpse... After all she had chosen the girl for him. He had told her that a woman would be the price of this spell. She had never asked what that meant... Had she known she was dooming the girl when she chose her? Had she just assumed it was carnal need that she would trafficking in? It would be interesting to see and he had hours to contemplate.