Daala
06-20-2006, 12:04 AM
And so the wretches sat upon their makeshift thrones, entertaining idle whimsy of some measure of power and worth. These magnificent creatures angered them, for they were not naturally compelled to bend knee to the wretches upon their makeshift thrones. And so they thought to scour such a glorious race, shrouding their intentions in the auspice of pragmatism. A depressingly stupid notion, the genocide of any proud species. It's like clutching a rose in fist, pulling, and expecting to draw all the petals in a single gesture. A few will remain, unless the stem breaks. But using the metaphor of a rose for genocide allows no such provision. As it would defeat my comparison, I shall blot it from my thoughts.
She knew it to be a portent of some import the moment of the encounter, for threefold qualification. First. She is a diabolist, as were the aristocratic wretches upon their makeshift thrones in the Orcish Shadow Council. Second, this particular breed of horse was purportedly entirely assimilated by fel energies to appropriate the Felsteed race. Third, this instance of a universally dark brown subspecies is completely and utterly white, an albino, and radiates the most curious signature of personality.
Every twitching sneeze, every bucking ninny, smacked of the sense. Like the way some mothers may handpick their infant progeny from a roomful of wailing babes, Daala understands something of this creature. In life, it was ostracized from its kind for its alabaster flesh. Now, it is forsaken for its purity from taint. All it wishes is to find acceptance. To join the fold as it never could. She immediately dubbed it Sirn, Low Elvish for Mirror. She would realize its every ache and dream and pang and longing as a lover brings her chosen to quaking, quivering knees.
The Shadow Council employed a different sort of fiend and a different sort of ritual. That would not find repetition, for two reasons. First, this is a special steed: to genericize it in any way would demean the thing in its entirety. Second, the Orcs' fiend is not typically found on Azeroth. The decision is a difficult one. A Doomguard, the paragon of common fiendish concentration? Nay, too willful. Infernals were naturally rejected. They lacked organs, and that would not do. A salacious Succubus, for her affections and companionly nature? Nay, too deceptive. Ultimately, a felhound was selected, for its dogged nature, its loyalty, and its lack of an intellect that, coupled with malicious mindset, might make for a meddlesome malady.
Sirn is taken gently, with reverence. The most rigidly conservative tribesman could conjure no complaint. Soothing narcotics come without pain, without fire. First, the corruption of the spirit. Second, the energizing of the body. Both steps come in the form of ingestion. The first, a fetal horse. The second, the heart of a felhound, freshly preserved. Sirn feasts eagerly. She, for Daala now bears a close enough vantage to distinguish, has waited too long already. With the last scraps devoured, Sirn shudders, and seems to spontaneously sexually climax. Daala scribbles a notation upon the fabric of her vestments.
The glorious goddess of a mare...her heart never shudders, flutters, or stutters, not once. Daala remains at her side, soothing her, all the way. It is done, and Sirn climbs to her feet, an otherworldly fire blazing in all the usual places of her newfound ilk. Slipping lithe limbs about Sirn's neck, Daala leans in, tenderly kissing taut horseflesh.
"I'll not let some mal'ai would-be paincrafter lay his revolting rahi upon your glory, Sirn. Nay, you are destined for my daughter, when she comes of age. Now come. And let none of those who once spat upon you look at you with willful eye, for you are a Duchess, now."
Sirn is reborn, her soul diced to ribbons, spirit beyond redemption, and she loves the woman at her side for it.
She knew it to be a portent of some import the moment of the encounter, for threefold qualification. First. She is a diabolist, as were the aristocratic wretches upon their makeshift thrones in the Orcish Shadow Council. Second, this particular breed of horse was purportedly entirely assimilated by fel energies to appropriate the Felsteed race. Third, this instance of a universally dark brown subspecies is completely and utterly white, an albino, and radiates the most curious signature of personality.
Every twitching sneeze, every bucking ninny, smacked of the sense. Like the way some mothers may handpick their infant progeny from a roomful of wailing babes, Daala understands something of this creature. In life, it was ostracized from its kind for its alabaster flesh. Now, it is forsaken for its purity from taint. All it wishes is to find acceptance. To join the fold as it never could. She immediately dubbed it Sirn, Low Elvish for Mirror. She would realize its every ache and dream and pang and longing as a lover brings her chosen to quaking, quivering knees.
The Shadow Council employed a different sort of fiend and a different sort of ritual. That would not find repetition, for two reasons. First, this is a special steed: to genericize it in any way would demean the thing in its entirety. Second, the Orcs' fiend is not typically found on Azeroth. The decision is a difficult one. A Doomguard, the paragon of common fiendish concentration? Nay, too willful. Infernals were naturally rejected. They lacked organs, and that would not do. A salacious Succubus, for her affections and companionly nature? Nay, too deceptive. Ultimately, a felhound was selected, for its dogged nature, its loyalty, and its lack of an intellect that, coupled with malicious mindset, might make for a meddlesome malady.
Sirn is taken gently, with reverence. The most rigidly conservative tribesman could conjure no complaint. Soothing narcotics come without pain, without fire. First, the corruption of the spirit. Second, the energizing of the body. Both steps come in the form of ingestion. The first, a fetal horse. The second, the heart of a felhound, freshly preserved. Sirn feasts eagerly. She, for Daala now bears a close enough vantage to distinguish, has waited too long already. With the last scraps devoured, Sirn shudders, and seems to spontaneously sexually climax. Daala scribbles a notation upon the fabric of her vestments.
The glorious goddess of a mare...her heart never shudders, flutters, or stutters, not once. Daala remains at her side, soothing her, all the way. It is done, and Sirn climbs to her feet, an otherworldly fire blazing in all the usual places of her newfound ilk. Slipping lithe limbs about Sirn's neck, Daala leans in, tenderly kissing taut horseflesh.
"I'll not let some mal'ai would-be paincrafter lay his revolting rahi upon your glory, Sirn. Nay, you are destined for my daughter, when she comes of age. Now come. And let none of those who once spat upon you look at you with willful eye, for you are a Duchess, now."
Sirn is reborn, her soul diced to ribbons, spirit beyond redemption, and she loves the woman at her side for it.