some own work by thecuriousone

[thecuriousone]

Got a story again. About 80% AI generated, sorry for the traditionalists among us.


Agnes and the quest for forgiveness

My name is Agnes, and my life has been a tug-of-war between two worlds—one anchored in the sanctity of faith and the other in the liberating chaos of hedonism. This is the story of how these worlds collided and ultimately led to my crucifixion.

I grew up in a small town where the church wasn't just a place of worship; it was the heart of the community. My parents were devout followers of Pastor Charles his learnings, a charismatic preacher who had a way of making the divine feel almost tangible. His sermons were captivating, his words painting vivid pictures of heaven and hell, sin and redemption. Only he had a true understanding of God's will. From a young age, I was drawn to his fervor and the sense of purpose that surrounded our congregation. I was so grateful that he could lead me to the path to eternal life.

But as much as I was committed to my faith, another side of me yearned for the freedom and excitement that my university friends seemed to embrace so effortlessly. When I left for university, I was thrust into a world that was the aopposite of everything I had known. There were parties, late nights, and an exhilarating sense of freedom. I found myself bouncing back and forward between the purity of my religious upbringing and the thrilling hedonism of university life.

Despite my growing indulgence in the university lifestyle, I never fully detached from the church. I would attend services when I could, feeling a strange comfort in the familiar rituals. Pastor Charles had a way of making me feel safe, understood, and, above all, guided. His sermons began to feel more personal, as if he could see through my facade and knew the sins I was trying to hide.

One Sunday, after a particularly wild ecstacy-fueled night out full of dancing and sex, I dragged myself to church, hoping to find some solace. Instead, I found Pastor Charles waiting for me at the door. His eyes bore into mine with a mix of disappointment and concern.

"Agnes," he said, his voice low and urgent, "you can't continue living this way. Your soul is in jeopardy."

His words struck a chord deep within me. I knew he was right. The duality of my existence was tearing me apart. I had been ignoring the gnawing guilt that came with each night of excess, but here it was, staring me in the face.

Desperate for redemption, I sought out Pastor Charles for a private confession. In the dimly lit room behind the church, I poured out my heart, confessing to every sin, every moment of weakness. He listened intently, his face a mask of solemnity.

When I finished, he leaned back, his fingers steepled under his chin. "Agnes," he began, "your sins are grave. You have strayed far from the path of righteousness. But there is still hope for you. You can still be forgiven."

Tears streamed down my face as I asked, "What must I do, Pastor? I'll do anything."

His eyes gleamed with an intensity that both scared and intrigued me. "To truly atone for your sins, you must make the ultimate sacrifice. You must become a martyr for our faith."

The words hung in the air, heavy and foreboding. I was stunned, unable to comprehend the gravity of what he was suggesting. "A martyr?" I whispered.

"Yes, Agnes," he said, his voice firm. "You must die for your faith. Only when crucified can your soul be cleansed and you can find eternal peace."

The days that followed were a blur of confusion and inner turmoil. I knew what Pastor Charles was asking of me was extreme, but part of me believed it was the only way to atone for the life I had been living. The thought of dying terrified me, but the thought of living with the weight of my sins was even more unbearable.

I continued to attend church, each sermon reinforcing the idea that my only path to redemption was through martyrdom. Pastor Charles would often seek me out after the services, his presence a constant reminder of the choice I had to make.

One erarly morning, after another drug-fueled party where I felt more out of place than ever, I found myself standing outside the church, staring at the crucifix that loomed above the entrance. The weight of my sins pressed down on me, and I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me. I knew what I had to do.

The next day, I went to Pastor Charles and told him of my decision. He looked at me with a mixture of sadness and approval. "You are making the right choice, Agnes. Your sacrifice will not be in vain."

The days leading up to my crucifixion were a surreal blend of preparation and introspection. I continued to attend my university classes and parties, but with a newfound sense of detachment. I was living in a dual world, caught between the world of the living and the promise of redemption through death.

Pastor Charles and I planned the details meticulously. The crucifixion would take place inside the church, a private ceremony witnessed by the most devout members of our congregation. It was important, he said, that I wear the same dress as on my last party—a symbol of the sins I was leaving behind. The contrast between my hedonistic life and my ultimate act of faith would serve as a powerful testament to the congregation.

As the day approached, I felt a strange mix of fear and peace. I spent my nights in prayer, asking for the strength to go through with it, and during the day, I immersed myself in the routines of my old life, knowing they would soon be over.

The night before my crucifixion, I attended one last party. A climax of hedonism filled with ecstacy and kinky sex. I wore the dress that I had chosen—a short, shiny piece of fabric that clung to my body and shimmered under the lights. As I danced and laughed with my friends, I felt a strange sense of detachment. They had no idea what I was about to do, and I found comfort in their ignorance.

The next morning, still high from the ecstacy and with my holes dripping from the hour-long gangbang, I walked to the church in the same dress, my heart pounding with a mix of fear and resolve. Inside, the atmosphere was heavy with anticipation. The congregation was gathered, their faces solemn and expectant. Pastor Charles stood at the front, his eyes locked on mine.

I walked down the aisle, each step feeling like a step closer to redemption. When I reached the front, Pastor Charles took my hand and led me to the wooden cross that was laid down on the ground in the center of the church.

"Agnes," he said, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear, "today you make the ultimate sacrifice. Your sins will be forgiven, and your soul will find peace."

I nodded, unable to speak. The congregation began to chant, their voices a haunting melody that filled the space. I felt the rough wood against my back as they positioned me on the cross, my arms stretched out, my wrists bound tightly.

The pain was immediate and intense as they drove the nails through my hands and feet. I screamed, the sound echoing through the church, but the chanting continued, a relentless reminder of why I was doing this.

As the cross was lifted, the weight of my body pulled against the nails, sending waves of agony through me. I closed my eyes and began to pray, my voice trembling with pain and desperation.

"Lord, forgive me. I am yours. Take my soul and cleanse it. Forgive me for my sins."

The hours blurred into days as I hung on the cross, my body wracked with pain. I drifted in and out of consciousness, my prayers a constant murmur on my lips. The congregation watched, their faces a mixture of reverence and sorrow.

Pastor Charles was a constant presence, his voice a steady anchor in my sea of suffering. "You are doing God's work, Agnes. Your sacrifice will not be in vain."

As the second day wore on, I felt my strength waning. The pain was excruciating, but my mind was oddly clear. I could feel my life slipping away, each breath a struggle.

"Lord, take me," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Take me and forgive me."

The last thing I saw before the darkness took me was the face of Pastor Charles, his eyes filled with a mixture of triumph and sorrow. I closed my eyes, a sense of peace washing over me as I took my final breath.

Pastor Charles continued to lead the congregation, using my sacrifice as a powerful symbol of devotion and redemption. My parents were devastated, their grief a haunting echo of the choice I had made.

As for me, I found the peace I had been searching for. I am in heaven now. In the end, my dual existence had led me to the ultimate act of faith, a final, irrevocable step that bridged the gap between the hedonism of my past and the promise of redemption. I hope that my sacrifice serves as a reminder of the power of faith and the lengths we are willing to go to find forgiveness.

 

[thecuriousone]

Pfff my story is too long to post in one go. Thanks chatGPT for doing most of the fieldwork.

The mission

Chapter 1

I glanced at the clock on the wall, feeling the minutes tick by with a heavy, oppressive weight. The fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting a sterile glow over the sparse office. I shifted in my seat, adjusting the black suit jacket that felt like a second skin. The door opened, and my superior, Director Matthews, walked in. His expression was as unreadable as always.

"Eileen," he began, his voice carrying the authority of years spent in the intelligence field, "we have a new assignment for you."

I nodded, my heart rate remaining steady. "What's the target?"

He slid a thin file across the table. I opened it, revealing photographs and documents about a group I was all too familiar with: Extinction Rebellion. A radical environmental group known for their disruptive protests.

"We need you to infiltrate their ranks," Matthews continued. "Specifically, we want you to plant the idea of a mass suicide as a form of protest. The higher-ups believe this will neutralize the threat they pose without the government being implicated."

I looked up, meeting his cold, calculating gaze. The idea was twisted, but I understood the logic. Get rid of the troublemakers by making them eliminate themselves. It was efficient, ruthless, and exactly the kind of operation I excelled at.

"Understood," I said, closing the file. "When do I start?"

"Immediately," he replied. "We've created a new identity for you. You're now Eleanor Green, a passionate environmentalist with a history of activism. Your mission is to gain their trust, influence their leadership, and convince them that the ultimate sacrifice will be the most powerful statement they can make."

I took a deep breath, already slipping into my new persona. "I'll get it done."

As I left the office, I couldn't help but feel a surge of anticipation. This was my kind of mission. High stakes, deep cover, and a chance to demonstrate just how effective I could be. I was ready to become Eleanor Green, ready to manipulate, deceive, and ultimately destroy from within.

Chapter 2

The first meeting was held in a small, dimly lit community center. Posters advocating for environmental justice plastered the walls, and a diverse group of individuals sat in a circle, their expressions serious and determined. I entered, feigning nervousness, clutching a reusable water bottle and wearing a T-shirt with a bold environmental slogan.

"Hi, I'm Eleanor," I introduced myself, my voice carrying the right mix of passion and humility. "I'm new here, but I've been following your work for a long time. I want to help make a difference."

The group leader, a middle-aged woman with a stern face and a calming presence, nodded and motioned for me to sit. "Welcome, Eleanor. I'm Maya. We're always looking for dedicated people."

I took a seat, listening intently as the discussion unfolded. They talked about upcoming protests, strategies to disrupt traffic, and ways to gain media attention. I contributed cautiously at first, agreeing with their points, showing my commitment without overshadowing anyone.

Over the next few weeks, I attended every meeting, every protest, slowly ingraining myself into their world. I made friends, shared stories of past activism that had been meticulously fabricated, and showed unwavering support for their cause. I was careful, calculated, ensuring that I was seen as trustworthy and passionate.

One evening, after a particularly heated discussion about the lack of government action on climate change, I found myself alone with Maya. We were packing up, and she turned to me, her eyes filled with a mix of exhaustion and hope.

"Eleanor, I can see you're truly dedicated," she said. "We need more people like you."

I smiled, feeling the thrill of success. "Thank you, Maya. I'm here for the long haul. Whatever it takes to make a real impact."

As I walked home that night, I knew I was getting closer to my goal. The seeds of trust had been planted. Now, it was time to start sowing the idea that would lead them to their own destruction.

Chapter 3

The online meeting was buzzing with the energy of passionate activists discussing their next big move. Faces filled the screen, each one representing a fervent believer in the cause. I waited for the right moment, watching as the discussion flowed from topic to topic.

"We need something that will really shake things up," one member said, his voice crackling through the speakers. "Something that will make the world sit up and take notice."

I leaned forward, my face lit by the soft glow of my laptop. "What about a mass suicide?" I suggested, my tone casual yet serious. "Imagine the impact. A group of us, making the ultimate sacrifice for the planet. It would be impossible to ignore."

There was a moment of stunned silence. Faces registered shock, disbelief, even horror. I kept my expression neutral, as if I had merely proposed a slightly radical idea, not the extreme measure it was.

"That's... that's insane," someone finally said. "We can't just kill ourselves."

"But think about it," I pressed on, my voice steady. "People are already dying because of climate change. Millions displaced, ecosystems destroyed. What if we showed the world just how desperate we are for change? It would be the ultimate protest."

Maya, who had been listening quietly, finally spoke up. "Eleanor has at least some point," she said thoughtfully. "Desperate times call for desperate measures. But we would need to think this through carefully before we can even decide about this. It can't be just an impulsive act. If we do something like this, it would need to be a powerful, coordinated statement."

I nodded, pretending to be deeply moved by my own suggestion. "Exactly. It would need to be symbolic, something that resonates on a deep level. And it has to be absolutely voluntary. Only those who truly believe in the cause should participate."

The discussion continued, with many expressing reservations, but a few key members, including Maya, seemed to consider the idea seriously. It was a start. The seed had been planted. Now, it was time to nurture it, to cultivate it into a plan that would lead them down the path I needed them to follow.

As the meeting ended, I logged off, a sense of grim satisfaction settling over me. This was the beginning of the end for Extinction Rebellion. They just didn't know it yet.


To be continued...

 

[thecuriousone]

Chapter 4

Convincing Ulrike was the breakthrough I needed. She was a prominent leader within Extinction Rebellion, heading a faction of passionate, radical feminist environmentalists. Her influence was substantial, and if I could sway her, many would follow.

I arranged to meet Ulrike at a secluded café, a place where we could talk freely. She was a striking woman, with sharp features and an intense gaze that seemed to pierce through any façade. But not mine, at least I had to make that sure. I needed to be at my best.

"Ulrike," I began after we had ordered our drinks, "I've been thinking more about the conversation in the last meeting. About making a real, undeniable statement."

She raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "Go on."

I leaned in, my voice low and earnest. "I've been reading about historical protests, the ones that truly changed the course of events. Many involved great personal sacrifice. Remember what started a revolution in Tunisia. It was the self immolation of Mohamed Bouazizi. Imagine if we, as the most committed members of Extinction Rebellion, made the ultimate sacrifice. Publicly, in a way that can't be ignored. It would show the world the depth of our commitment."

Ulrike considered my words, her eyes narrowing. "You're talking about suicide."

"Not just suicide," I clarified. "A powerful, symbolic act. Something that shows we are willing to give everything for the planet. I've been thinking about crucifixion. It's an ancient, brutal method that would undoubtedly grab global attention. And if the riot squad tries to stop us, we douse ourselves in gasoline and set ourselves on fire. So they are powerless to stop us. The ultimate sacrifice for our cause."

There was a long silence as Ulrike processed my suggestion. Then, slowly, she nodded. "It is extreme. But you might be right. Desperate times require desperate measures. I'll need to discuss this with my group."

Over the next few weeks, Ulrike and I worked closely together. She introduced me to her faction, a group of fierce, dedicated women who were unwavering in their commitment to the cause. Ulrike was their leader, but I could see the respect and camaraderie they shared. Convincing them would be crucial.

In a series of secret meetings, we laid out the plan. The crucifixion would take place in a large, open field. The press would secretly be informed in advance to ensure maximum coverage. The volunteers would be doused in gasoline, ready to be set ablaze if the authorities tried to intervene. It was gruesome, but it was exactly what was needed to make a statement that couldn't be ignored.

To my calculated relief, the women in Ulrike's group began to see the twisted logic in our plan. They were driven by a burning passion for their cause, and the idea of making the ultimate sacrifice resonated deeply with their sense of purpose. As our meetings progressed, their resolve hardened, and the plan began to take on a life of its own.

Chapter 5

We needed volunteers. Ulrike and I spent countless hours talking to the women, explaining the significance of our plan, painting a vivid picture of the impact it would have. We framed it as a necessary step to save the planet, a noble sacrifice that would force the world to wake up to the environmental crisis.

One by one, the women committed. They were all-in, willing to lay down their lives for the cause. Some were mothers, others young activists just starting their lives, but all shared a burning conviction. It was both inspiring and horrifying to see their dedication manifest in such a drastic form.

Eileen and Ulrike's leadership was instrumental. We held meetings in secret locations, discussing the logistics, preparing mentally and physically for what lay ahead. The women were resolute, their eyes filled with determination and a hint of fear. It was a delicate balance, maintaining their commitment while ensuring they didn't waver in the face of what they were about to undertake.

The day of the crucifixion drew nearer, and the tension was palpable. We rehearsed the process, each woman understanding her role, the timing, the signals. It was like preparing for a grim, somber performance. The crosses were constructed, hidden away until the day of the protest. Gasoline was acquired, the final, tragic ingredient of our plan.

Throughout this process, I remained vigilant. I had to be. There were moments of doubt, whispers of fear, but I quelled them with carefully chosen words of encouragement, reinforcing the idea that their sacrifice would not be in vain. Some chickened out, but at least I managed to convince them to keep things silent.

One evening, after a particularly intense meeting, Ulrike and I sat in a small room, the weight of what we were planning pressing down on us. "Are you ready for this?" she asked, her voice a mixture of determination and vulnerability.

I met her gaze, my own resolve unwavering. "Yes, Ulrike. This is what needs to be done."

In those quiet moments, I almost felt a pang of guilt. These women trusted me, believed in me. But I pushed the feeling aside. This was my mission. They were just collateral damage in a larger game.

Chapter 6

As preparations for the crucifixion continued, I began to notice something odd about one of the newer members, Anastasia. She was quiet, reserved, but there was something about her that set off alarm bells in my mind. She seemed too perfect, too committed, and her background story was too convenient. I also heard from Maya and Ulrike that, in private, she was pushing to choose sabotage and violence rather than public suicide.

I decided to investigate. Using my skills and resources, I delved into Anastasia's past. What I found confirmed my suspicions: her identity was a fabrication. She was a plant, a double agent from another government, likely there to gather intelligence and steer Extinction Rebellion in a direction beneficial to her handlers.

I reported my findings to my superiors. They acted swiftly, and Anastasia disappeared without a trace. I didn't ask what happened to her. It wasn't my concern. My mission was to ensure the success of our plan, and anyone who posed a threat had to be eliminated if needed.

With Anastasia out of the way, I redoubled my efforts to prepare the group for the crucifixion. The field was chosen, the date set, and the press informed. The tension mounted, the sense of impending doom hanging over us like a dark cloud.

In the final days, I watched as the women prepared themselves mentally and physically. They wrote letters to their loved ones, said their goodbyes in private moments of reflection. It was a sobering sight, but I couldn't afford to let it affect me. I had to stay focused.

As the day approached, everything was in place. The crosses, the gasoline, the plan. I was ready to guide them to their fate, knowing that my mission was about to reach its climax.


To be continued....

 

[thecuriousone]

Chapter 7

The day of the crucifixion dawned cold and gray, a fitting backdrop for the grim spectacle that was about to unfold. The field was prepared, the crosses laid out in several rows. Holes have been dug to erect the crosses. The press arrived early, setting up cameras and broadcasting equipment, eager to capture the dramatic protest.

The volunteers gathered, their faces pale but resolute. They stripped down to their underwear, the chill of the morning air biting at their skin. Each woman approached her cross, laying down and allowing themselves to be nailed to the rough wood. The sound of hammers striking nails echoed across the field, mingling with the cries of pain and the murmurs of the rapidly growing crowd.

As the women were lifted into position, a strange silence fell over the scene, only interrupted by the unavoidable moaming of pain from several of the crucified women. The crowd, thousands strong, watched in a mix of awe and horror. Some shouted words of encouragement, while others looked on with disgust. The press recorded every moment, broadcasting the event live to an audience around the world.

The crucified women began to shout slogans, their voices strained with pain but filled with conviction. "Save the planet!" "Act now, before it's too late!" Their cries were a desperate plea for attention, for action. But as the time passed, the pain took its toll. Some continued to shout, their voices growing hoarse, while others succumbed to tears and cries of agony, begging to be released.

I watched from the edge of the field, my heart pounding. This was it. The culmination of months of work, of manipulation and deceit. The women were suffering, dying for a cause they believed in, and the world was watching.

The crowd's reaction was mixed. Some were moved by the women's sacrifice, their hearts breaking at the sight of such dedication. Others were repulsed, unable to understand the depths of their commitment. The press captured it all, broadcasting the raw, unfiltered reality of the protest.

As the day wore on, the tension in the air grew thicker. We were waiting for the inevitable, the arrival of the riot squad. And then, in the distance, the sound of sirens. The police were coming.

Chapter 8

The riot squad arrived in force. A wall of uniforms, helmets, batons and riot shields advancing toward the field. The crowd stirred, sensing the confrontation that was about to erupt. Some started to throw insults at the police, preparing to confront them. Ulrike, strong and confident despite the suffering of her friends, raised her voice above the noise.

"Prepare the gasoline!" she shouted, her voice carrying a note of desperation.

A selected group moved quickly. They grabbed the cans of gasoline, dousing the crucified women in the flammable liquid. The smell was pungent, a reminder of the final, horrific step of our plan.

The police reached the edge of the field, their loudspeakers blaring orders for the crowd to disperse. But Ulrike was undeterred. "Now!" she screamed, and the remaining activists moved to ignite the gasoline.

The flames erupted, engulfing the women on the crosses in a sudden, violent blaze. The crowd screamed, some in horror, others in shock. The police rushed forward in formation, but it was too late. The fire roared, consuming the women in a hellish inferno.

Complete chaos broke out. The crowd surged, some trying to flee, others attempting to intervene. The press continued to record, capturing every moment of the unfolding tragedy. The air was filled with the acrid smell of burning flesh, the screams of the dying, and the shouts of the panicked crowd.

In the chaos, everybody ran in any direction to avoid being trapped between the police batons and the blazing fire. I was running in the same direction as Ulrike, we were close together. The both of us were pushed aside by the stampede of panicking people. Quickly I made my decision to eliminate her, she being the main witness of my involvement. Pretending to lose my balance, I gave her an extra push towards the fire. She stumbled, and fell into the flames. Her screams joined those of her comrades, a haunting chorus of pain and conviction. The fire roared like an untamed beast, fueled by the copious amounts of gasoline, and the police was unable to reach the crucified women in the blaze.

I stood on the edge of the chaos, my heart pounding with a mixture of triumph and horror. This was the endgame, the final act of a meticulously planned operation. The crucified women were dying a slow, agonizing death, their bodies consumed by the flames. The police were overwhelmed, unable to prevent the tragedy that was unfolding before them.

As the fire raged, I slipped away, blending into the chaos. My mission was complete. The plan had succeeded. Extinction Rebellion had been dealt a devastating blow, their most dedicated members sacrificed in a public, horrifying display. And the government would remain blameless, their hands clean of the bloodshed.

Chapter 9

The fire brigade arrived too late to save any lives. The flames were eventually extinguished, but the damage was done. The field was a scene of devastation, charred bodies and smoldering crosses a testament to the horrific events that had transpired.

In the aftermath, the authorities moved quickly. Several prominent members of Extinction Rebellion were arrested, charged with murder, incitement to violence and various more crimes. The public was divided, some seeing the protesters as martyrs, others as misguided extremists. The media coverage was relentless, the footage of the crucifixion and subsequent immolation playing on repeat.

I discarded my fake identity, slipping back into the shadows. Eleanor Green ceased to exist, and Eileen, the ruthless agent, emerged once more. I returned to my superiors, ready for the debriefing.

Director Matthews was waiting for me, his expression unreadable as always. "Good work, Eileen," he said, his tone cold and professional. "You've dealt a significant blow to Extinction Rebellion. The government can now move forward without the constant disruption of their protests."

I nodded, accepting the praise. "Thank you, sir. It was a challenging mission, but necessary."

He regarded me for a moment, then leaned back in his chair. "Do you have any regrets?"

I thought about the women who had trusted me, who had believed in me. I thought about Ulrike, who had fallen into the flames. Not my problem. Eventually, they did it to themselves. "I think that, by dying, they stopped creating an ecological footprint. So in their way, they helped the environment. I might think about them from time to time. When I am enjoying a glass of wine in the evening."
Director Matthews smiled. "I knew you were the right person for this project. Take a week off, you deserved it. After that, you will be briefed on your next mission. I will recommend you for a salary raise."


End

 

[CCG]

Sad end but I understand that the protagonist is dedicated to her mission much like those women she killed were dedicated to their cause.

 

[Barbaria1]

Nicely done. Well written and captivating!

 

[thecuriousone]

Morale of the story: whatever you are convinced of, it is possible that some government planted some ideas in your own mind. It can be your own government, or governments that wish to mingle in your country's affairs.... so think before you do something drastic.

 

[CCG]

Morale of the story: whatever you are convinced of, it is possible that some government planted some ideas in your own mind. It can be your own government, or governments that wish to mingle in your country's affairs.... so think before you do something drastic.

So sad to think that is what we need to be careful of. I can't even enjoy my own interests now without always worrying and doubting whatever is in my mind. =(

 

[thecuriousone]

I have been brewing over this story for a while, time to post it. It is about an ancient town that is besieged by an enemy force. For a change, the main character survives.... barely.

The Siege of Daeborn: A Tale of Malaisha (part 1 of 2)

Chapter 1: The Siege Begins

The morning light filtered through the narrow window of the healer's hut, casting long shadows on the stone floor. I was busy grinding herbs into a fine powder, my mind focused on the task at hand. As an apprentice healer, my days were filled with tending to the sick and wounded, learning the delicate art of medicine from the town's chief healer, Althea. Daeborn, our home, was a bustling town with tall, sturdy walls and a proud history of standing against invaders.

The peace of the morning was shattered by the sudden, deafening sound of war horns. I dropped the mortar and pestle, my heart pounding in my chest. Althea burst into the room, her face pale.

"Malaisha, we are under attack! The enemy has surrounded the town," she said, her voice trembling.

I followed her outside, climbed the wall, and the sight that met my eyes was one of chaos and fear. The enemy warriors, their armor glinting in the sun, encircled Daeborn. Their leader, King Kadagh, stood atop a hill, his imposing figure visible even from a distance. His voice, as if amplified by some arcane means, boomed across the town.

"People of Daeborn! I am King Kadagh. Surrender immediately, or none shall be spared!"

A murmur of panic rippled through the crowd. The enemy's sudden appearance had caught us off guard, and there had been no time to prepare. We could not bring in additional supplies from the farmlands, bring in extra warriors , no additional arrows, spears, shields, helmets and swords. Our granaries were only half-full, and the prospect of a prolonged siege was terrifying.

But the walls of Daeborn were tall and strong, manned by brave warriors ready to defend our home. Captain Joran, the head of our guard, rallied his men and took his position on the walls. He exuded confidence, and his presence alone gave us hope.

"We will not surrender," he declared. "Our walls are tall, and our warriors brave. We can hold them off until Queen Lugia sends a relief force."

The townsfolk clung to his words, praying that our queen would come to our aid in time. As the hours passed, I returned to the healer's hut, my hands shaking as I resumed my work. The wounded began to trickle in, victims of the initial skirmishes with the enemy.

My days were consumed with treating injuries, the air filled with the smell of blood and herbs. Althea and I worked tirelessly, our hands stained red. The fear in the eyes of the townsfolk was palpable, but we had to stay strong for them.

One evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, I stood on the walls beside Captain Joran. The enemy campfires dotted the landscape like stars, a constant reminder of the danger we faced.

"How long do you think we can hold out?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.

Joran glanced at me, his face grim. "As long as we need to, Malaisha. We have no choice."

I nodded, feeling a sense of determination well up inside me. I had to be strong, not just for myself, but for everyone in Daeborn. The days turned into weeks, and the siege wore on. The enemy attempted to climb our walls several times, but each time they were repelled by our brave defenders. But we took casualties. Each time. Less and less warriors ready to defend us. Replaced by inexperienced townsfolk.

But the strain was beginning to show. Supplies were running low, and the constant state of alert was taking its toll on everyone. The once bustling market square was now eerily silent, the stalls abandoned.

One night, as I lay on my straw mat, I couldn't help but think of my family. My mother, father, and siblings were all within the town walls, their lives hanging in the balance. I had to believe that Queen Lugia would send help soon. Until then, we had to endure.

The next morning before sunrise, a brave messenger managed to sneak through the enemy encirclement, and brought news that sent a wave of relief through the town. A relief force from Queen Lugia was being assembled. The townsfolk cheered, their spirits lifted by the promise of reinforcements.

But as I stood on the walls, watching the enemy camp, I couldn't shake the feeling of unease. King Kadagh was a formidable foe, and I knew he wouldn't give up easily. We were in for a long, hard fight, and the true test of our strength and resolve was yet to come.

Chapter 2: The Engine of War

The days grew longer and more arduous as the enemy shifted tactics. No longer content with direct assaults, King Kadagh's forces began constructing massive siege engines capable of hurling boulders over our walls. The constant bombardment began to take its toll, both physically and mentally, on the people of Daeborn.

I stood in the healer's hut, tending to a young boy with a shattered leg. The ground trembled beneath us as another boulder crashed into the town, sending dust and debris into the air. The boy whimpered in fear, and I gently placed a hand on his shoulder.

"It's alright, Jarek," I said, forcing a smile. "We'll get through this."

Althea appeared at my side, her expression weary but determined. "Malaisha, we need more bandages. Can you fetch some from the storeroom?"

I nodded and hurried to the back of the hut, my mind racing. The constant bombardment was wearing us down, and our supplies were dwindling faster than we could replenish them. As I gathered the bandages, I overheard a conversation between two of the town guards outside.

"The enemy has taken full control of the countryside," one of them said, his voice grim. "They're forcing the peasants to harvest the crops, and all the grain is being stored in their camp."

The other guard cursed under his breath. "And what do you think they'll do to those poor souls once they've finished? Kadagh's not known for mercy."

I returned to the main room, my heart heavy with the weight of their words. The situation was growing more dire by the day. As the sun set, casting an orange glow over the town, a new horror unfolded. The enemy had begun making gruesome examples of the captured peasants. Their screams of agony kept us awake all night.

The next morning, the first of many horrific sights greeted us. Heads of the tortured peasants were hurled over the walls, their lifeless eyes staring back at us. The townsfolk recoiled in horror, and I could see the fear and despair spreading like a disease.

Many peasants had been killed in particularly gruesome ways, their bodies left for us to find. Some had been impaled on a spike, their bodies left to rot in the sun. Ohers had been burned alive, their charred remains a stark reminder of the enemy's cruelty. Some had been crucified, their bodies nailed to wooden crosses Some still had some life in them, trying to raise their bodies to get a desperate breath. Some had been buried alive, only their heads visible above the earth, still alive at sunrise. Their warriors took great pleasure in decapitating them and hurling the heads over the wall. Several had been broken on the wheel, their limbs twisted at unnatural angles. Some had been flayed, their skins hanging displayed stretched out between two wooden poles. They killed men, women and children alike, none would be spared.

The enemy's message was clear: oppose us and suffer unimaginable horrors.

Inside the healer's hut, the atmosphere was tense and somber. Althea and I worked endless hours in silence, our minds weighed down by the grim reality of our situation. The townsfolk were growing more desperate, and the food supply was running dangerously low.

Each day, I treated more and more cases of malnutrition and exhaustion. The once-robust people of Daeborn were becoming gaunt and hollow-eyed, their strength sapped by hunger and fear. The children, especially, suffered the most. Their innocent faces, now marked by the pain of starvation, haunted my dreams. The same was happening to me and everybody else in town. More and more tasks that were easy with a full stomach, turned into heavy labour with so little to eat for so long.

As the weeks dragged on, the enemy's siege engines continued their relentless assault. The walls of Daeborn held, but the town itself was crumbling from within. The people whispered of Queen Lugia's promised relief force, but there was no sign of them.

One night, as I lay awake in my cot, I couldn't help but feel a growing sense of dread. How much longer could we endure? How many more lives would be lost before this nightmare ended?

The next morning, I was jolted awake by the sound of horns. I rushed to the walls, my heart pounding. The sight that met my eyes filled me with a mixture of hope and despair. A force of our queen's soldiers had arrived, but they were clearly outnumbered by King Kadagh's army. For every man of the queen there were two veteran warriors eager to earn the favour of their predator king, ready to unleash their violence.

The battle that ensued was brutal and swift. Our relief force fought valiantly, but they were no match for the enemy's superior numbers and skill. Our garrison and many volunteering townsfolk sallied, but were quickly driven back inside the walls under a hail of spears and arrows. One by one, the queen's warriors fell, until the remaining were forced to flee.

As the last of the fleeing queen's soldiers was hunted down or disappeared behind the horizon, I felt a wave of despair wash over me. The townsfolk's cheers turned to cries of anguish as the enemy hurled the heads of the fallen over our walls.

Inside the healer's hut, the atmosphere was one of grim resignation. We continued to treat the wounded, but the hope that had once sustained us was fading fast. The enemy's cruelty knew no bounds, and our supplies were nearly depleted.

As I pulled an arrow from a man's shoulder, I couldn't help but wonder how much more we could endure. The siege was breaking us, slowly but surely. And as the days turned to weeks, I knew that our time was running out.

Chapter 3: The Envoy's Fate

The council of elders gathered in the town hall, their faces etched with worry and fear. The constant bombardment, the dwindling supplies, and the enemy's relentless cruelty had pushed them to the brink. It was clear that something had to be done, and so they made a fateful decision: they would send an envoy to negotiate our surrender with King Kadagh.

I stood in the back of the crowded hall, watching as the elders debated. Their voices were low and urgent, their faces pale with fear and exhaustion. Finally, Elder Rurik, a man known for his wisdom and diplomacy, stepped forward. He volunteered to lead the envoy, hoping to find some way to spare the town from further suffering.

"We must try to negotiate, and if we have to, meet all their demands." he said, his voice resolute despite the uncertainty in his eyes. "It is our only hope."

The townsfolk watched as a small group of elders, unarmed and with their hands raised to show they are not there to fight, made their way out of the town gates. The atmosphere was thick with tension, every eye on the figures as they crossed into the enemy's camp. Hours passed, each moment stretching into an eternity.

I stayed close to the walls, my heart heavy with dread. The silence from the enemy camp was oppressive, and a sense of foreboding hung over us all. Suddenly, a loud cheer erupted from the enemy lines. My stomach churned as I watched the scene unfold.

One of the war machines cranked into action, and with a sickening thud, something was hurled over the walls. It landed with a grotesque splatter in the town square. A collective gasp rose from the crowd as we realized what it was: the head of Elder Rurik.

A scream of horror escaped my lips, and I turned away, unable to look. The brutality of the enemy knew no bounds. They had made their message clear: there would be no negotiation, no mercy. The townsfolk were paralyzed with fear, the gruesome sight etched into their minds.

The silence that followed was broken by the booming voice of Kablak, King Kadagh's right hand. His words echoed through the town, sending chills down my spine.

"People of Daeborn! Mercy will not be given. You forsook mercy when you refused to surrender immediately. Your deaths will serve as a warning to all who dare oppose King Kadagh!"

Desperation clawed at the hearts of the townsfolk. Panic spread like wildfire, and the council of elders, now reduced and terrified, took drastic measures. They accused a group of townsfolk of treason, claiming they had plotted to betray the town in a desperate bid to save their own lives.

The alleged traitors were rounded up and brought to the town square. Their faces were pale, their eyes wide with terror. The crowd gathered, their expressions a mix of fear, anger, and resignation. The executioner stepped forward, and one by one, the accused were decapitated, their heads rolling into the dirt as a grim reminder of the town's resolve.

The bloodshed left the air heavy and thick with sorrow. I returned to the healer's hut, my hands trembling as I tried to focus on my work. Althea placed a reassuring hand on my shoulder, but even she couldn't mask the despair in her eyes.

Days turned into nights, and the hope that had once sustained us flickered like a dying flame. The enemy's bombardment continued unabated, and our supplies were nearly gone. The weight of hunger and fear bore down on us, and the constant state of alert left us all on edge.

One night, as I lay awake on my cot, I couldn't shake the feeling of impending doom. The town was on the brink of collapse, and it seemed only a matter of time before King Kadagh's forces would break through. My thoughts drifted to my family, and tears filled my eyes as I prayed for their safety.


To be continued

 

[thecuriousone]

The Siege of Daeborn: A Tale of Malaisha (part 2 of 2)


Chapter 4: The Darkest Decisions

The council of elders, now desperate and out of options, made a decision that would haunt the town forever. They decreed that all who could not contribute to the defense would be expelled from Daeborn. It was a cruel and heart-wrenching choice, but in their eyes, it was the only way to preserve what little food we had left.

The announcement was met with cries of outrage and sorrow. Families were torn apart, children clinging to their parents as they were forced to leave the safety of the walls. The sight of my own family, my mother, younger brother, and sister among them, being led away was more than I could bear. I watched, helpless and heartbroken, as they disappeared into the distance, their fate uncertain and terrifying.

As an apprentice healer, I was spared from expulsion, at least for the time being. To my surprise another young woman, Fasha, the youngest daughter of Elder Kuduk, was also spared. Through her father's scheming, she was also appointed as a healer apprentice, though she had no interest in the work. Fasha was entitled and lazy, relying on her father's influence to protect her. I couldn't bother less because I had to say farewell to my mother and siblings, knowing that were doomed.

The expelled townsfolk faced a terrible fate outside the walls. Rumors of their suffering reached us, how they were captured, tortured, raped and executed. I grieved deeply for my family, the pain of their loss a constant ache in my heart.

Inside the healer's hut, the atmosphere was strained. Fasha's presence was a source of frustration for me. She did little to help, often complaining and shirking her duties. Her privileged attitude only served to deepen the rift between us. She even did not mourn about the loss of all the people that have fallen victim to the enemy's machinations.

One evening, as I sat by the small fire in the healer's hut, Fasha entered, her face flushed with annoyance. "This is ridiculous," she snapped. "Why should I have to do this work? My father says I shouldn't even be here."

I looked up at her, my patience wearing thin. "We're all doing what we can to survive, Fasha. Complaining won't help."

She glared at me, her eyes blazing with anger. "You think you're so righteous, don't you? Always playing the martyr. Well, I'm not like you, Malaisha. I won't waste my time on hopeless causes."

Her words stung, but I refused to let her see how much they affected me. I turned my attention back to the herbs I was sorting, trying to block out her voice.

As the days passed, the food supply dwindled even further. The constant state of hunger left us all weak and irritable. Warriors that were once strong struggled to even stand on their legs. The town's defenses were beginning to falter, the once-strong walls undermanned, with a parody of strong warriors.

One morning, a commotion outside the healer's hut drew my attention. I stepped outside to find a crowd gathered around a group of warriors. Among them were my father and older brother, their faces grim and determined. They were preparing for a desperate assault to break the enemy's siege.

I rushed to my father's side, my heart pounding. "Father, you can't! It's too dangerous!"

He placed a hand on my shoulder, his eyes filled with a mixture of pride and sorrow. "Malaisha, we have no choice. We must try to break the siege, or we'll all die here."

Tears filled my eyes as I embraced him, the weight of our situation pressing down on me. My brother, always the stoic one, gave me a brief nod before turning to join the others.

The assault was brutal and costly. The enemy was well-prepared, and our warriors were cut down in quickly. My father and brother fought valiantly, but in the end, they too fell, their bodies lying among the countless others who had given their lives in a desperate bid for freedom.

The loss of my father and brother was a crushing blow. Grief consumed me, leaving me hollow and numb. With no family left and the town's situation growing ever more dire, it felt as though all hope was lost.

Chapter 5: The Final Expulsion

The day came when even the healer apprentices were not spared from expulsion. The council of elders, driven by desperation and fear, decreed that anyone who could not fight would be sent out to fend for themselves.

I stood by the gates, my heart heavy with dread, as the soldiers began to round us up. Fasha, predictably, threw a tantrum, screaming and crying as she was dragged toward the gate. Her father, Kuduk, watched with a mixture of shame and helplessness. Despite his influence, he could no longer protect her.

I tried to keep my dignity as I walked toward the gate, my mind racing with thoughts of what horrors awaited us outside the walls. The sight of my mother and siblings flashed before my eyes, and I silently prayed for their souls.

As we were forced out of the gate, the townsfolk watched in silence, their faces filled with sorrow and resignation. The gate closed behind us with a heavy thud, and we were left to face the unknown.

We tried to run as fast as we can. But a large group of enemy warriors spotted us and they started chasing us. They descended upon us with brutal efficiency, dragging us to the ground and binding our hands.

I struggled against my captors, but their grip was unyielding. Beside me, Fasha whimpered in fear, her bravado completely gone. We were forced to march to the enemy camp, our fate certain and terrifying.

Chapter 6: Captured

The enemy camp was a sprawling sea of tents and makeshift fortifications. Fires crackled, casting eerie shadows on the faces of the soldiers. We were shoved into a pen, where other captured townsfolk huddled in fear. The air was thick with despair, the stench of sweat and blood overwhelming.

We were dragged from the pen and tied to wooden frames, our bodies exposed and vulnerable. A man with a mean looking whip approached. The first blow landed with sickening force, the pain radiating through my body. I screamed, the sound echoing into the night. Fasha's cries joined mine, a chorus of agony that seemed never-ending. After a dozen lashes, I fainted.

For days, we endured unimaginable brutal rape. The enemy warriors took turns with us, their cruelty knowing no bounds. My mind was a haze of pain and despair, each moment an eternity of suffering. I tried to hold on to thoughts of my family, of the life we had before the siege, but even those memories seemed distant and unattainable.

Fasha's suffering was especially brutal. Her screams echoed through the camp, her body broken and bloodied. One day, as the sun rose over the horizon, the enemy decided to make an example of her. They flayed her alive, her skin peeled away in strips as she writhed in agony. Her cries grew weaker until finally, mercifully, they ceased.

I did not have the strength any more to weep for her, for the loss of another soul to the enemy's cruelty. My own suffering continued, but Fasha's death served as a grim reminder of the fate that awaited us all.

Chapter 7: The Cross

After days of relentless rape, the enemy warriors dragged me from the pen once more. This time, they had a different fate in store for me. They carried me to a hill overlooking the town, where a wooden cross lied on the ground surrounded by flowers. On the cross there were holes and dried blood from the previous victim. My heart sank as I realized their intention.

A priest came forward, announcing that this crucifixion was a offering to the god of war. If I would be still alive if the town would fall, I was to be spared as a reminder of the strength of the god of war.

They nailed me to the cross, each blow driving spikes of agony through my hands and feet. I screamed until my voice was hoarse, the pain unlike anything I had ever known. My vision blurred with tears, and I struggled to breathe as they hoisted the cross upright, leaving me suspended above the ground. They raised the cross and dropped more flowers at my feet. saying prayers to their god of war.

From my vantage point, I could see Daeborn's walls in the distance. The town was a shadow of its former self, the once-proud walls now battered and crumbling. The enemy forces had begun their final assault, the sound of battle reaching my ears from afar. I felt no pity for them any more, all my strength was drained from me. There was no more family alive any more, and they had cast me out to suffer this fate.

As I hung there, my body racked with pain, I watched helplessly as the enemy stormed the town. The defenders fought valiantly with their last trace of strength, but they were vastly outnumbered. One by one, they fell, their bodies littering the ground. The town's walls were scaled, and the enemy poured in like a flood from all sides.

The sight that followed was one of unimaginable horror. The enemy showed no mercy, cutting down anyone who stood in their way. Men, women, and children were slaughtered indiscriminately, their screams echoing through the streets. Blood flowed like water, staining the earth a deep crimson.

I closed my eyes, unable to bear the sight. The pain in my body was cruel. Daeborn was falling, and there was nothing I could do to stop it.

Hours passed, and the sounds of battle gradually died away. The town had fallen, and the enemy had claimed their victory. I hung limply from the cross, my strength nearly gone. The sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows over the devastated landscape.

Chapter 8: A Fate Worse Than Death

As the night deepened, I teetered on the edge of consciousness. My body was a mass of pain, my mind a fog of despair. Just when I thought death would finally claim me, a group of enemy warriors approached. They cut me down from the cross. They just mercilessly cut off my hands and feet, and I fell to the ground, my body a broken shell.

Through the haze of pain, I heard their voices, their words barely registering in my mind. "Take her to the healers," one of them said. "She has a purpose yet."

I was carried to a tent, where a healer tended to my wounds. The pain was excruciating as they cleaned and bandaged my injuries. I drifted in and out of consciousness, my mind struggling to make sense of what was happening.

When I finally awoke, I found myself in a makeshift infirmary. My hands and feet were gone, the stumps wrapped in bandages. I tried to sit up, but the pain was too much. A figure loomed over me, and I recognized him as Kablak, King Kadagh's right hand.

"Why?" I croaked, my voice barely more than a whisper. "Why am I still alive?"

Kablak's expression was one of cold detachment. "You are to serve as a living example," he said. "You will travel with our envoys and tell the people of other towns what happened here. You will show them what awaits those who defy King Kadagh."

His words sent a shiver of dread through me. I was to be a tool of fear, a broken, mutilated symbol of the enemy's power. I had survived the siege and the torture, only to face a fate worse than death.

Chapter 9: The Harbinger of Doom

The days that followed were a blur of pain and despair. I was kept alive, barely, my wounds tended to by enemy healers. My body was a constant reminder of my suffering, each movement a fresh wave of agony. I was given little food and water, just enough to keep me alive.

As I recovered, I was forced to listen to the tales of the enemy's conquests. They boasted of their victories, of the towns they had razed and the people they had slaughtered. My heart ached for the countless lives lost, for the families torn apart and the homes destroyed.

Eventually, I was brought before King Kadagh himself. He was a towering figure, his presence commanding and terrifying. His eyes bore into me, and I felt a shiver of fear.

"You will travel with my envoys," he said, his voice cold and unyielding. "You will tell the people of other towns what you have seen, what you have endured. You will be a warning to them, a reminder of the price of defiance."

I wanted to refuse, to scream my defiance at him, but I knew it would be futile. I was a prisoner, a tool to be used at his whim. My spirit was broken, my body a testament to his cruelty.

And so, I became the harbinger of doom. I traveled with the enemy envoys, my mutilated form a living testament to the horrors that awaited those who opposed King Kadagh. I spoke to the people of other towns, my voice hollow and broken, recounting the fall of Daeborn and the unimaginable suffering that followed.

Each time I told my tale, I saw the fear in their eyes, the despair that mirrored my own. I had become a weapon of terror, a living symbol of the enemy's power. And though my body was broken and my spirit shattered, I held on to a glimmer of hope. One day, I prayed, the people would rise up against King Kadagh and end his reign of terror.

Until then, I would endure. I would survive. I would be the voice of the fallen, a reminder of the price of defiance, and hopefully one day I would be a beacon of hope for those who still dared to dream of freedom.


End

 

[thecuriousone]

My latest story only has some crux elements. I hope you enjoy it.

Lexi getting rid of Lara

My name is Lexi, and I'm the kind of person who knows what she wants and doesn't mind getting her hands dirty to achieve it. I come from a wealthy family, the kind where inheritance can make or break your future. My older sister, Lana, always seemed like the perfect daughter – beautiful, smart, and so annoyingly virtuous. To everyone else, she was a saint. To me, she was an obstacle.

For years, I plotted and schemed in the recesses of my mind, dreaming of ways to ensure that I, not Lana, would inherit our parents' considerable assets. The plan that eventually took shape in my mind was as ruthless as it was brilliant. I would frame Lana for her own murder, make it look like she had a death wish, and then find someone to carry out the gruesome task.

I started by digging up Lana's old laptop, the one she had used during her university days before our parents bought her a new one. It took a bit of effort to crack the password, but a few educated guesses eventually got me in. Once inside, I made a profile on a dark fetish forum, the kind where people with the most twisted desires gathered to share their fantasies.

The profile I created was a mirror image of Lana, down to the smallest detail. I uploaded her picture, wrote as much as possible in her voice, and then began commenting on every post that depicted a cruel death. "I wish someone would do this to me," I typed, again and again, under different posts describing tortures and gruesome ends. I made sure my comments were enthusiastic, desperate even, to portray Lana as someone with a sick yearning for a brutal death.

The responses came flooding in, most of them advising me to seek help because they were concerned I would cross the line between fantasy and reality. But it didn't take long to catch the attention of someone who called himself Darksoul. He was everything I needed – eager, relentless, and above all, willing to take the bait. We started chatting regularly, our conversations growing darker and more detailed with each passing day.

Darksoul: I saw your comments. Are you really serious about this?

Lana (me): Absolutely. I've been fantasizing about it for years. I need someone who can make it real for me.

Darksoul: What exactly do you want?

Lana (me): I want to be overpowered, handcuffed, gagged and dragged away. I want to struggle and plead, but I don't want any mercy. I need you to be brutal, to make it feel real. And kill me any way you like.

Darksoul: I can do that. Tell me more about your fantasies.

Lana (me): I want you to start by inserting needles under my fingernails.

I wrote it all, the most cruel fantasies I could come up with, my words coming out in a rush. The more cruel, the better.

I want you to tear off my clothes and rape me, again and again, until I can't take it anymore. If you want, you can crucify me. Cut me, slice off pieces of my skin while I am crucified. Then, if you like, cut off my limbs, one by one, and watch as I bleed out. Finally, I want you to gut me like a fish, slicing open my belly and pulling out my intestines as I die a slow, painful death.

The more we talked, the more I shaped Darksoul’s understanding of "Lana’s" desires. I succesfully painted a vivid picture of abduction and torture, guiding him through the steps he would need to take. I described how I wanted to be taken while jogging, a routine Lana followed every Sunday morning. I provided him with her jogging route, timing, and even sent a recent photo to ensure he could identify her. Darksoul added various suggestions for torture himself, on which I replied that, once he had me under control, I could not stop him from doing what he wants.

Lana (me): Here's a picture. I usually wear my hair in a ponytail when I jog. I wear a black crop top and black leggings. I take the trail near the old bridge.

Darksoul: Okay, Lara. I can do that for you. But first, I need to make sure that you're ready for it. Are you sure you want to go through with this?

Lana (me): Yes, I'm sure. I want to feel the pain and the pleasure of it all. I want to experience something that no one else ever has before.

Darksoul: Got it. This Sunday?

Lana (me): Yes. I’ll be ready.

After that I shut down the laptop and wiped off my fingerprints. No one would link me to setting this up.

With everything set, all I had to do was ensure I had an airtight alibi. On the designated Sunday morning, I made sure I was with my parents, helping them in the garden. I played the part of the dutiful daughter, all the while knowing that Lana’s fate was sealed.

When Lana didn't return from her jog, our parents were frantic. I joined in their panic, playing the role of the concerned sister to perfection. The police were called, and a missing person report was filed. I stayed close to my parents, ensuring I was seen, heard, and deeply involved in the search efforts.

Days turned into weeks, and the police made a discovery on Lana’s old laptop. They found the dark fetish forum, the profile, the comments, and the chats. The evidence was damning, painting Lana as a willing participant in her own demise. I feigned shock and horror as I read through the chats, all the while savoring the irony of the situation.

The police’s conclusion was inevitable. They assumed that Lana had agreed to be murdered, and their search for Darksoul intensified. But he was a ghost, a phantom experienced in erasing his tracks, who had slipped through their fingers. Weeks later, parts of Lana’s mutilated body were discovered in a remote area, far from our home. The brutality of her death shocked everyone, but for me, it was a confirmation that my plan had succeeded.

As the investigation continued, I played my part to perfection. I mourned Lana publicly, shedding tears and expressing my grief at every opportunity. Behind closed doors, I reveled in my victory, knowing that I was now the sole heir to my parents’ fortune. The plan had been executed flawlessly, and I had no remorse. Lana had always been in my way, and now she was gone.

I often think about Darksoul, wondering where he is and what he’s doing. In a way, he was the perfect accomplice, though he never knew the full extent of his role in my scheme. As for me, I continue to live my life, secure in the knowledge that I got exactly what I wanted. And if anyone ever suspects me, they’ll find a grieving sister, a devastated daughter, and nothing more.

After all, who could ever believe that sweet, innocent Lexi could be capable of such a thing?

Months later I found a envelope from an unknown sender in the mailbox. I opened it out of curiosity. There was a photo attached, of Lara crucified. It gave me chills to the bone. This is what it said:

Hallo Lexi - or should I say Lara. I knew from the beginning that you set up your sister. Now that you are the heir of a fortune, I think you can afford to give me some of it in bitcoins. After all, you don't want the police to hear about this. Or you don't want me to go after you....


Have a nice day,


Darksoul.

 

[Zephirantes]

I wrote a story, still quite short but my longest so far. About a woman that chooses to crucify herself with a machine. With a pic that belongs to the story.

The crucifying machine in the park

in the park just south of to the city centre there is a machine for people that wish to end their life. It nails volunteers to a cross and hoists them high in the air, where they suffer for days while countless people watch them while they relax in the park. Most people don't understand why, but sometimes someone puts it to use. At the first monday of each month, the remains of crucyfied people, if any, are taken from their crosses and incinerated by the local authoritties. Until that time, bodies would be on display on their cross ten meters above the central square in the park.

One sunny afternoon, Mia sat on a bench in the park, her gaze fixated on the peculiar device that seemed to be a spectacle. The machine was a bizarre contraption; a wooden cross mounted on a sturdy steel pole. It had sturdy metal cuffs in open position, as if they were inviting you to put your limb in them. Various mechanics were connected to the cuffs, their purpose not clear to Mia. She had always been fascinated by it, but she never quite understood the purpose.

Only a couple of weeks ago Mia had moved to this city, after getting an office job that was completely unsatisfying. But the bills had to be paid, so she reluctantly endured the stress, the workload, and the constant negative feedback from her boss.

As Mia watched, a young woman approached the machine, her eyes full of resolution. She stepped out of her dress revealing a stunningly beautiful body, climbed onto the stainless steel cross, and placed her hands and feet against the automatic cuffs.

"This is it," the woman whispered to herself, her voice trembling with both fear and determination. The crowd had gathered in hushed whispers, their eyes fixed on her as if she were some kind of exotic beast. Mia couldn't help but feel a mix of sadness and curiosity as she observed the scene unfold.

With a final, deep breath, the young woman closed her eyes, her hands and feet clenching against the cold metal of the cuffs. A few moments later, the machine sprang to life with a low hum, and her body suddenly jerked off the cross, her arms and legs straightening and locked into place. Then the nails were driven into her hands and feet, and she was lifted high into the air. Her screams echoed through the park, but they were quickly drowned out by the murmur of the crowd.

Mia couldn't look away, her curiosity turning into a morbid fascination. She watched as the young woman writhed in agony, her body strung up as if crucified. The hydraulic rams worked in unison, raising her higher and higher into the sky.

While the afternoon turned into evening, the young woman's screams grew fainter, and her body began to show signs of fatigue. But still, she endured, her eyes closed tight and her body trembling.

Even with all her whits Mia couldn't understand the reason behind this bizarre spectacle, but she couldn't tear herself away. She sat there, watching as the young woman's torment continued, her eyes fixed on the peculiar view.

Mia had to leave the park eventually, as the sun began to set and darkness enveloped the city, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this machine, and the woman's painful ordeal, would haunt her dreams for days to come. The sight of the girl's suffering and the casual indifference of the crowd that gathered to watch her grapple with her demons left Mia with a profound sense of disillusionment.

As she walked away from the park, the city began to seem stranger and more alien to her. The people bustling around her seemed to have a darkness in their eyes, a hidden pain that they could not escape. It was as if the machine in the park had somehow revealed the true nature of the world, and Mia was left questioning everything she had ever known.

The next day Mia passed the park early morning, when going to work. She could not resist to make a short detour, to visit the machine. Almost no people were around, just someone walking his dog, oblivious of what had happened the day before. To her surprise, the woman still hung on the cross, seemingly lifeless. Mia approached to take a closer look. Suddenly, the woman opened her eyes.

"Are you okay?" Mia asked cautiously, her voice barely audible as she moved closer to the woman. The woman didn't respond, but she gave Mia a faint smile. There was something in her eyes that Mia couldn't quite place. It was a mixture of pain, determination, and deep sadness. “Why did you do this?”

“I've lived a life of suffering and despair. This isn't an easy decision, but I've had enough. I chose this because I wanted to take control of my final moments. The crowd, the pain...it's all part of my journey. I don't expect you to understand, but I wanted to do this in a way that was...public. A statement, perhaps. To show that even in our darkest moments, we can still find the strength to endure."

Mia couldn't believe what she was hearing. She had been so affected by the spectacle that she had never stop to consider the woman's perspective. The woman's determination and resilience were both terrifying and admirable.

"I don't know if I can accept this," Mia said, her voice quivering. "But I won't just walk away from you. Will you do something for me? That you'll tell me your name, so I can pray for you?"

The woman's smile grew a little more genuine as she replied, "My name is Adria. I know it might be hard for you to understand, but I appreciate your concern. Please, just remember that we all have our own battles to fight, and sometimes, the ones we fight might not be visible to those around us." Mia nodded solemnly, feeling a strange sense of connection to this woman she had just met. She took one last look at Adria before turning to leave the park, feeling changed by the encounter. As she walked away, she couldn't shake the thought of Adria hanging on the cross, enduring her painful ordeal in a way that seemed so foreign to her own life.

Over the next few days, Mia found herself returning to the park to check on Adria. Every time, she was surprised to see her still hanging there, her body pale and weak but her spirit unbroken. She never spoke to Mia, but their silent connection grew stronger with each passing day.

One morning, as Mia approached the park, she saw something that made her heart skip a beat. Adria's body was limp, and her eyes were closed. She had not moved in hours. Fear and panic filled Mia's chest. She raced to the base of the contraption, her hands shaking hoped against all odds to see a sign of life. There was none.

As Mia stood there, her heart heavy with sadness, she couldn't help but feel a sense of closure. She had come to understand the woman's reason for choosing such an extreme method of ending her life, even if she couldn't fully comprehend it.

As Mia watched the crowd go about their business, seemingly oblivious to what had happened, she felt a sense of disconnect. She couldn't help but wonder how they could not care at about Adria’s fate.

Mia stood there for a while, watching the world go by, feeling like an outsider in this strange city. She couldn't shake the feeling that the world had changed. She turned to leave, feeling like she needed to go back to her own life but also feeling the weight of Adria's story and her own disillusionment.

As Mia left the park, she didn't know what to think. She had never witnessed anything quite like it. She felt like she had been given a glimpse into a world she had never seen before, a world of pain and suffering that was hidden beneath the surface. She couldn't help but feel like she had been forever changed by her encounter with Adria.

In the days that followed, Mia found herself thinking about Adria a lot. She couldn't stop wondering why someone would want to subject themselves to such pain and suffering in order to find some sort of release.

But also she wondered what it would feel like to do the same herself.

As the days passed, Mia found herself returning to the park more frequently, drawn to the spot where Adria had hung. Each time, she hoped to see some sign of movement from the still figure. But it remained as she had left it, a silent reminder of the brutal spectacle she had witnessed.

Mia tried to push the thoughts of Adria from her mind, but they continued to haunt her. She found herself sneaking glances at strangers, wondering if they too were hiding a secret pain. She began to see the world in a new light, one where the facade of normalcy concealed a multitude of suffering. Again and again she thought about using the machine to crucify herself.

Summer turned into autumn, followed by a dark, unpleasant winter until the springtime came. Mia's job drained her, as the bitch that somehow obtained the right to call herself boss found again and again new ways to make Mia and other people feel useless. The dark thoughts of self-inflicted suffering kept on creeping back into her mind. Every evening, she found herself walking past the park and couldn't resist the urge to visit the machine, hoping to find some solace.

However, she was unable to shake them off. Instead, the dreams became only stronger every day until she could not think about anything else any more. She couldn't stop considering how it would be if she could just end the pain and suffering she felt inside. And yet, she also felt a sense of fascination with the machine, as if it represented a way out of the darkness that she couldn't escape.

One day, as she was sitting in her office, Mia found herself daydreaming about the machine and Adria. She imagined herself lying on the cold metal surface, the ropes pulling tight around her wrists and ankles. The pain would be excruciating, but the sensation of being lifted high into the sky would be exhilarating.

As her thoughts became more vivid, Mia found herself logging out, getting up and telling her boss: Ï don’t feel well, miss Walker. I better take the day off and go home to take some sleep.” A very unfriendly remark about her attitude from her boss, but it did not touch her any more. She was already underway out of the office.

Mia was glad to leave her office and found herself taking the long way towards the park where she had witnessed Adria's crucifixion. She was resolved to get herself crucified. There it was, dominating the square in the middle of the park. Her looming doom.

As Mia approached the machine, she felt a strange sense of calm wash over her. It was as if this was her destiny, and there was no turning back. She could hear the voices of those around her, but they seemed distant, as if they were speaking from a different world.

With determination in her eyes, Mia discarded her clothes, stepped onto the machine that would be her destruction, and placed herself into the indicated position. She could feel the cold steel restraints at the back of her hands, but the sensation only fueled her desire to experience the pain and suffering that Adria had endured.

As the restraints tightened with a loud click, readjusting her limbs to fit exactly in the restraints with irresistable power, she felt a strange sense of exhilaration and release. For the first time in what felt like forever, she was taking control of her life, her fate. She felt a rush of energy coursing through her veins as she struggled against the unrelenting metal cuffs, twisting and turning and somehow feeling just right.

A crowd had gathered around the machine, murmuring and whispering among themselves. Mia could hear them, but she refused to acknowledge them. She focused on her goal, her determination unwavering.

It was then, as she felt the nails penetrate her skin with another loud click, and the cross started to raise upwards, that she experienced a sense of euphoria. The pain was intense, but it was a pain she chose, a pain she controlled. It was difficult to breathe, but she felt as if she were free while restrained, as if she were finally escaping the darkness that had consumed her.

As her body hung there, she closed her eyes and let go. She was no longer Mia, she was just a spectacle, a statement, a reminder that even in our darkest moments, we can find the strength to endure, to fight, to make a choice.

When the cross was raised in the air the crowd watched in awe, some horrified, some fascinated. Some recording everything on their phones. But Mia’s connection with them was gone. They meant nothing to her any more. She didn't care that she would be all over social media. She was free. She would never have to face the pain and suffering of this world again. She was joining Adria in a place where there was no more darkness, only light.

That evening there was a performance at a stage on the other side of the park. She could hear the music in the distance, and see the people dancing and being happy. It was chilly, and she was high enough in the air to be fully exposed, and feel the cold wind drain all warmth from her exposed body.

As Mia hung there, her body growing colder and limp, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. She had finally overcome the darkness that had consumed her for so long. The world below seemed distant and unimportant now – a place where people danced and laughed, while she soared above it all, in pain but also free from her pain.

Mia's spirit soared, her mind filled with images of Adria's crucifixion. She had shown her how to find the strength to endure, to fight, and to make a choice – even if it meant taking her own life. In that moment, Mia knew it was the only way she could truly escape the torment that had plagued her for so long.

The crowd below began to disperse,leaving behind just some rubble, empty beer cans, and the occasional homeless junkie finding a spot to use his means to escape from the real world.

As the night wore on, Mia's body began to lose feeling. Her fingers and toes tingled, then numbed, and she became overwhelmingly tired. But she could not rest, she had to lift her body up again and again to make breathing easier.

She closed her eyes for some time, and when she opened them she noticed the sun began to rise. Maybe just a normal sunrise, but for Mia it was the most beautiful spectacle. She knew that she would possibly not see another sunrise. Mia's body grew colder still. Her skin felt like it was made of ice, and her breaths came faster and shallower. She wondered how long it would take, before her time would be up.

Down below in the park, the day started, Cleaners collected the trash from the day before, people walked their dogs and the junkies left to hassle some money to score another hit. the sun became warmer, a promising spring day. Some birds sang from the trees, occasionally landing in the grass to pick something to eat. Once, a dove landed on the cross. Mia wanted to touch it. So close, but, restrained as Mia was, so far out of reach.

For a while, Mia let herself drift in that place between life and death. The sun continued its ascent, gaining in strength and warming her up. As the world below slowly came back to life, she remained suspended, a silent witness to the cycle of life and death that unfolded around her.

The doves continued to cricle around the cross, their wings sometimes brushing against her icy skin. She tried to reach out to them, to touch their softness and warmth. But it was an impossible task, one she knew she would never be able to complete.

As the morning wore on, it became hotter and hotter. Her pale skin was fully exposed to the mercyless sunbeams, no sunblock to protect her. After a couple of hours her skin felt like it was on fire, but she was determined to make it through the day. Something was adding to her lack of comfort, the more and more urgent need to pee. There was only one resolve, just let it go. She heard someone shouting: “Look at her, she peed herself!” Now she felt utterly humiliated.

In the evening her skin was red as a lobster, her throat was like leather from dehydration and she had no feeling at all in her arms anymore.

Suddenly she heard a voice she recognized from below. It was her boss, the horrible Miss Walker. “So here you are Mia. Now I know why you did not show up at work. And it is so difficult nowadays to hire competent people. Not that you were competent by the way. Anyway, you’re fired, Mia. I think you will not be able to clear out your desk in person, so I will do that for you tomorrow. Have a great night on your cross and goodbye Mia.

Mia wanted to shout some insults towards her heartless boss, but, dehydrated as she was, her voice refused.

She mustered the last of her strength to utter a final, hoarse retort. "Adria, wherever you are, I hope you're proud of me." With that, she closed her eyes and let the sun's rays wash over her, ready to surrender to the inevitable.

As the night fell over the park, Mia's body slowly grew colder, her breaths shallow and weak. The birds had long since departed for the safety of their nests, leaving behind only the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

In the distance, the sound of laughter and music from the bars nearby could still faintly be heard, but it was muted now, as if muffled by a thick veil of mist. Mia's spirit, too, felt distant and remote, drifting away from the world below like a ghost.

Then she heard a familiar voice again. “Mia! Is that you??? What are you doing up there.” It was her best friend Jenny. Mia tried to say something, but could not. She just looked at Jenny, standing below her cross hand in hand with the man she was currently dating. “Why did you do this?” Jenny looked sad. “It’s too late now. I hope you don’t suffer too much. Farewell Mia.” With tears in her eyes, Jenny turned around and walked off with her lover.

In that moment, Mia felt a deep sadness wash over her, knowing that her friend would never understand. She could only watch helplessly as Jenny disappeared from her sight, becoming just another speck in the distance.

The cool night air began to replace the heat of the day, and Mia's body grew colder still. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift, thinking of all the times she and Jenny had shared, the laughter, the tears, and the pain. In her mind's eye, she saw Jenny's face one last time, etched with sadness and confusion as she turned away.

As Mia swayed on the cross, the crowd below slowly thinned out, leaving only a few remaining onlookers. They whispered to one another, trying to make sense of what they had witnessed. Some were visibly shaken, while others simply turned away, their curiosity sated.

In the quietness of the deserted park, Mia’s body swayed on her cross in the cold wind, but she barely noticed anything anymore. The night was just a haze to her mind.

She opened her eyes and noticed that she had survived another night, it was morning again. Her mind drifted away again. Then she heard wings flapping. A crow has landed on her shoulder. She was too weak to try to chase it away. It started picking at her eyes. Mia tried to swipe at the crow, but her weakened arms could not escape the restraints. The pain from the pecking was overwhelming, but her tired body couldn't bring herself to struggle.

She remained suspended, a blinded, silent witness to the new day as another crow landed on her and started tearing a piece of her flesh. She hoped for it all to end soon.
Let it end.
Let it end.
......

During the day several crows picked at her, mutilating her dying body. By the evening she was unrecognizable. But she did not notice any more. She was together with Adria in the next world.

This is a very, very emotional story.

Je dis bravo.

 

[nailed girl]

I wrote a story, still quite short but my longest so far. About a woman that chooses to crucify herself with a machine. With a pic that belongs to the story.

The crucifying machine in the park

in the park just south of to the city centre there is a machine for people that wish to end their life. It nails volunteers to a cross and hoists them high in the air, where they suffer for days while countless people watch them while they relax in the park. Most people don't understand why, but sometimes someone puts it to use. At the first monday of each month, the remains of crucyfied people, if any, are taken from their crosses and incinerated by the local authoritties. Until that time, bodies would be on display on their cross ten meters above the central square in the park.

One sunny afternoon, Mia sat on a bench in the park, her gaze fixated on the peculiar device that seemed to be a spectacle. The machine was a bizarre contraption; a wooden cross mounted on a sturdy steel pole. It had sturdy metal cuffs in open position, as if they were inviting you to put your limb in them. Various mechanics were connected to the cuffs, their purpose not clear to Mia. She had always been fascinated by it, but she never quite understood the purpose.

Only a couple of weeks ago Mia had moved to this city, after getting an office job that was completely unsatisfying. But the bills had to be paid, so she reluctantly endured the stress, the workload, and the constant negative feedback from her boss.

As Mia watched, a young woman approached the machine, her eyes full of resolution. She stepped out of her dress revealing a stunningly beautiful body, climbed onto the stainless steel cross, and placed her hands and feet against the automatic cuffs.

"This is it," the woman whispered to herself, her voice trembling with both fear and determination. The crowd had gathered in hushed whispers, their eyes fixed on her as if she were some kind of exotic beast. Mia couldn't help but feel a mix of sadness and curiosity as she observed the scene unfold.

With a final, deep breath, the young woman closed her eyes, her hands and feet clenching against the cold metal of the cuffs. A few moments later, the machine sprang to life with a low hum, and her body suddenly jerked off the cross, her arms and legs straightening and locked into place. Then the nails were driven into her hands and feet, and she was lifted high into the air. Her screams echoed through the park, but they were quickly drowned out by the murmur of the crowd.

Mia couldn't look away, her curiosity turning into a morbid fascination. She watched as the young woman writhed in agony, her body strung up as if crucified. The hydraulic rams worked in unison, raising her higher and higher into the sky.

While the afternoon turned into evening, the young woman's screams grew fainter, and her body began to show signs of fatigue. But still, she endured, her eyes closed tight and her body trembling.

Even with all her whits Mia couldn't understand the reason behind this bizarre spectacle, but she couldn't tear herself away. She sat there, watching as the young woman's torment continued, her eyes fixed on the peculiar view.

Mia had to leave the park eventually, as the sun began to set and darkness enveloped the city, but she couldn't shake the feeling that this machine, and the woman's painful ordeal, would haunt her dreams for days to come. The sight of the girl's suffering and the casual indifference of the crowd that gathered to watch her grapple with her demons left Mia with a profound sense of disillusionment.

As she walked away from the park, the city began to seem stranger and more alien to her. The people bustling around her seemed to have a darkness in their eyes, a hidden pain that they could not escape. It was as if the machine in the park had somehow revealed the true nature of the world, and Mia was left questioning everything she had ever known.

The next day Mia passed the park early morning, when going to work. She could not resist to make a short detour, to visit the machine. Almost no people were around, just someone walking his dog, oblivious of what had happened the day before. To her surprise, the woman still hung on the cross, seemingly lifeless. Mia approached to take a closer look. Suddenly, the woman opened her eyes.

"Are you okay?" Mia asked cautiously, her voice barely audible as she moved closer to the woman. The woman didn't respond, but she gave Mia a faint smile. There was something in her eyes that Mia couldn't quite place. It was a mixture of pain, determination, and deep sadness. “Why did you do this?”

“I've lived a life of suffering and despair. This isn't an easy decision, but I've had enough. I chose this because I wanted to take control of my final moments. The crowd, the pain...it's all part of my journey. I don't expect you to understand, but I wanted to do this in a way that was...public. A statement, perhaps. To show that even in our darkest moments, we can still find the strength to endure."

Mia couldn't believe what she was hearing. She had been so affected by the spectacle that she had never stop to consider the woman's perspective. The woman's determination and resilience were both terrifying and admirable.

"I don't know if I can accept this," Mia said, her voice quivering. "But I won't just walk away from you. Will you do something for me? That you'll tell me your name, so I can pray for you?"

The woman's smile grew a little more genuine as she replied, "My name is Adria. I know it might be hard for you to understand, but I appreciate your concern. Please, just remember that we all have our own battles to fight, and sometimes, the ones we fight might not be visible to those around us." Mia nodded solemnly, feeling a strange sense of connection to this woman she had just met. She took one last look at Adria before turning to leave the park, feeling changed by the encounter. As she walked away, she couldn't shake the thought of Adria hanging on the cross, enduring her painful ordeal in a way that seemed so foreign to her own life.

Over the next few days, Mia found herself returning to the park to check on Adria. Every time, she was surprised to see her still hanging there, her body pale and weak but her spirit unbroken. She never spoke to Mia, but their silent connection grew stronger with each passing day.

One morning, as Mia approached the park, she saw something that made her heart skip a beat. Adria's body was limp, and her eyes were closed. She had not moved in hours. Fear and panic filled Mia's chest. She raced to the base of the contraption, her hands shaking hoped against all odds to see a sign of life. There was none.

As Mia stood there, her heart heavy with sadness, she couldn't help but feel a sense of closure. She had come to understand the woman's reason for choosing such an extreme method of ending her life, even if she couldn't fully comprehend it.

As Mia watched the crowd go about their business, seemingly oblivious to what had happened, she felt a sense of disconnect. She couldn't help but wonder how they could not care at about Adria’s fate.

Mia stood there for a while, watching the world go by, feeling like an outsider in this strange city. She couldn't shake the feeling that the world had changed. She turned to leave, feeling like she needed to go back to her own life but also feeling the weight of Adria's story and her own disillusionment.

As Mia left the park, she didn't know what to think. She had never witnessed anything quite like it. She felt like she had been given a glimpse into a world she had never seen before, a world of pain and suffering that was hidden beneath the surface. She couldn't help but feel like she had been forever changed by her encounter with Adria.

In the days that followed, Mia found herself thinking about Adria a lot. She couldn't stop wondering why someone would want to subject themselves to such pain and suffering in order to find some sort of release.

But also she wondered what it would feel like to do the same herself.

As the days passed, Mia found herself returning to the park more frequently, drawn to the spot where Adria had hung. Each time, she hoped to see some sign of movement from the still figure. But it remained as she had left it, a silent reminder of the brutal spectacle she had witnessed.

Mia tried to push the thoughts of Adria from her mind, but they continued to haunt her. She found herself sneaking glances at strangers, wondering if they too were hiding a secret pain. She began to see the world in a new light, one where the facade of normalcy concealed a multitude of suffering. Again and again she thought about using the machine to crucify herself.

Summer turned into autumn, followed by a dark, unpleasant winter until the springtime came. Mia's job drained her, as the bitch that somehow obtained the right to call herself boss found again and again new ways to make Mia and other people feel useless. The dark thoughts of self-inflicted suffering kept on creeping back into her mind. Every evening, she found herself walking past the park and couldn't resist the urge to visit the machine, hoping to find some solace.

However, she was unable to shake them off. Instead, the dreams became only stronger every day until she could not think about anything else any more. She couldn't stop considering how it would be if she could just end the pain and suffering she felt inside. And yet, she also felt a sense of fascination with the machine, as if it represented a way out of the darkness that she couldn't escape.

One day, as she was sitting in her office, Mia found herself daydreaming about the machine and Adria. She imagined herself lying on the cold metal surface, the ropes pulling tight around her wrists and ankles. The pain would be excruciating, but the sensation of being lifted high into the sky would be exhilarating.

As her thoughts became more vivid, Mia found herself logging out, getting up and telling her boss: Ï don’t feel well, miss Walker. I better take the day off and go home to take some sleep.” A very unfriendly remark about her attitude from her boss, but it did not touch her any more. She was already underway out of the office.

Mia was glad to leave her office and found herself taking the long way towards the park where she had witnessed Adria's crucifixion. She was resolved to get herself crucified. There it was, dominating the square in the middle of the park. Her looming doom.

As Mia approached the machine, she felt a strange sense of calm wash over her. It was as if this was her destiny, and there was no turning back. She could hear the voices of those around her, but they seemed distant, as if they were speaking from a different world.

With determination in her eyes, Mia discarded her clothes, stepped onto the machine that would be her destruction, and placed herself into the indicated position. She could feel the cold steel restraints at the back of her hands, but the sensation only fueled her desire to experience the pain and suffering that Adria had endured.

As the restraints tightened with a loud click, readjusting her limbs to fit exactly in the restraints with irresistable power, she felt a strange sense of exhilaration and release. For the first time in what felt like forever, she was taking control of her life, her fate. She felt a rush of energy coursing through her veins as she struggled against the unrelenting metal cuffs, twisting and turning and somehow feeling just right.

A crowd had gathered around the machine, murmuring and whispering among themselves. Mia could hear them, but she refused to acknowledge them. She focused on her goal, her determination unwavering.

It was then, as she felt the nails penetrate her skin with another loud click, and the cross started to raise upwards, that she experienced a sense of euphoria. The pain was intense, but it was a pain she chose, a pain she controlled. It was difficult to breathe, but she felt as if she were free while restrained, as if she were finally escaping the darkness that had consumed her.

As her body hung there, she closed her eyes and let go. She was no longer Mia, she was just a spectacle, a statement, a reminder that even in our darkest moments, we can find the strength to endure, to fight, to make a choice.

When the cross was raised in the air the crowd watched in awe, some horrified, some fascinated. Some recording everything on their phones. But Mia’s connection with them was gone. They meant nothing to her any more. She didn't care that she would be all over social media. She was free. She would never have to face the pain and suffering of this world again. She was joining Adria in a place where there was no more darkness, only light.

That evening there was a performance at a stage on the other side of the park. She could hear the music in the distance, and see the people dancing and being happy. It was chilly, and she was high enough in the air to be fully exposed, and feel the cold wind drain all warmth from her exposed body.

As Mia hung there, her body growing colder and limp, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. She had finally overcome the darkness that had consumed her for so long. The world below seemed distant and unimportant now – a place where people danced and laughed, while she soared above it all, in pain but also free from her pain.

Mia's spirit soared, her mind filled with images of Adria's crucifixion. She had shown her how to find the strength to endure, to fight, and to make a choice – even if it meant taking her own life. In that moment, Mia knew it was the only way she could truly escape the torment that had plagued her for so long.

The crowd below began to disperse,leaving behind just some rubble, empty beer cans, and the occasional homeless junkie finding a spot to use his means to escape from the real world.

As the night wore on, Mia's body began to lose feeling. Her fingers and toes tingled, then numbed, and she became overwhelmingly tired. But she could not rest, she had to lift her body up again and again to make breathing easier.

She closed her eyes for some time, and when she opened them she noticed the sun began to rise. Maybe just a normal sunrise, but for Mia it was the most beautiful spectacle. She knew that she would possibly not see another sunrise. Mia's body grew colder still. Her skin felt like it was made of ice, and her breaths came faster and shallower. She wondered how long it would take, before her time would be up.

Down below in the park, the day started, Cleaners collected the trash from the day before, people walked their dogs and the junkies left to hassle some money to score another hit. the sun became warmer, a promising spring day. Some birds sang from the trees, occasionally landing in the grass to pick something to eat. Once, a dove landed on the cross. Mia wanted to touch it. So close, but, restrained as Mia was, so far out of reach.

For a while, Mia let herself drift in that place between life and death. The sun continued its ascent, gaining in strength and warming her up. As the world below slowly came back to life, she remained suspended, a silent witness to the cycle of life and death that unfolded around her.

The doves continued to cricle around the cross, their wings sometimes brushing against her icy skin. She tried to reach out to them, to touch their softness and warmth. But it was an impossible task, one she knew she would never be able to complete.

As the morning wore on, it became hotter and hotter. Her pale skin was fully exposed to the mercyless sunbeams, no sunblock to protect her. After a couple of hours her skin felt like it was on fire, but she was determined to make it through the day. Something was adding to her lack of comfort, the more and more urgent need to pee. There was only one resolve, just let it go. She heard someone shouting: “Look at her, she peed herself!” Now she felt utterly humiliated.

In the evening her skin was red as a lobster, her throat was like leather from dehydration and she had no feeling at all in her arms anymore.

Suddenly she heard a voice she recognized from below. It was her boss, the horrible Miss Walker. “So here you are Mia. Now I know why you did not show up at work. And it is so difficult nowadays to hire competent people. Not that you were competent by the way. Anyway, you’re fired, Mia. I think you will not be able to clear out your desk in person, so I will do that for you tomorrow. Have a great night on your cross and goodbye Mia.

Mia wanted to shout some insults towards her heartless boss, but, dehydrated as she was, her voice refused.

She mustered the last of her strength to utter a final, hoarse retort. "Adria, wherever you are, I hope you're proud of me." With that, she closed her eyes and let the sun's rays wash over her, ready to surrender to the inevitable.

As the night fell over the park, Mia's body slowly grew colder, her breaths shallow and weak. The birds had long since departed for the safety of their nests, leaving behind only the faint rustle of leaves in the breeze.

In the distance, the sound of laughter and music from the bars nearby could still faintly be heard, but it was muted now, as if muffled by a thick veil of mist. Mia's spirit, too, felt distant and remote, drifting away from the world below like a ghost.

Then she heard a familiar voice again. “Mia! Is that you??? What are you doing up there.” It was her best friend Jenny. Mia tried to say something, but could not. She just looked at Jenny, standing below her cross hand in hand with the man she was currently dating. “Why did you do this?” Jenny looked sad. “It’s too late now. I hope you don’t suffer too much. Farewell Mia.” With tears in her eyes, Jenny turned around and walked off with her lover.

In that moment, Mia felt a deep sadness wash over her, knowing that her friend would never understand. She could only watch helplessly as Jenny disappeared from her sight, becoming just another speck in the distance.

The cool night air began to replace the heat of the day, and Mia's body grew colder still. She closed her eyes and let her mind drift, thinking of all the times she and Jenny had shared, the laughter, the tears, and the pain. In her mind's eye, she saw Jenny's face one last time, etched with sadness and confusion as she turned away.

As Mia swayed on the cross, the crowd below slowly thinned out, leaving only a few remaining onlookers. They whispered to one another, trying to make sense of what they had witnessed. Some were visibly shaken, while others simply turned away, their curiosity sated.

In the quietness of the deserted park, Mia’s body swayed on her cross in the cold wind, but she barely noticed anything anymore. The night was just a haze to her mind.

She opened her eyes and noticed that she had survived another night, it was morning again. Her mind drifted away again. Then she heard wings flapping. A crow has landed on her shoulder. She was too weak to try to chase it away. It started picking at her eyes. Mia tried to swipe at the crow, but her weakened arms could not escape the restraints. The pain from the pecking was overwhelming, but her tired body couldn't bring herself to struggle.

She remained suspended, a blinded, silent witness to the new day as another crow landed on her and started tearing a piece of her flesh. She hoped for it all to end soon.
Let it end.
Let it end.
......

During the day several crows picked at her, mutilating her dying body. By the evening she was unrecognizable. But she did not notice any more. She was together with Adria in the next world.

every park must have a crux mashine, that was awesome

 

[thecuriousone]

every park must have a crux mashine, that was awesome

An amazing idea, but only feasible in a dystopia.

 

[nailed girl]

yes, be curios how many woman would use these mashines
in that dystopia world ,maybe more than expected

 

[thecuriousone]

yes, be curios how many woman would use these mashines
in that dystopia world ,maybe more than expected

If you wish to end your life and enjoy a lot of pain, or you like to end your life and get a lot of attention, it would be a really good thing.

 

[thecuriousone]

A new story about a woman who is raised to be sacrificed. Besides crucifixion, it contains cannibalism, torture and various other executions. Thanks to chat gpt for helping to create this story.

Madeka's sacrifice

Chapter 1: The Life of Shadows

From my earliest memories, my existence has been shadowed by the singular purpose that awaits me. My name is Madeka, and I am part of a group of slave women raised from birth to be sacrificed on our eighteenth birthday. Within the Enclave, we know nothing else. Our lives are a strict regimen of training and preparation, ensuring we are ready to fulfill our destiny. The belief that our spirits will be prosperous in the afterlife, and that our sacrifice is necessary for the survival and prosperity of the cannibal community, is deeply ingrained in us.

The Enclave is a place of routine and discipline. The Sisterhood, our overseers, guide us through every aspect of our lives. They are stern and detached, ensuring we understand the importance of our role. Each day is meticulously planned, from physical training to mental conditioning. We learn to endure pain, to find peace in suffering, and to embrace our fate with grace.

Growing up, the other girls and I formed close bonds. We are each other's family, united by our shared destiny. Our conversations often revolve around the sacrifices we have witnessed and our own impending fate. We find comfort in each other's company, a shared strength that helps us endure the harsh realities of our existence.

One of my closest friends is Elara. She is 2 months younger than me and has a calm, steady presence that I find comforting. We spend countless hours together, discussing our fears and hopes. Elara has a way of making the impending sacrifice seem less daunting. She often says, "Madeka, think of it as a passage, a journey to a better place. Our spirits will be free, and we will find peace in the afterlife."

Elara's words stay with me, offering solace and encouragement. I begin to see our sacrifice not as an end but as a transition to a more prosperous existence. It is a performance, a final act of faith and courage. We are not victims; we are chosen ones, destined to embrace our fate with dignity and strength.

Chapter 2: Witness to Sacrifice

The first sacrifice I witness is when I am ten years old. The girl on the altar is named Liora. She is serene, her face a mask of calm acceptance as she faces her fate. The ritual is brutal and methodical, a testament to the community's deep-rooted traditions. Liora is bound to a wooden frame, her body stretched taut.

The Sisterhood begins the ritual with a chant, their voices a haunting melody that echoes through the Enclave. The crowd watches in silence, their eyes filled with a mixture of reverence and anticipation. The first cut is made, a deep incision along Liora's abdomen. She does not cry out, her resolve unwavering. The Sisterhood works with precision, removing her organs one by one, each extraction accompanied by a chant.

Liora's face remains composed, her eyes filled with a strange, serene acceptance. It is a powerful display of strength and faith, a testament to the training and conditioning we have all undergone. As her body is dissected, the smell of blood and burning flesh fills the air. The crowd watches in awe, their faces reflecting a mixture of horror and reverence.

Once the disembowelment is complete, Liora's body is prepared for roasting. Her limbs are carefully removed and arranged on a large grill, the flames licking at her flesh. The smell of roasting meat fills the Enclave, a stark reminder of the community's dependence on our sacrifices. The crowd gathers around the roasting pits, their eyes filled with hunger and reverence.

The feast that follows is a solemn and reverent affair. The community consumes Liora's flesh, drawing nourishment from her body. It is a cycle of life and death, a brutal yet sacred tradition that binds us all together. Liora's sacrifice is a reminder of the strength and resilience required to face our fate, a lesson that stays with me as I prepare for my own journey to the cross.

Chapter 3: Cruelty Unveiled

As the years pass, I witness the sacrifices of other girls, each one unique in its cruelty and significance. These rituals are designed to instill in us a deep understanding of our role, a reminder of the importance of our sacrifice. The sight of a girl's final moments, her body offered to the flames, is a powerful lesson in endurance and faith.

One of the most impactful sacrifices I witness is that of Zara. She is known for her strength and resilience, qualities that are evident even in her final moments. Her sacrifice is a slow and excruciating process. Zara is bound to a wooden frame and methodically flayed alive, her skin peeled away in strips to reveal the raw flesh beneath. The sight is horrifying, yet Zara's resolve never wavers. She remains stoic, her eyes fixed on the horizon, her mind focused on transcending the pain. Her bravery leaves an indelible mark on me, reinforcing the importance of endurance and mental fortitude.

Another memorable sacrifice is that of Amina. Her ritual is particularly cruel, involving a prolonged process of dismemberment. Amina is tied to a stone slab, her limbs slowly removed one by one. Each amputation is precise, the pain excruciating. Despite the unimaginable agony, Amina's face remains composed, her eyes filled with a strange, serene acceptance. It is a powerful display of strength and faith, a testament to the training and conditioning we have all undergone.

These sacrifices are not just about the physical pain but about the mental and emotional strength required to endure such suffering. We are taught that our final moments are a gift to the community, a necessary act of sustenance and survival. The cannibal community depends on our flesh for nourishment, our pain for inspiration. It is a cycle of life and death, a brutal yet sacred tradition that binds us all together.

It is not for granted that the sacrifice is worthy. Around my seventeenth birthday, a girl named Mosi, curse her soul, lacks the courage to bear her ordeal in dignity. Upon impaling her she howls like a monkey in the claws of a lion, invoking the wrath of the protecting gods. Before the rainy season starts, a large raiding party of the Mor Mor invade our lands. They manage to ambush a force of our proud warriors, who, lacking the favour of the gods, flee like impalas. A dozen villages are looted, everybody who can not escape is either killed or dragged away as slaves. They only leave our lands after a large tribute is paid in the form of livestock and slaves.

As my own eighteenth birthday approaches, the reality of my impending sacrifice becomes more tangible. The anticipation is a mixture of fear and excitement, a potent blend that keeps me on edge. I am determined to honor the examples set by Liora, Zara, Amina, and the others, to face my fate with the same strength and dignity.

Chapter 4: Doubts and Despair

In the weeks leading up to my eighteenth birthday, my mind is a whirlwind of emotions. The reality of my impending sacrifice weighs heavily on me, and despite the years of conditioning, doubts and fears begin to surface. I spend countless hours in quiet contemplation, struggling to reconcile my beliefs with the terror that gnaws at my heart.

Elara remains a steadfast presence, offering words of comfort and encouragement. "Madeka, remember what we've been taught. Our spirits will be free, and we will find peace in the afterlife. This is our destiny, and we must embrace it with courage."

Despite her words, the fear lingers. I confide in some of the other girls, seeking solace in our shared fate. We talk late into the night, our conversations filled with a mixture of hope and despair. Each of us grapples with our own fears, finding strength in the knowledge that we are not alone.

One evening, as I sit with Elara and a few other girls, I voice my deepest fear. "What if I scream? What if I fail to bear it in silence, and become an unworthy sacrifice?"

Elara places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "You won't fail, Madeka. We've been trained for this. But if you're truly worried, there is a way to ensure you remain silent."

Her words hang in the air, heavy with implication. I know what she means. The severing of vocal cords is a drastic measure, but it is an option. It would guarantee my silence, ensuring I meet my fate with the dignity and composure expected of us.

After days of contemplation, I make my decision. I approach Sister Amara, the head of the Sisterhood, and request the procedure. She looks at me with a mixture of surprise and respect. "Are you certain, Madeka? This is a significant step."

I nod, my resolve firm. "I am certain. I want to ensure I give a worthy performance."

The procedure is carried out the following day. I am bound to a wooden frame, and my mouth is forced open by placing a wide tube in it. The community's healer, Kabara, routinely inserts her special blade in my throat and takes my voice with a couple of precise cuts. The pain is sharp and immediate, but it is nothing compared to the fear that had plagued me. As the days after the surgery pass, I adapt to my new reality, communicating through gestures with the others. The other girls offer their support, their admiration for my decision evident.

Chapter 5: The Final Days

With my vocal cords severed, I focus on the final preparations for my sacrifice. The days leading up to the ritual are a blur of activity and anticipation. The Sisterhood intensifies our training, ensuring we are ready for the physical and emotional challenges that lie ahead.

Three days before my sacrifice, I am bound and presented to the community. This is a part of the ritual, a chance for the community to engage with the chosen one. My virgin body is used and abused by the members of the community, a testament to the control and power they hold over us. The experience is dehumanizing and painful, yet I endure it with the same resolve that has carried me through my life.

The final day arrives, and I am subjected to various tortures designed to test my endurance and resilience. My public hair is burnt away with a glowing hot poker. Needles are driven under my nails. The pain is excruciating, but I remain silent, my resolve unwavering. This is my destiny, and I am determined to embrace it with courage and grace. They place my hands on a flat stone and smash my fingers with another, heavy, stone. Kagiso, the elder priest, explains what my ordeal will be. I will be nailed to a cross for a full day. In the morning, I will be cut loose, and dismembered to be roasted alive. In order to earn my place in the afterlife, I have to endure this to the end in dignity.

At least not flaying alive. Or being burned alive. Or being impaled. But still, a true ordeal. I am glad that I had my vocal cords cut away.

My hands are bound behind my back, and a rope is looped around my neck. They try to force me to walk, but my legs can not support me any more. So they take a pole me to it. Now they can simply lift me up to carry me. Hundreds of people watch me as I am carried to the valley. They chant encouraging songs, to bring me strength fo fulfill my destiny. The sight of the cross fills me with a mixture of dread and acceptance. The crowd gathers around, their eyes filled with a mixture of and anticipation. I take my place on the cross, my body bound and stretched taut.

Chapter 6: The Agony of the Cross

The first nail is driven into my hand, a searing pain shoots through my body. I squeeze my eyes shut, focusing on the teachings of the Sisterhood. This is my performance, my ultimate act of strength and resilience. I will not falter. The second nail follows, driving through my other hand, and I clench my jaw, determined to remain composed. The cross is raised with me firmly secured in place, legs flailing around, trying to gain support.

This is my performance, my chance to show the community my resilience. Each breath is a struggle, each heartbeat a victory. The crowd watches in silence, their eyes fixed on me. I am their chosen one, the embodiment of their faith and traditions. My suffering is a testament to their strength, my pain a necessary sacrifice for their survival.

The final nails are driven into my feet, completing my crucifixion. My body hangs from the cross, every muscle screaming in agony. The sun beats down on me, the heat intensifying the pain. But I am resolved to give a worthy performance, to honor the legacy of those who came before me.

Hours pass, the pain relentless and unyielding. My mind drifts in and out of consciousness, my vision blurred by tears and sweat. I think of Elara, of the other girls, of the sacrifices I have witnessed. Their strength and courage inspire me, give me the resolve to endure.

The crowd sings and dances to the sound of the drums. Their spirit encourages me to remain strong. They in turn draw strength from my suffering, their faith renewed by my sacrifice. I focus on my breathing, on the rhythm of my drums. Each beat is a reminder of my purpose, a testament to my strength.

As the sun begins to set, my strength wanes. The pain is a constant, unrelenting presence, but I refuse to let it consume me. I close my eyes, finding solace in the belief that my spirit will be prosperous in the afterlife. This is my destiny, and I have embraced it with an open heart.

Chapter 7: Descent into Darkness

The night is a blur of pain and darkness. My body trembles, my mind struggling to stay focused. The crowd continues dancing and beating the drums, their faces a mixture of reverence and happiness. They know that my time is drawing near, that my suffering will soon come to an end.

As dawn approaches, I feel my consciousness begin to fade. The pain is still there, but it is no longer my focus. I feel a deep sense of peace, a calm acceptance of my fate. This is my destiny, and I have fulfilled it with courage and grace.

In the early hours of the morning, the Sisterhood approaches the cross. They carefully take out the nails and remove my body, their hands gentle and reverent. I am laid on a stone slab, my mind a haze of pain and exhaustion. The final part of the ritual begins, the dismemberment and preparation of my body for the community's feast.

Each cut, each slice is a reminder of my purpose, a testament to my strength and resilience. The pain is excruciating, and I finally want to scream. But I remain silent, thanks to the destruction of my vocal cords. In the end my resolve is unwavering. This is my final act, my ultimate performance. I do not falter.

My limbs are carefully removed, each part meticulously prepared and roasted. The smell of roasting flesh fills the air, a stark reminder of the community's dependence on our sacrifices. The crowd gathers around the roasting pits as my limbless body is placed over the fire, their eyes filled with reverence and hunger. They have witnessed my sacrifice, drawn strength and inspiration from my performance. Now, they will consume my flesh, drawing nourishment from my body. I try to scream again, but can not while I slowly roast. The severing of my vocal cords saved me from losing my place in the afterlife.

The elders praise my stoic bearing of the ordeal. They say that this sacrifice will for sure restore the favour of the protective gods. Soon the warriors can assemble to go to war against the Mor Mor. The warriors will be brave and strong, and the Mor Mor will suffer greatly.

As my consciousness fades, I feel a deep sense of peace. I have fulfilled my destiny, embraced my fate with an open heart. My pain is a testament to my strength, a symbol of my resilience. I have given the community a performance to remember, a final act of bravery and faith.

Chapter 8: The Final Offering

The feast begins, the community gathering around the roasting pits. My body is laid out, each piece carefully arranged and presented. The first bite is taken, a solemn and reverent act. The taste of my flesh is a reminder of the sacrifice, a testament to the strength and resilience of the slave women who have gone before me and those who will follow.

As the feast continues, I feel my spirit begin to transcend. I am no longer just Madeka; I am a part of the community, a symbol of strength and endurance. My sacrifice has given them life, and in return, I have found peace. The cycle of life and death continues, a brutal yet sacred tradition that binds us all together.

The community draws strength from my example, finding solace and inspiration in the face of their own struggles and challenges. The Sisterhood continues to train the next generation of slave women, preparing them for their own journey to the cross

Even in death, my spirit remains a guiding light for the Sisterhood and the community. The Mor Mor are defeated, many of their people killed or taken into slavery. The story of the sacrifices of me and the other women is passed down through the generations, a testament to the strength and resilience of the human spirit. Our legacy lives on, inspiring others to embrace their destiny with an open heart.

As the years pass, the tradition of sacrifice continues, each new generation finding strength and courage in the stories of those who have come before. The Sisterhood remains a beacon of hope, a testament to the power of faith and resilience. And so, my story lives on, a symbol of strength and courage in the face of adversity. I embraced my destiny with an open heart, finding peace and transcendence in the midst of suffering. My legacy remains, a guiding light for those who follow in my footsteps, a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit.

 

[thecuriousone]

It seems that if I write a story without pics, it gets little approvement. So I decided to make a story with a couple of pics. The girls come from waterbondage, the background and the orcs are AI-generated with some details modified. The story is not solely focused on crucifixion, but contains crucifixion parts. Sorry for the basic, simple wordings of most of the story, it's just that orcs are not capable of using more sophisticated language.



The raid on the village


Chapter 1: Night Raid


The night was dark. Gorn liked dark. It was good for sneaking. He moved quietly. Other orcs followed. Strong orcs. Big orcs. They all wanted blood.

"Quiet," Gorn growled. His voice was low. He looked at the village. Small place. Humans live there. Weak humans.

Gorn saw the gate. It was wooden. Not strong. He pointed. "Over there," he said. The orcs nodded. They were ready. They moved fast.

Dogs started barking. Loud. But Gorn was already over the wall. He landed with a thud. Others followed. Snarl, his friend, was next. Then came Grub, the slave-warrior. Weak, but fast. So still useful.

Gorn went to the gate. He unlatched it. The gate creaked open. Orcs poured in.

"Kill!" Gorn roared. The village woke up. Men grabbed weapons. They tried to fight. Gorn laughed. His axe swung wide. It hit a man. Blood sprayed. The man fell.

Snarl smashed a head with his club. Grub cut a throat. The humans screamed. They were weak. They were afraid.

Women ran. They tried to hide. Gorn saw one. She was fast. He was faster. He grabbed her hair. She screamed. He tied her hands. She kicked. He laughed.

Others did the same. They dragged the women to the center of the village. They tied them up. The women cried. They begged.

"Beer!" shouted one of the warriors. Gorn smiled. He went to the brewery. He found beer. Plenty to drink. He drank. The beer was good. The other orcs laughed. They drank too. They were happy.

A woman looked at Gorn. Her eyes were wide. Full of fear. Gorn grinned. He liked fear.

"Good night," he said. The woman sobbed.

Houses burned. The men were dead. The women were captives. Gorn and his orcs were strong. Good. They were winners. They fesat now.


Chapter 2: Witness to Horror

Pain and terror filled Era's world. The orcs had captured her, tied her up. She watched as they slaughtered the men. She could hear the screams, see the blood. It was everywhere.

The orcs dragged the women to the village center. Era was thrown to the ground, her hands bound tightly. She saw her mother and sisters and her friends, her neighbors, all tied up. Crying. Their faces were pale with fear.

"Please, no," she whispered, but her voice was lost in the chaos.

Two women were impaled. The orcs laughed as they did it, their eyes gleaming with sadistic pleasure. The women screamed as the stakes were forced through their womanhood, their bodies writhing in agony. Era turned her head, unable to watch, but the sounds of their suffering filled her ears.

The orcs roasted the impaled women while they were still alive. They screamed for a long time. Era could not bear it. The smell of burning flesh was sickening. The orcs drank beer, their faces smeared with blood and grease. They tore at the meat, laughing and shouting.

Era's stomach churned. She wanted to scream, to fight, but she was too terrified. Her mind raced, thinking of her family, her home, everything she had lost.

An orc walked up to her. He was huge, his face twisted in a cruel grin. "You next," he said. His breath reeked of beer and blood.

"No, please," Era begged. But the orc just laughed. He grabbed her by the hair, dragging her closer to the fire.


Chapter 3: Orc Champion's Night

Snarl felt good. The beer was strong. The meat was fresh. His belly was full. He looked at the prisoners. They were scared. Snarl liked scared.

"Who can make them scream loudest?" he roared. The other orcs cheered. They loved a good challenge.

Snarl looked at the women. One caught his eye. She was trembling. Perfect. He dragged her forward. She tried to resist. It was useless.

"Watch this," Snarl said. He grabbed his knife. The blade was sharp. He started with her fingers. One by one, he cut them off. Then he continued with her hands, folowed with her complete arms just below the armpits. She screamed. The other orcs laughed. He did the same with her legs. "What's your name, humie?" he shouted at her. "Era. Please let me die." she pleaded. An evil plan hatched in Snarls mind. "No. You no die yet. First you watch. You watch others die." He took a piece of wood out of the fire, one end glowing red. He used to cauterize her wounds. For good measures, he burnt her a bit more all over her body, encouraged by his comrades.

"Good scream," Snarl said. He looked at the other orcs. "Top that."

Grolak stepped forward. Young, eager. He grabbed another woman. He tied her to a post. He heated a poker in the fire. The woman begged. Grolak grinned.

The poker touched her skin. She shrieked. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The orcs cheered. Grolak was pleased.

Snarl felt a rush. The power, the control. It was intoxicating. He looked at the prisoners. They were broken. Hopeless. It was perfect.

As dawn approached, the orcs took turns. Each tried to outdo the last. The night was filled with screams and laughter. Snarl knew this night would be remembered. Not just for the raid, but for the joy of the hunt.

"More to come," he muttered to himself. "More screams. More blood."


Chapter 4: Suffering's Witness

Pain. Endless, agonizing pain. They had cut off Era's limbs. She lay in the dirt, blood pooling around her. Every breath was a struggle.

Her vision blurred. She could see the other women. They were suffering too. The orcs showed no mercy. They were monsters.

Lika, her younger sister, was next. Era watched as they pushed her to a wooden wall, and tied her spreadeagle against it. They found nails in a workshop. They nailed her hands and feet to the wood. Her screams echoed in the night.

Kara tried to turn away, but she couldn’t. She had no arms to cover her eyes, no legs to move. She was trapped, forced to watch.

Lika was crying. Her body was covered in blood. The orcs took turns raping her, giving her more pain with their oversized lids. Then one of them stepped forward. He had a knife. He rammed his knife in her pussy, all the way in her belly. Blood started gushing out. The orc cut more, and her intestines started to pile out.

Era wanted to scream, to do something, anything. But she was helpless. She could only watch as Lika's insides spilled out. She died within minutes. The orcs laughed.

Tears streamed down Era’s face. She prayed for death. She prayed for an end to the suffering. But the night dragged on slowly making way for the morning twillight. The orcs showed no sign of stopping.

Era’s world was pain and blood. The faces of her friends, their screams, their suffering. It was all too much. She wanted to close her eyes, to slip into darkness.

But the orcs wouldn’t let her. They enjoyed her suffering, and the suffering of the others. They thrived on it. And so, Era lay there, in the dirt, waiting for the end that never came.


Chapter 5: Shaman's Vision

Gruk was the shaman. He had power. He had vision. He looked at the sky, the stars. They spoke to him. He listened.

"Bring that woman," he ordered. The orcs dragged a young woman forward. She was crying. Gruk ignored her tears. He had a task to do.

"Secure her," he said. They nailed her to the wooden wall, spreadeagle. She struggled. It was useless. Gruk took his knife. He began to flay her skin.

She screamed. It was music to his ears. He peeled her skin away, careful not to damage it. The other orcs watched, fascinated.

When he was done, he held the skin up. It was perfect. No holes. He placed it on the ground, blood side up. He closed his eyes. He chanted.

The vision came. He saw horsemen. Human horsemen. They were assembling. Preparing to rescue the village. Gruk saw their leader. Strong. Determined. They would come to the village.

Gruk opened his eyes. He looked at the warboss. "We have time," he said. "Until the sun goes down. Then we must go. The humans are coming. They are strong. Too strong."

The warboss nodded. "We rest," he said. "Then we leave. We go to the march. Maybe humans are stupid. Maybe they follow in the march. Then we ambush. Good fight."

Gruk looked at the woman. She was barely alive. Her skin gone, her body broken. He felt no pity. She was a tool, nothing more.

He turned away. The vision was clear. The orcs would move on. They would survive. They would raid again and again.

Gruk smiled. The future was bright. For the orcs the path was clear.


Chapter 6: Warboss' Command

Urg was the warboss. He was strong. He was in charge. He looked at the prisoners. They were weak. They were scared. He liked that.

"Leave some alive," he said. "We take them with us. We eat them tomorrow."

The orcs nodded. They understood. The rest, Urg pointed at them. "Kill them," he ordered. "Impale. Crucify. Burn. Fun."

The orcs cheered. They grabbed the women. The screams started again. Urg watched. He felt proud. His warband was strong, and having a good time.

First, they impaled a woman. Her body writhed in agony as the stake was driven through her. The orcs laughed, poking at her with sticks, enjoying her suffering.

Next, they crucified another. They nailed her to a wooden cross, her screams echoing in the night. They whipped her, tearing her flesh. Then one of them cut out her guts. She died quickly.

Third, they hanged a woman upside down under a tree. They lit a fire under her. She screamed as the flames licked her skin. The smell of burning flesh filled the air. The orcs laughed, jostling each other, enjoying the show. Her screams turned to weak whimpers as the fire consumed her.

The fourth victim was a young girl, barely more than a child. They tied her to the wheel of a carriage, and smashed her arms and legs at several places. She shrieked in agony, her limbs in unnatural angles. The orcs howled with laughter, making crude jokes and mimicking her cries. Era could do nothing but watch in horror.

Urg watched it all with satisfaction. His warband was strong, ruthless. They would be feared. He leaned back against a tree, his eyes growing heavy. He let himself doze off for a short nap, feeling the warmth of the fire and the sound of dying screams in the background.

Chapter 7: Era's Torment

Era lay in the dirt, her mind a haze of pain and terror. Her limbs were gone, her body a broken shell. She could barely see, her vision blurred by tears and exhaustion. The orcs were everywhere, their laughter and cruelty filling her ears. When they were finished, they found comfortable spots to ly down and nap. The only sounds that broke the silence were the snoring of orcs and the moams of the dying.

When noontime came, the orcs woke up again. She saw them dragging the remaining women away, bound and too weak to resist. The orcs were leaving, taking their prisoners with them. They set fire to the village, the flames consuming the buildings and filling the air with smoke.

Era could only watch as the orcs departed, leaving behind a trail of destruction. She was alone, surrounded by the dead and dying. She thought of her family, her friends, all gone now. She wondered if she would join them soon. She just wished that she would stay alive long enough to see the horsemen arrive. She had to tell them where the orcs were going. That they planned to lay an ambush in the marsh.

The pain was constant, a dull, throbbing ache that never left her. She closed her eyes, trying to block it out, but it was always there, a reminder of her suffering. She got weaker and weaker.

As the sun set, she heard the distant sound of hooves. Her heart leapt. The horsemen. They were coming. But she was so weak. Would she still be able to see them and tell them what direction the orcs were heading? She felt her last remaining strength slip as she stopped breathing.


Chapter 8: The Arrival of the Horsemen

The horsemen rode into the village, their faces grim as they took in the scene. They dismounted, moving quickly, checking the bodies for signs of life. One of them, a tall man with a stern face, approached Era. But she was no longer alive. She could not tell them any more of the horrible things that happened. However, her spirit was free in the afterlife.

 

[thecuriousone]

The Spoiled Sisters' Last Stand

The sky was an ominous gray as the four Van der Rohe sisters stood side by side, dressed in their finest black attire. The funeral of their parents was nothing more than an obligatory ritual, a social event to be endured. Though they were sisters, the tension between them was palpable, a cold war that had been waged for years. They were not united in grief, nor in love, but only by blood and the promise of a vast inheritance that had kept them circling each other like vultures.

Vivian, the eldest, stood with her chin held high, her perfectly sculpted face a mask of arrogance. She had always been the most commanding presence, the one who wielded power with a sharp tongue and colder heart. Her dark eyes flickered with disdain as she glanced at her sisters, each of whom she considered far beneath her.

To her left was Audrey, the second eldest, a woman whose beauty was matched only by her bitterness. Her life had been a series of failed attempts to outshine Vivian, and the years of living in her older sister's shadow had twisted her into something venomous. Audrey's lips curled into a sneer as she imagined what her share of the inheritance would buy her—freedom from her sisters and a life of luxury that she felt she deserved.

Next was Cassandra, the third sister, whose life had been a desperate attempt to prove herself worthy. She had always been the most insecure, constantly comparing herself to her older sisters and finding herself lacking. But today, as she stood on the cusp of inheriting a fortune, Cassandra felt a flicker of hope. Perhaps, at last, she could show them all that she was not to be underestimated.

And finally, there was Daphne, the youngest and the most underestimated. She was a delicate, doll-like figure, her beauty almost ethereal. But behind her innocent facade was a ruthless ambition that had been festering for years. Daphne had always been dismissed by her sisters, seen as nothing more than a pretty face with no substance. But today, she was determined to prove them all wrong.

The funeral ended, and the sisters made their way to their parents' lawyer, Mr. Hawthorne, for the reading of the will. The air was thick with anticipation, each sister convinced that she would be the one to walk away with the lion's share of the fortune. They entered the grand study, the walls lined with books and the air heavy with the scent of old leather. Mr. Hawthorne, an elderly man with a grave expression, sat behind a massive oak desk, the will resting in front of him.

He cleared his throat, looking at each sister in turn before beginning. "Your parents were aware of the animosity between you," he began, his voice steady. "They knew that their fortune would only fuel that rivalry, so they devised a test to determine which of you is truly worthy of inheriting their wealth."

The sisters exchanged wary glances, their expressions hardening.

"What kind of test?" Vivian demanded, her voice sharp.

Mr. Hawthorne hesitated for a moment before continuing. "Your parents believed that you have all been spoiled and entitled, shielded from the hardships of life. They wanted you to understand the value of pain, of endurance. Therefore, the inheritance will go to the sister who can tolerate the most pain."

The room fell into a stunned silence. Then Audrey scoffed, disbelief etched on her face. "This is a joke, right? How do they expect us to prove that?"

Cassandra looked at Mr. Hawthorne, her eyes wide with fear. "What… what kind of pain?"

Daphne remained silent, her expression unreadable.

Mr. Hawthorne sighed. "The first test will be a whipping contest. Each of you will be secured to a whipping post and lashed by a mechanical whip. The sister who can endure the most lashes without giving up will be the winner. This result can only be overruled by participating in the second, even more harsh test. Details of this test will be reveiled when it is time."

Vivian's eyes blazed with fury. "This is barbaric! They can't expect us to—"

"They're not here to expect anything, Vivian," Daphne interrupted, her voice cold and measured. "They're dead. And this is their final wish. But feel free to forfeit the inheritance, if you wish."

Audrey narrowed her eyes at Daphne. "You seem awfully calm about this."

Daphne shrugged, a slight smile playing on her lips. "I’m just better at hiding my emotions than you."

Cassandra’s voice trembled as she spoke. "We can’t really do this… can we?"

Vivian sneered. "Scared, Cassandra? I knew you were weak, but I didn’t think you’d be a coward too."

"Enough!" Mr. Hawthorne’s voice cut through the rising tension. "You don’t have to go through with this, any of you. But if you refuse, you forfeit your right to the inheritance."

The sisters fell silent, each of them weighing their options. Walking away would mean giving up their claim to the fortune, something none of them could bear. The idea of one of her sisters walking away with everything was unbearable to each of them. And so, with a mutual, unspoken agreement, they decided to proceed.

The room where the contest would take place was cold and dimly lit, the walls bare and unyielding. Four whipping posts stood in the center, each one fitted with a mechanical whip designed to deliver precise, brutal strikes. The sisters entered the room, their faces masks of determination, though beneath the surface, fear gnawed at each of them.

Vivian was the first to step forward, her movements deliberate and confident. "I’ll go first," she declared, her voice laced with arrogance. "Let’s get this over with."

Audrey sneered. "Always so eager to prove you’re better than us, Vivian. But you’re not."

Vivian shot her a withering look. "We’ll see about that."

She positioned herself against the whipping post, her hands secured above her head. The mechanical whip whirred to life, its metallic arm poised to strike. With a cold, detached resolve, Vivian braced herself.

The first lash came swiftly, a sharp crack echoing through the room as the whip sliced across her back. Vivian’s breath hitched, but she bit down on her lip, refusing to cry out. She wouldn’t give her sisters the satisfaction.

Audrey watched with narrowed eyes, a twisted satisfaction curling in her chest. "Not so tough now, are you, Vivian?"

Vivian gritted her teeth, sweat beading on her forehead. "Shut… up."

The lashes continued, each one more brutal than the last. Vivian’s skin split open under the relentless assault, blood seeping through her clothes. But she remained standing, driven by sheer force of will and the burning desire to win.

After what felt like an eternity, Vivian’s legs finally gave out. She collapsed to her knees, gasping for breath, her back a ruin of blood and torn flesh. But she didn’t cry out. She had lasted as long as she could, and that was enough. She had proved her strength. She requested to be released after 86 lashes.

Next was Audrey. She stepped forward with a defiant glare, her eyes locking onto Vivian’s. "Watch and learn," she spat, securing herself to the post.

The whip struck with ruthless precision, and Audrey let out a strangled cry, her body jerking against the restraints. The pain was unlike anything she had ever imagined, searing and all-consuming. But she refused to be outdone by Vivian. She wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.

Vivian watched, a cruel smile tugging at her lips. "Feeling strong now, Audrey?"

"Stronger than you," Audrey hissed through gritted teeth, though the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

The lashes continued, each one a new wave of agony. Audrey’s vision blurred with tears, but she forced herself to remain upright, her pride keeping her from collapsing. She wouldn’t give up. She couldn’t. But eventually, the pain became too much. With a final, broken sob, Audrey crumpled to the floor, her body shaking with exhaustion and pain. She gave up after 64 lashes.

Cassandra was next, her hands trembling as she secured herself to the post. She was terrified, her heart pounding in her chest, but she was determined to prove that she wasn’t as weak as her sisters thought.

The first lash struck, and Cassandra screamed, the sound raw and desperate. The pain was unbearable, a white-hot flash that seemed to consume her entire being. But she couldn’t give up. Not now. Not when she was so close to proving herself.

Audrey sneered, her voice dripping with contempt. "You’re pathetic, Cassandra. You’ll never last."

Cassandra sobbed, tears streaming down her face. "I’m… stronger than you think."

But the lashes kept coming, each one more brutal than the last. Cassandra’s resolve crumbled with each strike, her screams growing more desperate, more anguished. She couldn’t do it. She wasn’t strong enough. With a final, heart-wrenching cry, Cassandra collapsed, her body limp and defeated. She was forced to quit at 58 lashes.

Finally, it was Daphne’s turn. She stepped forward, her expression calm and composed. She had been quiet throughout the contest, watching and waiting, biding her time. Now, it was her moment to prove that she was not the fragile, delicate girl her sisters had always thought she was.

Vivian smirked, her voice laced with mockery. "Think you can handle it, little sister?"

Daphne met her gaze, her eyes cold and unyielding. "I don’t just think it. I know it."

She secured herself to the post, her movements steady and deliberate. The whip whirred to life, and Daphne braced herself. The first lash struck, a sharp crack echoing through the room, and Daphne’s body jerked with the force of it. But she didn’t cry out. She didn’t even flinch.

Audrey scowled. "Trying to play the tough girl, Daphne? It doesn’t suit you."

Daphne remained silent, her expression unreadable. The lashes continued, each one tearing into her flesh with brutal precision. Blood dripped from her back, but she didn’t waver. She endured the pain with a quiet, steely resolve that her sisters had never seen before.

As the lashes grew more intense, Daphne’s body began to tremble, the pain becoming almost unbearable. But she refused to give up. She had something to prove, not just to her sisters, but to herself. She wasn’t weak. She wasn’t fragile. She was stronger than any of them.

Finally, the whipping stopped. Daphne was the last one standing, though barely. She survived 115 lashes, just to prove her superiority, but at a high price. Her back was a mess of blood and torn flesh, her ribs visible through the gaping wounds. But she had won. She had endured more than any of them.

Mr. Hawthorne watched as the sisters were carried away to be treated, his expression grim. The contest was over, but the hatred between the sisters had only grown stronger.

Two months passed, and the sisters were still recovering from their ordeal. Their bodies were scarred, their spirits fractured, but their hatred for each other burned hotter than ever. They had all lost something in the contest—pride, dignity, and a piece of themselves that could never be recovered.

But it wasn’t enough. Daphne’s victory had only fueled the fire of competition, and the other sisters demanded another chance to prove themselves. They couldn’t let Daphne win. Not after everything they had endured.

The sisters gathered once more in the grand study, the tension between them thick and suffocating. Mr. Hawthorne looked at them, his expression weary. "What more do you want? Daphne won. The contest is over. Unless someone wants to challenge her in a second test."

Vivian’s voice was cold and sharp. "We want another test. Something more… final."

Audrey nodded, her eyes blazing with determination. "We can’t let her walk away with everything. We deserve another chance."

Cassandra, though still shaken from the whipping, spoke up, her voice trembling with desperation. "We need to settle this once and for all."

Daphne, her face pale but resolute, looked at her sisters with a steely gaze. "You’re just sore losers. But if you want to die trying, I won’t stop you."

Mr. Hawthorne sighed, knowing that there was no reasoning with them. "Very well. The final test will be one of endurance—crucifixion. The sister who can endure the longest will inherit the fortune."

The sisters agreed, their hatred and greed blinding them to the horror of what they were about to do. They were led to a secluded hill on the estate, where three wooden crosses stood against the darkening sky. The wind was cold, and the air was heavy with the scent of earth and impending doom.

The first to be crucified was Vivian. Mr. Hawthorne had arranged for two assistants in the crucifixion. Vivian was made to undress, and made to place her scarred back on top of the cross on the ground. She stood with a defiant glare as the nails were driven through her wrists and feet, her body jerking with the force of it. The pain was tearing her apart, but she refused to show weakness. She had always been the strongest, the most commanding, and she wouldn’t let her sisters see her falter.

Audrey watched with a mixture of satisfaction and dread as Vivian's cross was hoisted in the air, her body hanging limply from the wooden beams. "Not so tough now, are you, Vivian?" she taunted, though her voice was tinged with fear.

Vivian gritted her teeth, sweat pouring down her face. "I’m stronger… than you’ll ever be."

Next was Audrey. She bit down on her lip as the nails were driven through her flesh, her body convulsing with the pain. She had always prided herself on her beauty, her grace, but now she was nothing more than a broken, bleeding figure hanging from a cross. But she wouldn’t give up. She couldn’t.

Cassandra was third, her face pale and gaunt as she was nailed to the cross. She had always been the most insecure, the most desperate for validation, and now she was paying the price for it. The pain was overwhelming, consuming her entirely, but she clung to the hope that she could outlast her sisters.

Finally, it was Daphne’s turn. She didn’t flinch as the nails were driven through her wrists and feet, her expression calm and composed. She had already endured more than her sisters could imagine, and she knew that she was stronger than any of them. But as she was hoisted up onto the cross, the full weight of what they were doing hit her, and a flicker of doubt crept into her mind.

The hours dragged on, each one more excruciating than the last. The sisters hung from the crosses, their bodies wracked with pain, their minds fractured by the agony. But none of them was willing to give up. They had lost too much already, and the thought of one of them walking away with everything was unbearable.

Vivian’s breath came in ragged gasps, her vision blurring with tears. "You’ll… never… beat me," she spat, though her voice was weak and trembling.

Audrey, her face contorted in pain, glared at her. "You’re… just… a coward… hiding behind your arrogance."

Cassandra sobbed, her body shaking with exhaustion and fear. "I’m… stronger than… you think…"

Daphne, though still composed, felt her resolve beginning to crumble. The pain was driving her mad, a never-ending wave of agony that threatened to consume her. But she wouldn’t give up. She couldn’t. "You’re all… pathetic… I’ll… win this. You all better ask to be released now. It will save you the suffering. Just give up. I deserve the inheritance." The others laughed at her, challenging her to give up herself. Or to just die on the cross.

But as the night wore on, it became clear that there would be no winner. The sisters were all too stubborn, too full of hate to surrender. They clung to their pride, their greed, and their hatred, even as their bodies began to fail.

Vivian was the first to go. Her body, already weakened by the whipping, couldn’t withstand the strain of the crucifixion. With a final, ragged breath, she slumped forward, her life slipping away. She did not ask to be released, rather choosing death above defeat.

Audrey followed soon after, her strength finally giving out. She had fought with everything she had, but in the end, it wasn’t enough. With a choked sob, she let go, her body going limp.

Cassandra, always the weakest, lasted only a few moments longer. The pain was too much, and her will to survive finally crumbled. She died with a tearful whimper, her face twisted in agony.

Daphne, the last one standing, hung on for as long as she could, not realizing her sisters were dead already. But even she couldn’t force herself to give up, thinking her sisters were still alive and competing. She held out until it was almost dawn, slowly getting weaker. Without the realisation that she was filthy rich, she succumbed to the exhaustion, her body going still.

As dawn broke over the horizon, the four sisters hung lifeless on the crosses, their bodies cold and broken. There was no winner, no one to claim the fortune that had driven them to this. Mr. Hawthorne sighed. He had to contact distant cousins, to see if anyone next in line would be willing to take up the challenge. His job was not done. But he realised that one thing was sure. The Van der Rohe family was gone, destroyed by their own greed and hatred, leaving nothing behind but the empty sky and the cold wind.



Pic based on this one: https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/threads/crucifixion-poses-without-cross.11482/post-899867

 

[Cella]

When they caught her stealing, they broke her fingers and then they crucified her.

She seems to have the proper amount of tension in her body to endure a lengthy crucifixion. Arms pulled straight and taut, shoulders bunched, chest elevated, abs tensed, legs under her body so she can push up and out on the cross. The execution squad did a good job. (But they forgot to remove her loincloth! Points off for the oversight. Wait . . . I'm seeing it's not a cloth drawn between her legs. Just ornamental with a tassel in front of her girlie bits. Still, it should go. The crowd demands it!)

Hope she at least was trying to steal something significant and not just have her fingers in the cookie jar, so to speak.