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KingSandy
Star
- Joined
- Aug 17, 2010
- Location
- In your blankets, looking for a hug
It had become commonplace now. The sacrifice of youth. The vile creatures, the witch goddesses' terrible hunger made it so. The village and the surrounding lands offered a lottery. A youth from each village was offered up. Should his village's name come up? He was given to the witches. He would feed their desires and devilish lust until they tired of him. Some, of course, returned. Others. . . did not. Those who did return were not the same. Broken, twisted. Addicted to perverse passions and pathetically loyal to anyone who gave them the slightest attention. The elders lied to the young men of their villages, told them that the lottery was a great honor. Those who came back. . . were unworthy of the witch goddesses' blessing.
Jack was not convinced.
He was also bound with the special, silken rope of sacrifice. Strong but comfortable it held him, kneeling, to the altar. He was a slender young man, with swarthy, dark skin. His hair was dark too save for irregular streaks and patches of reddish brown. And he was naked. The weather was warm but he shivered.
The lottery had happened all too quickly. One moment, he stood waiting for the name to be called. The next moment there was roar of cheering and weeping and Jack's plain linen robe was ripped from his body. He was bound with that white rope. Kneeling, hands forced into the position of supplication. He was exposed, vulnerable and helpless. An offering of flesh.
Slowly, the villagers left. Soon enough, Jack was alone at the temple, still bound. He waited. Waited and waited for a sign of the witches. He couldn't help but wonder what they looked like. Were they as beautiful and terrible as the elders said? What exactly did they do to the sacrifices? How did one. . . come back broken, like a flimsy wooden toy?
Jack wished he could stop thinking.
Wished he had lied about his age.
Wished he could have avoided the terror.
The apprehension.
The temple smelled of strange things. Heavy, musky sweetness.
He had a headache now.
Jack was not convinced.
He was also bound with the special, silken rope of sacrifice. Strong but comfortable it held him, kneeling, to the altar. He was a slender young man, with swarthy, dark skin. His hair was dark too save for irregular streaks and patches of reddish brown. And he was naked. The weather was warm but he shivered.
The lottery had happened all too quickly. One moment, he stood waiting for the name to be called. The next moment there was roar of cheering and weeping and Jack's plain linen robe was ripped from his body. He was bound with that white rope. Kneeling, hands forced into the position of supplication. He was exposed, vulnerable and helpless. An offering of flesh.
Slowly, the villagers left. Soon enough, Jack was alone at the temple, still bound. He waited. Waited and waited for a sign of the witches. He couldn't help but wonder what they looked like. Were they as beautiful and terrible as the elders said? What exactly did they do to the sacrifices? How did one. . . come back broken, like a flimsy wooden toy?
Jack wished he could stop thinking.
Wished he had lied about his age.
Wished he could have avoided the terror.
The apprehension.
The temple smelled of strange things. Heavy, musky sweetness.
He had a headache now.