Ciscera smiled softly, watching the fox helplessly squirm against her hold on the orange fur, feeling the satisfying struggle of her throat against the curl of her tightening hand. It wouldn’t be long before the creature ran out of air, and she could simply dump her body outside the door like the refuse she was. She stared into Iris’ eyes, watching a slow glaze slowly form, feeling her heartbeat continue to drag oxygen from her already depleted lungs… but wait. Though her eyes were losing their focus on reality, they appeared to be turning their gaze to look straight at her… no, into her, a sea of green protesting her power with an oceanic calm… NO! Even if this cur was attempting to use her disgusting magic, she would be too late. Her struggles were failing too quickly, her body beginning to grow limp, her eyes swirling into a cloud of viridian that seemed to whirl in and around itself, as if it were a fog that was leaving the confines of her eyes, and overtaking the tigress’ own…
Ciscera’s mind raced, realizing that the illusion was no strange effect of the light. Though she could feel her hand on the fox’s throat, it seemed far, far away, while her own body seemed to be shrouded in darkness, a mere spirit as opposed to a living figure. She grunted softly as she fought to keep her hold on the other world, but as if cued by her struggle, the darkness transformed, faint viridian forming into leaves, blackness forming the bodies of shadows and concentrated pupils.
She recognized the scene immediately, having watched it over and over and over again in the weeks following the incident. But just as she couldn’t stop the dreams then, she couldn’t stop the vision now. She watched helplessly from within her own body as her bow twanged at her side, the arrow silently screaming as it pierced the armor of another Tunay’rukan whelp. To her sides were the other archers, mostly squires, as they provided support for the warriors on the field. But though the field was filled with glorious chaos, her eyes were focused, as they had been then, on her Knight, her father, tearing through the ranks of the curs for the glory of her country. He was a hero, a master of the blade, one that was fated to bring her country to victory… or had been, until this very day.
She watched with the same pride as a weasel was cut down by his blade, then a lynx. But as “her” eyes turned to watch the approach of a feral looking rabbit, her stomach dropped, knowing the inevitable result of the encounter. Her father’s blade hit the hare’s with nothing less than a solid thud, launching the xiphos from the latter’s grasp and lodging it firmly in the ground. Within seconds, that same blade had entered the rabbit’s chest, spilling his crimson life on the bright green grass beneath him. But the scream that pierced the air came not from the vermin slain on the ground. No, the scream came from her own father, as bright blue light slithered up the blade that had rightfully won the engagement and wracked his body with demonic energy, stealing his valiant fate from him in only a few painful seconds. The body around her dashed forward, but her mind resigned, wishing she could avert the eyes of her younger self. But no, dream after dream, she saw in perfect detail what she saw now – smoking fur, glazed eyes, cuts and scrapes that should have evolved into battle scars, not marks upon a fallen soldier, her fallen knight, her father.
She didn’t even hear the words that her mouth shouted, rallying her men against the horrors of the enemy army. No, her mind was enraged, fighting to reach her own reality, to tear her way out of the past that she had once put far, far behind her, to tear into the creature that dared use their profane magic to bring these images to her eyes. She felt herself struggling against a blackness, a spirit trapped to a corporeal form, the tension of invisible chains soundly securing her to her past…. She would not be trapped here! She would slay that vixen if it was the last thing she did!
Slowly, then with growing success, she felt the world around her fading, replaced with faint shadows that darted around her vision as if they were fellow creatures fighting their way to the surface. Taking inspiration from these visions, she pushed forward with her mind, pushing back at the sorceress who dared cast such spells upon her.
And then, as if she had been pushing against the membrane of an egg, she burst free into the light, hands grasping the wooden floor as if the panels were the very givers of life. Her vision was blurred, but she paid little mind to this, her mind still absorbed in her victory over the curses used against her. They could hide in their illusions, in their ill placed trust of the arcane, but this victory was proof that true willpower would always prevail!
Panting, Ciscera leaned back to grant her lungs easier access to the glorious air. But her hands did not hold as much purchase as they used to, and the air felt unclean, singeing her throat instead of bringing clean relief. And when her eyes rapidly shot open, and her body contorted into a fierce, hacking cough, she knew her nightmare was not quite over yet.
In fact, her situation seemed worse. While she seemed to have some muscle memory driving her actions in the recreation of her own past, her new body moved in a nature entirely unfamiliar to her brain, as the combination of untrained muscles and panic picked herself up and launched her body kicking into the haze. Was this some new trick, some barrier keeping her mind from her body? No, it couldn’t be. The steps she took were untrained, wasting too much energy upon the upstroke. All squires were taught to keep their feet closer to the ground to maximize their movement. No, that cur must have bound her to another body… No matter. She had broken her grasp before, and would easily do it again.
But before she could muster up the strength to throw herself at the invisible barrier keeping her mind from her true form, her current “body” barreled through the smoke and into a hallway… and a pair of glowing, bloodthirsty eyes. The body shrieked, a sudden flash of silver flew past “her” eyes as a cutlass embedded itself into the wooden wall beside her. Inwardly Ciscera prepared for combat, her mind analyzing his posture for weakness as she prepared to step into an offensive position, but this body had no such thoughts, diving underneath the creature’s occupied hand and continuing her flight through what Ciscera now assumed was a burning building. Judging by the mask the creature had worn, it was likely a raiding party, kin to those the Riversladian upperclass commonly did business with. This body must have been unlucky enough to be part of the harvest. Not that it mattered: to see her flee from such an inept opponent, and even to feel the breath rasp so heavily from only a short run, the body she was bound to was weak, and deserving of all that would come.
And that fate would not be far. Rather than check the window or listen for danger, the body’s true owner (given the orange fur that had been briefly entering her vision, she decided to nickname the weakling “lily”) decided the best course of action was to fling open the door, exposing the fiery chaos.
It looked like it had been a small town, though the smoke and flame obscured Lily’s vision too much to identify a location. Had, though, was the key word. Most buildings were decimated, roofing falling down into supports flickering with fire, where dark shapes maneuvered through the conflagration with ease. The sound of the timberwood cracking and igniting was barely matched by the sounds of shouting, laughing, and sobbing that echoed through the night, as those dark figures hauled out the wriggling inhabitants, roughly shoving them into terrified clusters, or roughing them up for extra valuables. A few attempted to fight back, but were promptly put back into their place; A single fox walked weaponless among the captors, begging, pleading for them to leave his people be, but was met with nothing but laughter as the pillagers merely pushed past him in the rush to carry out their duties. Lily seemed rather caught up with him, a faint notion of hope rising through her body upon recognizing his form. A clan leader, or perhaps a father? Potentially both? Regardless of the case, the young vixen’s eyes were firmly fixed on the figure when an impatient raider decided that his whimpering had reached its limit, and shoved his scimitar through his orange furred back.
Paralyzed with grief in the doorway, Ciscera saw the shadowy figure approach long before Lily did: by the time that the orange furred creature
noticed, an arm had already clamped onto her arm, cackling at the easy catch. She screamed, kicked against leather armor, attempted to pull away, but the masked marauder simply smiled, calling nonchalantly out to his companions as he began to drag her to the village center “Hey guys, look at the live one I got in me hands!”
Several other masked beings emerged from the shadows, as her captor stopped, leaving her in a kneeling position hungrily eying her over in a way that made even Ciscera – a passenger in this madness – sick. “Aye, and she’s a pretty poppit. Lots o’ gold, she’ll be,” another agreed, reaching his hand out to the side of her face. Her free hand shot out to slap it away (at least she had the strength to preserve her personal decency), and they laughed in unison. “She’ll be taught manners in time, boys,” Her captor stated, chuckling, as he brought the hilt of his sword quickly upon her head, knocking out Lily and bringing Ciscera back into sweet silence.
It was a while before the tigress felt anything in the void, but when she did, it came in the form of bright light bursting through a doorway. Orange furred paws rose to wipe her eyes – a firm announcement that she was still separated from her own body – revealing a wagon interior packed with females of similar age, though it was unlikely they had all come from the same place. They all rose, flinching at the barked order of a canine raider, and exiting promptly to receive their daily meal. They were coordinated… enough. They had likely been doing this a few weeks, to have fallen into routine, but would have weeks to go before they reached a selling point. Many didn’t survive the process, but she had a fierce determination bubbling under her obedient exterior, a tenacity that made even Ciscera think twice about the being she was “following.”
This was no simple prisoner. She had some sort of plan, even if the tigress could not read it. She would not simply accept her captivity.
The vixen had just sat down with her bowl of cold soup when two raiders approached the ladies, cackling to themselves. They were slicked black with the black goop that fireproofed their fur, likely from a raid early that morning, and smelled of cinders and ash and blood. They walked proudly through the circle of women, eying them over and trading lewd jokes until they stopped in front of Lily. After a quick inspection, one, a puma, dumped the soup onto her lap, the brown liquid sinking into fur and ragtag clothes alike. “Oops,” he whispered insincerely, “Looks like you’ll need to clean that up.” “Aye,” the other, a dingo, stated, “Ye better come w’ us. “ Lily’s stomach dropped, a dread that slunk through Ciscera’s perception as they shouted to the handler that “They were taking this one for spin (let ya know how it goes afta!).”
They took her out, past the wagons, past the encampment, to where a nearby creek flowed. “Now, seeing as we are all dirty, we figured you would do us the honor of helping us clean up after our last... harvest. What do you say, dearie? Your group’ll get twice your rations, you know, for helping us out a bit…”
The puma smiled at his offer, holding a bar of soap in his hand and sitting where the water lapped at the tar-like gunk on his legs, looking expectantly at Lily. The other sat nearby, sharpening a knife in a none so subtle threat as to the alternative to the deal. Slowly, disgustedly, Lily approached, and began quickly scrubbing the ooze off of his calves. When she finished, he turned so she could do the same to his arm, his other arm, then his head and neck, his purring a vibration that crawled nauseatingly down her spine. Ciscera could feel the desire to punish this man, who was coated with the remnants of a people like her own, killed or sold into slavery like her, but also the calm resolve to do so when a blade was not a mere foot away. When all but his tunic and shorts were clean, the dingo giddily swapped places, accepting the same treatment while the other warily watched, knife in hand.
After what seemed like hours of scrubbing, they were both finished, and the vixen was positively soaked. With the last black blot slinking down the river, the task was finally done, and she and her group would be better off for it, or at least until the next week, when the next subject would be tested. The relief was almost palpable…until she realized that neither of her two guards were moving. Instead, sick smiles crawled across their faces as one of them undid their trowswers, letting the fabric fall with a slap to the ground. Lily took a step back, horrified, but the other was already behind her, knife to her throat. “We’ll need a little more attention than that. I’d hate to see the others get punished for this, wouldn’t you, dearie?... By the way, you better get more comfortable than that. It’s a nice day… you wont need all those messy clothes….”
It wasn’t directly told, but it was often implied how pleasure slaves learned their skills. Ciscera knew this, as well as those who weren’t blind about the slaving business. She had personally always thought that the fruits of combat were far preferable to a night with some broken slave, and had never spent her coin in such a house that catered to those tastes. But here, bound to such a slave… she ached, if it was possible, from the horror and disgust of the activities demanded on the shore of that brook. She was a weakling, Ciscera rationalized. If she was stronger, she would have found a way… some way…. But a way to keep this from happening.
The two raider guards satisfied their wishes and returned Lily to the others. They didn’t meet her eyes. The other guards chuckled as they let her back into the wagon. As the wooden floor bucked beneath her, announcing the caravan was moving on, that orange furred shape in the corner bowed her head and cried.
Just as the tigress had held the lives of the filthy Tun’ayrukans in her palms, so did these raiders and their prizes. Some were sold, some were used and dumped off the side of the road when their use expired. Some, like Lily, became… favorites, before and after they were sold. And time after time, the tigress was condemned to experience that pain.
Over.
And Over.
And over again.
This was different, she told herself, than the control she had held over those warsprisoners. Though in her power, those that she allowed to live were treated with honor befitting them. They were deserving, they were all deserving, of what they got. It is the power of the strong to rule the weak…
Here she was, in the caravan. Here she was in smaller villages, larger cities. Here she was, in a brothel that had purchased her, all the way in the glorious central city. Here she was, purchased by a familiar seeming wolf and a hooded feline. Here she was, held by her throat and staring into the icy blue eyes of the white furred predator, still burning with that same determination as she faced
Herself.
Ciscera gasped, and the fox…Lily….Iris…. fell from her grasp, a heap of fiery fur on the stone floor. Her muscles trembled, her legs wobbled, forcing her to her knees above the bundle, but she was back in control. She laughed in victory, a pale, simple cough that seemed to hollowly echo about the now silent room. She was powerful. She was victorious. She had won.
But her mind refused to release what she had seen, felt, experienced. Leaving the fox where she was, the tigress clawed ineffectually at the floor, managing to drag herself to the corner opposite the bed, Nimaron sitting on her lap in shaky silence.
She was powerful.
She was victorious.
She had won.
Hadn’t she?
Ciscera’s mind raced, realizing that the illusion was no strange effect of the light. Though she could feel her hand on the fox’s throat, it seemed far, far away, while her own body seemed to be shrouded in darkness, a mere spirit as opposed to a living figure. She grunted softly as she fought to keep her hold on the other world, but as if cued by her struggle, the darkness transformed, faint viridian forming into leaves, blackness forming the bodies of shadows and concentrated pupils.
She recognized the scene immediately, having watched it over and over and over again in the weeks following the incident. But just as she couldn’t stop the dreams then, she couldn’t stop the vision now. She watched helplessly from within her own body as her bow twanged at her side, the arrow silently screaming as it pierced the armor of another Tunay’rukan whelp. To her sides were the other archers, mostly squires, as they provided support for the warriors on the field. But though the field was filled with glorious chaos, her eyes were focused, as they had been then, on her Knight, her father, tearing through the ranks of the curs for the glory of her country. He was a hero, a master of the blade, one that was fated to bring her country to victory… or had been, until this very day.
She watched with the same pride as a weasel was cut down by his blade, then a lynx. But as “her” eyes turned to watch the approach of a feral looking rabbit, her stomach dropped, knowing the inevitable result of the encounter. Her father’s blade hit the hare’s with nothing less than a solid thud, launching the xiphos from the latter’s grasp and lodging it firmly in the ground. Within seconds, that same blade had entered the rabbit’s chest, spilling his crimson life on the bright green grass beneath him. But the scream that pierced the air came not from the vermin slain on the ground. No, the scream came from her own father, as bright blue light slithered up the blade that had rightfully won the engagement and wracked his body with demonic energy, stealing his valiant fate from him in only a few painful seconds. The body around her dashed forward, but her mind resigned, wishing she could avert the eyes of her younger self. But no, dream after dream, she saw in perfect detail what she saw now – smoking fur, glazed eyes, cuts and scrapes that should have evolved into battle scars, not marks upon a fallen soldier, her fallen knight, her father.
She didn’t even hear the words that her mouth shouted, rallying her men against the horrors of the enemy army. No, her mind was enraged, fighting to reach her own reality, to tear her way out of the past that she had once put far, far behind her, to tear into the creature that dared use their profane magic to bring these images to her eyes. She felt herself struggling against a blackness, a spirit trapped to a corporeal form, the tension of invisible chains soundly securing her to her past…. She would not be trapped here! She would slay that vixen if it was the last thing she did!
Slowly, then with growing success, she felt the world around her fading, replaced with faint shadows that darted around her vision as if they were fellow creatures fighting their way to the surface. Taking inspiration from these visions, she pushed forward with her mind, pushing back at the sorceress who dared cast such spells upon her.
And then, as if she had been pushing against the membrane of an egg, she burst free into the light, hands grasping the wooden floor as if the panels were the very givers of life. Her vision was blurred, but she paid little mind to this, her mind still absorbed in her victory over the curses used against her. They could hide in their illusions, in their ill placed trust of the arcane, but this victory was proof that true willpower would always prevail!
Panting, Ciscera leaned back to grant her lungs easier access to the glorious air. But her hands did not hold as much purchase as they used to, and the air felt unclean, singeing her throat instead of bringing clean relief. And when her eyes rapidly shot open, and her body contorted into a fierce, hacking cough, she knew her nightmare was not quite over yet.
In fact, her situation seemed worse. While she seemed to have some muscle memory driving her actions in the recreation of her own past, her new body moved in a nature entirely unfamiliar to her brain, as the combination of untrained muscles and panic picked herself up and launched her body kicking into the haze. Was this some new trick, some barrier keeping her mind from her body? No, it couldn’t be. The steps she took were untrained, wasting too much energy upon the upstroke. All squires were taught to keep their feet closer to the ground to maximize their movement. No, that cur must have bound her to another body… No matter. She had broken her grasp before, and would easily do it again.
But before she could muster up the strength to throw herself at the invisible barrier keeping her mind from her true form, her current “body” barreled through the smoke and into a hallway… and a pair of glowing, bloodthirsty eyes. The body shrieked, a sudden flash of silver flew past “her” eyes as a cutlass embedded itself into the wooden wall beside her. Inwardly Ciscera prepared for combat, her mind analyzing his posture for weakness as she prepared to step into an offensive position, but this body had no such thoughts, diving underneath the creature’s occupied hand and continuing her flight through what Ciscera now assumed was a burning building. Judging by the mask the creature had worn, it was likely a raiding party, kin to those the Riversladian upperclass commonly did business with. This body must have been unlucky enough to be part of the harvest. Not that it mattered: to see her flee from such an inept opponent, and even to feel the breath rasp so heavily from only a short run, the body she was bound to was weak, and deserving of all that would come.
And that fate would not be far. Rather than check the window or listen for danger, the body’s true owner (given the orange fur that had been briefly entering her vision, she decided to nickname the weakling “lily”) decided the best course of action was to fling open the door, exposing the fiery chaos.
It looked like it had been a small town, though the smoke and flame obscured Lily’s vision too much to identify a location. Had, though, was the key word. Most buildings were decimated, roofing falling down into supports flickering with fire, where dark shapes maneuvered through the conflagration with ease. The sound of the timberwood cracking and igniting was barely matched by the sounds of shouting, laughing, and sobbing that echoed through the night, as those dark figures hauled out the wriggling inhabitants, roughly shoving them into terrified clusters, or roughing them up for extra valuables. A few attempted to fight back, but were promptly put back into their place; A single fox walked weaponless among the captors, begging, pleading for them to leave his people be, but was met with nothing but laughter as the pillagers merely pushed past him in the rush to carry out their duties. Lily seemed rather caught up with him, a faint notion of hope rising through her body upon recognizing his form. A clan leader, or perhaps a father? Potentially both? Regardless of the case, the young vixen’s eyes were firmly fixed on the figure when an impatient raider decided that his whimpering had reached its limit, and shoved his scimitar through his orange furred back.
Paralyzed with grief in the doorway, Ciscera saw the shadowy figure approach long before Lily did: by the time that the orange furred creature
noticed, an arm had already clamped onto her arm, cackling at the easy catch. She screamed, kicked against leather armor, attempted to pull away, but the masked marauder simply smiled, calling nonchalantly out to his companions as he began to drag her to the village center “Hey guys, look at the live one I got in me hands!”
Several other masked beings emerged from the shadows, as her captor stopped, leaving her in a kneeling position hungrily eying her over in a way that made even Ciscera – a passenger in this madness – sick. “Aye, and she’s a pretty poppit. Lots o’ gold, she’ll be,” another agreed, reaching his hand out to the side of her face. Her free hand shot out to slap it away (at least she had the strength to preserve her personal decency), and they laughed in unison. “She’ll be taught manners in time, boys,” Her captor stated, chuckling, as he brought the hilt of his sword quickly upon her head, knocking out Lily and bringing Ciscera back into sweet silence.
It was a while before the tigress felt anything in the void, but when she did, it came in the form of bright light bursting through a doorway. Orange furred paws rose to wipe her eyes – a firm announcement that she was still separated from her own body – revealing a wagon interior packed with females of similar age, though it was unlikely they had all come from the same place. They all rose, flinching at the barked order of a canine raider, and exiting promptly to receive their daily meal. They were coordinated… enough. They had likely been doing this a few weeks, to have fallen into routine, but would have weeks to go before they reached a selling point. Many didn’t survive the process, but she had a fierce determination bubbling under her obedient exterior, a tenacity that made even Ciscera think twice about the being she was “following.”
This was no simple prisoner. She had some sort of plan, even if the tigress could not read it. She would not simply accept her captivity.
The vixen had just sat down with her bowl of cold soup when two raiders approached the ladies, cackling to themselves. They were slicked black with the black goop that fireproofed their fur, likely from a raid early that morning, and smelled of cinders and ash and blood. They walked proudly through the circle of women, eying them over and trading lewd jokes until they stopped in front of Lily. After a quick inspection, one, a puma, dumped the soup onto her lap, the brown liquid sinking into fur and ragtag clothes alike. “Oops,” he whispered insincerely, “Looks like you’ll need to clean that up.” “Aye,” the other, a dingo, stated, “Ye better come w’ us. “ Lily’s stomach dropped, a dread that slunk through Ciscera’s perception as they shouted to the handler that “They were taking this one for spin (let ya know how it goes afta!).”
They took her out, past the wagons, past the encampment, to where a nearby creek flowed. “Now, seeing as we are all dirty, we figured you would do us the honor of helping us clean up after our last... harvest. What do you say, dearie? Your group’ll get twice your rations, you know, for helping us out a bit…”
The puma smiled at his offer, holding a bar of soap in his hand and sitting where the water lapped at the tar-like gunk on his legs, looking expectantly at Lily. The other sat nearby, sharpening a knife in a none so subtle threat as to the alternative to the deal. Slowly, disgustedly, Lily approached, and began quickly scrubbing the ooze off of his calves. When she finished, he turned so she could do the same to his arm, his other arm, then his head and neck, his purring a vibration that crawled nauseatingly down her spine. Ciscera could feel the desire to punish this man, who was coated with the remnants of a people like her own, killed or sold into slavery like her, but also the calm resolve to do so when a blade was not a mere foot away. When all but his tunic and shorts were clean, the dingo giddily swapped places, accepting the same treatment while the other warily watched, knife in hand.
After what seemed like hours of scrubbing, they were both finished, and the vixen was positively soaked. With the last black blot slinking down the river, the task was finally done, and she and her group would be better off for it, or at least until the next week, when the next subject would be tested. The relief was almost palpable…until she realized that neither of her two guards were moving. Instead, sick smiles crawled across their faces as one of them undid their trowswers, letting the fabric fall with a slap to the ground. Lily took a step back, horrified, but the other was already behind her, knife to her throat. “We’ll need a little more attention than that. I’d hate to see the others get punished for this, wouldn’t you, dearie?... By the way, you better get more comfortable than that. It’s a nice day… you wont need all those messy clothes….”
It wasn’t directly told, but it was often implied how pleasure slaves learned their skills. Ciscera knew this, as well as those who weren’t blind about the slaving business. She had personally always thought that the fruits of combat were far preferable to a night with some broken slave, and had never spent her coin in such a house that catered to those tastes. But here, bound to such a slave… she ached, if it was possible, from the horror and disgust of the activities demanded on the shore of that brook. She was a weakling, Ciscera rationalized. If she was stronger, she would have found a way… some way…. But a way to keep this from happening.
The two raider guards satisfied their wishes and returned Lily to the others. They didn’t meet her eyes. The other guards chuckled as they let her back into the wagon. As the wooden floor bucked beneath her, announcing the caravan was moving on, that orange furred shape in the corner bowed her head and cried.
Just as the tigress had held the lives of the filthy Tun’ayrukans in her palms, so did these raiders and their prizes. Some were sold, some were used and dumped off the side of the road when their use expired. Some, like Lily, became… favorites, before and after they were sold. And time after time, the tigress was condemned to experience that pain.
Over.
And Over.
And over again.
This was different, she told herself, than the control she had held over those warsprisoners. Though in her power, those that she allowed to live were treated with honor befitting them. They were deserving, they were all deserving, of what they got. It is the power of the strong to rule the weak…
Here she was, in the caravan. Here she was in smaller villages, larger cities. Here she was, in a brothel that had purchased her, all the way in the glorious central city. Here she was, purchased by a familiar seeming wolf and a hooded feline. Here she was, held by her throat and staring into the icy blue eyes of the white furred predator, still burning with that same determination as she faced
Herself.
Ciscera gasped, and the fox…Lily….Iris…. fell from her grasp, a heap of fiery fur on the stone floor. Her muscles trembled, her legs wobbled, forcing her to her knees above the bundle, but she was back in control. She laughed in victory, a pale, simple cough that seemed to hollowly echo about the now silent room. She was powerful. She was victorious. She had won.
But her mind refused to release what she had seen, felt, experienced. Leaving the fox where she was, the tigress clawed ineffectually at the floor, managing to drag herself to the corner opposite the bed, Nimaron sitting on her lap in shaky silence.
She was powerful.
She was victorious.
She had won.
Hadn’t she?