Legends of Belariath

Arnora

To claim a slave: Du`ghal and Arnora

It had begun in a moment, this thing between them, though it had been mulling for quite some time. Du`ghal had spent many long moments, each one longer then the last, from seconds and then to hours, waiting for the proper timing to come to pass. He had watched this place, this Inn, this depraved haven, and selected among it one of the finest of women. He did not look for suppleness of form; he looked for pride, spirit, and control. He watched those with arrogance rise up and be smashed down, those with stupidity come crashing to the ground. One stood out among the rest, a barbarian, and with that he was dually impressed, most of that ilk, as he saw them, were louts, where pride was simply some crude buzzword to them. He saw them often times as the racial equivalent of mindless yes men, barking out what they were taught, without knowing where it originated. This woman though, she was different, in her he'd seen more then brief flares of intelligence. She was untrained, to be sure, but she would become what he wanted of her, a true and hard slave warrior, the perfect chattel to be sold, the perfect beast that would none could simply hurl over a table and have there way with on a whim.

She had been walking alone, in the forest, moving fluidly, with an innate sense of purpose. The woodlands talked to her, every tree seemed to have a voice, every rock, every patch of grass was where it was for a reason, all of it had some message, should one look closely enough. An intend of mud was a small hole to most normal folk, but to her it was a sign that a dear had come through this place, about 3 days past, so it was not a common run. Something clicked in the back of her mind, some warning that there was danger, an innate sense she could not fully explain. Instead of slowing like most would do, to look around and make them selves a target for whatever was out there to come and claim them, she took flight with all her speed, dashing into the forest now, no longer seeming to care about stealth, and simply wishing to move away from this in secant, now growing sense of ill ease.

It happened in a moment, that lashing out of his scabbard, hitting her just at the knees, to shatter her rather lovely motion. Her motion was fluid, beautiful in a base and bestial sort of way, like the loping gate of an antelope; she carried herself in that way. Even as her legs were at their closest point, that metal sheath crashed into both of them, breaking her stride in a moments notice. She would stumble; begin to flail in some attempt to catch her self, her mind confused by this sudden, painful shift in her actions, not understanding how. Shed been struck but even as she tried to right herself, ah feeling of crashing pain slammed into her, and she fell. Something, a metal-coated shoulder, she would later learn, had hit her full force in her slowed, but still moving state, sending her sprawling to the ground, a take down from which there would be no escape.

She hit hard, but her own forward energy at least kept her spine from any damage, the kinetic force of the blow only enough to do that, to use her own momentum against her. In the next second shed feel something, a hand now placed on her shoulder, and then her world forever changed. Something ... wrong slipped into her, something vile. She felt it rip through her skin, into her very marrow. It wracked her blood with its disgusting perversion, and her mind was forced into a place it had never fully been. Her thighs went slick almost immediately, and she felt pass into her buxom form, a lust that had no meaning. It twisted and contorted into her very essence, lapping along her with its cruel, oozing emotion. It fell over her like a thin layer of filth, invading every crevice of her body, mind and soul. It devoured any sense of resistance, shoving it from her now, leaving her, for a time, helpless.

She would feel that torrent of false and depraved emotion, and even as some sense of sanity returned to her, even as she felt the ability to move, even if it was only to twist and flail in the dirt, another wave assailed her. There was escape, no fleeing from its kiss, her flesh made weak, wanting of some lechers kiss, it ripped a moan of utter need and joy, though fake, false, a lie. She felt her mind slip into a haze of thoughts and sensations, her well-toned body already reacting to the second wave of that spells invasion. It violated her thoughts, and her thighs ran wet with liquid, the forced euphoria more then she wished to ever have happen to her. She had been raped, beaten, even at times totally humiliated, but never had she been so utterly demented, it slammed into her time and time again, even as the hissed words were ended, she would know that the spell was still deep within her, sitting in the pit of her stomach, resonating its dark, seductive whispers, trapping her in that din of sexual torment and pleasure. Through the mind numbing, all consuming spell, she would heart a voice say unto her:

"I do not care who you are, all you need know now is that you are Chattel, and so you will be called. All you need do is that you accept the reality of this situation, how you choose to react to it makes little difference to me at the moment. You are mine, and that is all you need know." His words were cold, frank, and almost apathetic, as if she was so little to him, a slab of meat to be captured. Her mind allowed for no response, every word came out a hungry moan, a pathetic show of once barbarian force. He had robbed from her that warriors spirit, even as her true self screamed in her ear to resist him, she could only melt, be made into putty, placed in the ground as she was rolled over.

He placed one kneed to either shoulder, to look her in the eyes as he evaluated her. She hissed between moans, unable to surrender so easily to the situation, she refused to accept this as it was occurring and bucked up, her hips seeking to dislodge him. He hunched forth and held his ground, but she twisted and fought him off with all the fury she could find. It was a rather impressive show of force, unable to so much as think beyond her need for satisfaction, but still unwilling to relent to this change of her being in a moment. He let her kick and flail, keeping well out of range of those legs, knowing the pain they could entail, should she get the wrapped around his neck, he would be doomed in a moment. She actually managed to dislodge him, but her body betrayed her the second he rose up from her being.

He did not fight back with much spirit, allowing her to think shed gained some modicum of freedom. Instead she felt hands once more on her being, and she was moved to her stomach again, her breasts dragged across the earthen soil, a pleasure filled gasp escaping her without her wanting it to be heard with such false meaning. She felt something slip to each of her wrists, a pair of iron and steel cuffs, heavy, and only a short length of chain between them. Any other time she would have sought to throttle him for such an attempt to her freedom, but that Sweet Bliss that now cascaded throughout her baser self, only took that contact as if it was pleasing. She knew she should resist this, but she could do nothing to abate this, even as fingers were slowly drawn down her legs, she shivered from there contact, snarling at him, though she moved against the contact, her mind warring with her body, and it was obvious that her body was winning.

Methodically her ankles were bound up, a little under a yard of chain between them, somewhat less then three feet. She would be hobbled, the heavy chain only adding to this affect on her person, limiting her freedom, but still allowing her some range of motion. It was not enough to run or jump or move with any kind of agility, but it was enough to be dragged along, as she could only assume she would be. Her mind was blank, unable to fight it off, were he simply seeking to use her as many had, she would understand his motives, but that spell took away her control. She felt outside herself, watching from a distance, disbelief danced through herself, even as she let out a cry of wanton lusts for him. She did not want him, this pathetic half elf bastard, but she simply wanted abetment from this agonizing venom he had placed in her, even as it still thrust through her blood with every passing moment. Every beating of her heart, every time she drew breath it reminded her of that perverse desire that in her still did rest, every time her top strained against her nipples, every little shift of her hips that created some sensation of friction, all of these things made her want to scream for combat, for a fight she could win, not this pathetic tricksters magic gimmicks.

"Why fight with it is you feel that want that wracks your very being? You feel it now within your form, slipping and sliding, and you try to tell yourself this is not happening. Is self deception honorable; is it noble to fight what you are in truth?"

The logic of those words was damningly seductive, speaking to the poison of his manna induced lusts. She heard it and for a moment, pondered accepting it, but her self, her instincts came to the front, she was warrior, now some weak willed bitch woman!

"Don't touch me, you little worm! I will kill you where you stand! I will never let you have me, now let, me go!"

Demands she uttered between clenched teeth, but she could not resist that spell, that lust, which draws her to him, it was pleasure, oblivion, and hell. Any other woman would have long ago relented, but he had chosen her for many reasons, her determination was king among them. She would not break, she would not simply accept what was given, she would kick and scream and fight him off, until she had nothing left with which to resist with. He would run her ragged, like a pack of wolves did run down a bear, each nip, each bite, each assault leaving her less then she was before.

"Surrender and you will be released from the agony of that spell, resist and you will continue to suffer it, and it lasts for quite a while. The choice is yours, but hardly do I see, the point of fighting when you have lost, you are taken, Chattel, why not at least enjoy what could be wrought?"

As if to talk to her body of what he offered thus, his fingers curled into the flesh that did abound on her breast. Those leather wrapped digits danced to her form, digging through that cloth that covered the nub of playing with it in a torrent of rough and skillful pleasured contact, twisting that nipple half way round and then puling his squeezes for a time. As he slowly did relent, letting it go with an agonizing slowness, even as she jerked up spasmodically in a want for more, her eyes burned with hatred, oh this she did abhor. She could have melted into his words, and nearly did, for a second, but instead of a response, she just growled to him. He had caged a tiger, to be sure, this beast might now be hobbled, bound, and magiced, but she would not take it like some pathetic little simpering harlot, she was a warrior, and even his enchantments could not change that. Even in her bodies writhing motion, she would kill him, were she able, he might be some kind of demon, but she did not fear him or his sweet seductions.

She was hauled to her feet, a final humiliation now to her given, around her throat would be placed not a collar, not even worthy of that yet, but a hemp rope, binding her to him, a leash, roughly digging into her flesh, the binds of it biting at her muscles, even as her mouth went agape, but the gasp of faux delight was bit back, she would not let him hear that sound, she would not acquiesce to any thing he gave her, even if it was delightful under any other circumstances, she would not budge mentally, no matter how strong his taint might be, she was not a victim, only caged, she would not lash out in need. She was dragged then, pulled along, stumbling as she moved; her body still wracked wit that spell, with that in secant, ever coming venom he had placed, making her weak in the knees.

Most others would not be able to stand, let alone walk, but her will of iron was hardly broken, though dented it might be, she would not let him he see her as he wanted her, even as her fluids now flowed freely. Her legs were made into rivers of carnal promiscuity, were she to be saved she might hurl herself on that hero and fulfill those lusty needs, but she would never relent to him, were she being burned alive she would laugh in his face, rather then let him extinguish her agony with some incantation. The man was a coward, and he would pay for this quite dearly, but for now, she hardly seemed in a position to fight him off, even as she was pulled, stumbling, to some unknown place in the woods, away from town, where none could hear her screaming.

She was taken, as she was, a woman, now claimed without feeling. He had tempted her and she had resisted, passing the first of many tests, though she would not ever know of this, she had already begun her training. To resist, to fight, to rage against, this was what he wanted, should he have desired some willing whore, he would have claimed some errant feline, but she was meant for other things, for the glory of the arena, she was meant to be a slave, but combat was her reason. He would train her like none other, to war against the best; she would fight and fight well, until she was sold, for her obvious prowess.

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