Flashes of black and white. Agonizing pain split only by the sporadic bliss of unconsciousness, but they kept her awake well enough. Astrid didn't love pain, didn't like inflicting it either, what she wanted was to see things born and see things end. Whether by her own hands or not, it didn't matter. She wanted to stare down at them while the light fled from their eyes. Be the midwife showing a newborn to its mother. Not to conceive of her own flesh, but to simply observe. A profound fascination with that cycle of life had erupted within her some time ago, more profound that ever in this moment as she herself was dying.
They kept her alive, though, to ensure that she suffered.
And in this there was anguish, but also the whirring curiosity as she observed her own heart cease in its beating only to have it started again, the engine within her responsible for all her faculties.
Laughing, striking her. Abusing her flesh and healing it so they could start anew. Her legs were taken first by the one known as Hans, 'revenge', he'd said, and then the arms by the Baccian's. She couldn't resist when they took and touched her, over and over again, a bevy of men doing what their wretched sort did.
Weak, twisted men of black spirits. A thing that could break a person and take from them more than just their chastity. But in that moment, again, she felt nothing. Not even disgust, staring up at them calmly while they did it, fascinated by the life inside them, the bits and splinters of it offered her, just enough left of her mind to snuff it out it before it could take root.
Beside her lay the woman who had ensured she was unable to resist, pushing her own light magic down to offset Astrid's until both were bottomed out and empty. Just desserts, some might name it, but Astrid was gray towards all things and certainly found no humor in that.
They'd taken her, too, though. A broken woman now, one they claimed to have no need of any longer. Her friends and allies were all gone, the only one left was the man named Hans, nailed to the wall and forced to watch it happen over and over again. Screaming for them to stop, threatening all manner of things until they'd cut his tongue free. Now all that was left was the shrieking wretch and his drooling, blue haired companion.
These Fingers had infinite bodies, but it was quite obvious they'd been discarded by their master so near the penultimate act of his plan.
“I like that one,” The 'Gran Taurus' and 'Prince' of Baccia stared down at the beaten and slack jawed form of Rommel. Still very much alive, glazed in the eyes and bruised all over. “At least she had the good sense to beg us to stop, I like it when they beg, it means they understand. But this one...” he talked mostly to himself, a sniveling wretch, Astrid had very little left in her head but the curiosity, but she knew he hated him.
He was not an unattractive man. Thick black hair turned to a part and oiled, well maintained in both body and facial hair, a sharpness of features to give his middle aged refinement the look of a fox. Lighter in complexion than most of his dusky skinned people, no surprise given the fact that he was an Archmage and rarely ever left the palace. A man as soft as his hands, but with a cruel jaggedness to him after years of serving as Hastur's patsy. Baccia's army, his city, everything was taken from him. And now he was going to take from Hastur, not joining his men in their 'enjoyment', simply watching.
“But very soon,” He leaned over Astrid's calm and composed expression. Her eyes a vivid blue that perfectly complimented that wonderful hair of hers, the pleasant tang of blood wafting from the torn remains of all four limbs as she was left no more than torso and head. “I'm going to break you, too, princess.”
“No,” Astrid replied calmly, though bereft of tongue or capacity to speak at all given the hand clamped over her mouth, they could not stop her from voicing the refusal. “You will not.”
“Oh?” He seemed amused at that, this Gran Taurus. He called himself the 'Archon' too, now, one of their many titles. Some revenant calling back to before the twin empires, when this region was ruled by a large sorcerer kingdom. Something that had been smashed aside in the wake of the primus' cracking down on mages until barely anything was left of that era when magic had ruled men. He dismissed his aides, leaving only she, Rommel, and the slumped form of Hans on the wall. A man who hadn't cared what they'd done to Astrid, the torture inflict and lashes beat until the whips frayed on her skin. Hans hadn't cared until it had been Rommel who'd been beaten down and overcome.
“My name is Benito Tarantino, but I'm sure you knew that already,” The Gran Taurus said, his skinny fingers drumming against her bare belly.
“You are nothing and nobody,” Astrid commented robotically, her eyes had been staring at him like that for hours, and he was very interested in how disciplined a mind must be for that. They'd stripped her, flayed her, taking arms and legs. Worse things... And still she just stared, an almost half smile on her lips while gazing at them with her bright blue eyes. It wasn't like she was acting or keeping up a front, she was just... Not reacting at all, no matter what they did. And now, except for her face, she was red and cut to the bone. Bleeding copious amounts and in a state where any other man or woman would fall immediately into shock, or be long dead...
“Ah, I know who you are as well, Astrid Stalvarg-Faeron. Daughter of Ragnar. It is a unique pleasure to have you here with us, but you are mistaken in many--”
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“I did not ask,” She remarked dryly.
“Hmm...” Benito smiled, wondering how pleasant the payoff would be when he broke her. And in turn, blame all of this on Hastur and see that black mage gone from his kingdom once and for all. After all, he was supposed to be under the man's 'mind control' at this very moment, something that had never worked to begin with. Just a waiting game until he'd been given his chance. The primus' that would keep them low and in this hellish desert for all eternity... Soon, all of the successor states would be his, and he would be in a position to challenge their haughty empires. “Let us begin again, shall we? This time, I promise to be a bit more gentle, but you'll still break.”
“No,” She repeated, monotone and without inflection. Like a golem, it was a creepy voice coming from so elegant a woman. “I will not.”
“Suit yourself,” Benito sighed. Truth be told, he didn't care for the carnal and was aware of the foul act he'd ordered. Perhaps the girl deserved a reward rather than a punishment, she was so calm and collected after all.
“They'll come for you,” Astrid said. “All of them.”
“Perhaps,” Benito shrugged with a sneer of a smile plastering his face, “Perhaps not.”
Yes... He had enough pieces to deal with and didn't quite feel like leaving traces of the daughter and sister of two primus'. Wife of another, married daughter of one more. Such a wide web they'd woven for themselves, the oligarchs who lorded over the world.
He stepped up without much pondering and drove the thin dirk always at his side through her eye and into her brain, killing her instantly. It was a never ending source of amusement to him, for all their titles, pomp, and power... Snuffing their candles out was just so easy...
–
Ayla weaved as fast as her hands could move, a blur of barely visible threads settling into the air to create a diamond shaped construct of magic in the air. These humans had been in such a tizzy, but ultimately this wasn't so difficult, not for her. It was just a transference, though it was no guarantee their friend would live. Nala was a lot more serious than she was, but her kind could not touch that which they did not have, a soul. All she could do was aid in stabilizing the lattice as the humans around them shuddered and wept impotently. Ayla's kind were capable of unique magic that did not exist on this world, as she was from another, and there was always a way to solve any given problem if one had the means.
“I'm ready,” Ayla said calmly, and Nala nodded in the affirmative, watching as the white wisp of Micah's soul was dragged forcefully from his failing body. Harder than it should've been, he had an astonishing root to this world but it happened, even if a bit slower than expected. Tucked away neatly in the web that stabilized it. Harkon was picking away at the boy's insides with a strange set of handheld tools, not unlike a pair of forceps, with needles and odd attachments patterning its surface. For what purpose? Nobody here was that skilled on the topic of mundane surgery to know, even Sigi didn't understand alfen engineering in the least bit.
“Vestia,” Brenn was calmed now, filled with the loving light of his goddess. “Mother of hearths. Sister. My light and greatest love. Keeper of promises and the warm embrace. Protector of families. I ask that you protect mine. I ask that you raise them up, see them whole again. I know that you will.”
Nothing seemed to happen, other than the golden radiance making him a living lantern, but he was a fool to believe a god would ever offer a hand to anything such as this. Ayla remained focused on the task, ensuring every single shred of Micah's soul was contained in the prism. Her silver hair blown aloft in the chilled breeze, an equally bright glow to offset the darkness that had settled over them. The lesser humans focused on defending them from the undead lurching toward such a powerful reaction of light magic, but there were so few it was an irrelevant thing.
“Can you really save him?” Sigi was staring at the prism. A geometric lattice that had condensed into a pyramid of white light, throwing dappled colors of every shade all over the ground around them. She hadn't known what to expect, what a soul looked like... It was beautiful, whatever the case may be, magic beyond anything she'd ever heard of. Magic so strange and unique that while it should be forbidden, it wasn't, men didn't have much need to make laws for arachne and manticores.
“I was a bureaucrat in the late stages of my career,” Ayla replied calmly. “A bean counter, you might say. But before that I was one of the greatest torturers of An'tahk, the Third Thread named in a similar convention to your judge, jury, and executioner. Particularly violent or irredeemable lifeforms were placed in crystals like this and their souls were flayed for decades if not longer, a punishment to fit the crime in the custom of my people. I can hold a soul as well as anyone, what you choose to do with it is up to you.”
“...You're not doing that now, are you?” Nala had a scowl on her face, not expecting the woman to be so cruel. But an arachne was an arachne. Sometimes they ate their own mates, biting their heads clean off.
“No,” Ayla shook her head. “All he'd feel at this moment is a very serene bliss free of the constant suffering of a biological creature. We always start out like that to soften the conscious mind before we begin, a cyclic process to ensure they never become dead to the stimuli.”
“Yours is a cruel people,” Tythas balked, pale as a ghost. This kind of magic might be too alien to draw a real conclusion towards, but sticking someone's consciousness into a soul matrix and torturing them was a crime that would cause quite a stir. Worse than murder, by a long shot, not even apostates would be shown such inhumane treatment.
“And yet yours must pay in your earned currency in order to receive healthcare,” Ayla stared down at him with an arched brow. “We were cruel to capital criminals beyond redemption, your kind is cruel to everything and everyone for no reason at all.”
Valid enough... Not quite drawing the conclusion between free healthcare and a decades long soul flaying, Tythas could only grimace on and hope this actually worked. If not, by the looks of it, and in consideration of the human 'biology' clearly not understood by Ayla...
Micah would become a lich.