((Trigger warnings: Intense violence, torture. If you've a weak stomach, may not be best to read on.))
The smell of human waste became overpowering as one walked the damp, crudely heaved from the rock steps that lead to the pits of despair known as the noxian dungeons. Noxus who had employed a large manner of interrogators, sadists and madmen in the bottomless cells had become short of them. Namely, their heads. The Undead Champion with nothing else to do, his bloodlust and overwhelming savagery overpowering him, had been assigned the role of Headsman by the Grand General. He took the title literally, taking heads from friend and foe alike, grinning with that rigid, dead smile all the while.
"Please...Don't take anymore of me away." Said one prisoner, nothing but a shriveled waste of a man, infected stumps cloying in the dark, terror in his eyes, gritting his teeth, attempting to hide in a corner from the green beast that looked at him from outside the cell. The marks on his neck indicated he'd tried to choke himself to death. Sion was familiarizing himself with the faces of those that did, anxiously awaiting his time with them. So many to kill!
"Hush, toy. I want your voice for screaming later." Sion replied brusquely, opening the cell door and heaving his axe at the chains that kept the prisoner to the wall, severing them instantly. "If you run I'll make it worse for you. You don't die today." He grunted, that terrifying grin on his face. He picked up his axe in one hand and the prisoner in the other, throwing him outside the cells.
Post by The Master Tactician on Jan 23, 2013 3:41:59 GMT -5
Purposefully, noiselessly, the Grand General had entered the hall, shut the door behind him, strode over to where the headsman was "working" and folded his hands over his cane. The train of his robe left a smeary path where it trailed in the dungeon's grime. He observed the gruesome scene in stony silence, his crimson gaze never faltering.
Upon his shoulder sat his ever-present raven, who tilted her head at the disfigured prisoner, ruffled her feathers at his desperate protests. Finally, as the maimed victim was hurled from his cell into the hall, Beatrice let out a screech that echoed through the dungeon, as though to announce the general's presence.
The sound of Beatrice's screeching echoed off the walls, adding to the symphony of screams coming from the dungeons and the sobbing of the man in the hall. Slowly turning his head to the General, Sion at first frowned, then grinned once more. "General!" He exclaimed, taking a knee, bowing, and planting his axe on the floor next to him. "You visited me! Do you like what I've done to them? Aren't they so much better like this? If you look at them they urinate!" The beast went on, standing up and gesturing around him wildly, kicking the shattered mess of a human being at his feet. "Get up, the General wants to see you." He yelled to the wreck at his feet.
Post by The Master Tactician on Jan 23, 2013 16:31:23 GMT -5
The mangled prisoner scrambled around on the floor, his eyes wide with terror, his face covered in grime. His legs had been severed unevenly: one at the shin and the other just above the knee, roughly cauterized and oozing puss on the already filthy floor. He whimpered, tried to pull himself up on his mismatched stubs, dreading the wrath of The Undead Champion.
Swain tilted his head, quirked a brow. "You've been hard at work, I see," he said evenly. The man's flailing cries beside his captor drew no reaction from the general save a flicker of amusement across his weathered face. His gaze wandered from cell to cell. Most of the dungeon's denizens wallowed near death in their own excrement, or else nursed recently received wounds, attempting to stem their own bleeding with the straw-and-rag bedding of their cells.
Swain frowned. They were only common criminals, but the rate at which they'd been mowed down was somewhat unforeseen. "You'd do well to pace yourself, Sion, lest your axe exhaust its wealth of fodder."
"Come again?" The behemoth grunted, his apelike brow scrunching, swinging his axe from hand to hand. "When will I finally have something GREAT to do? Breaking bones and gnawing on limbs is only so fun when they can't do anything about it." Sion pouted, like a child who'd been forbidden from playing outside. "Don't get me wrong, I enjoy breaking them but there's only so many ways they die before I run out of new ways of killing them!" he finished, glaring at Swain angrily.
"Didn't I tell you to STAND for the General?" The beast roared at the shell of what once was a man. Picking up the wreck by the back of his rags, the beast slammed him down on the throbbing, pus drenched stumps, cackling at the sound of the wet limbs flailing against the ground and the man's piercing cries. "You will stand or I will break every single remaining bone in your body, tear it out and force you to eat it. Oh! Which reminds me, do you have anything to keep them awake? They're so boring when they fall asleep." He grinned at the General, gesturing wildly.
Post by The Master Tactician on Jan 23, 2013 21:59:02 GMT -5
Swain's eyes wandered the squalid corridor, lingering only briefly upon the display of tormentor and victim. "A suitable elixir can be supplied, if it would aid you in your endeavors," he said offhandedly. "As for another assignment, I'll likely require your assistance this evening." His grip tightened upon his cane, the veins bulging in the back of his hand. "We've an unexpected guest to deal with. I suspect there will be some activity relevant to your interests."
The sobs and moans of Sion's prisoner still echoed in the hall, disturbing the Grand General's train of thought. "Shut that thing up, will you?" he growled.
"And we were going to have so much fun together." Sion glanced down at his captive, sighing, his big shoulders heaving down. Moving in front of the captive with his back to the General, he grasped his axe in one hand whilst kicking his toy down with his foot. The once-man at his feet had stopped sobbing, looking hopefully at Sion, for once grateful to be destroyed. This only further disgusted the Juggernaut. The beast slashed down at the man's head, bursting it in two like a ripe watermelon, bits of blood and marrow flying about the room and coating his green chest. Turning back around to smile at the General, Sion took a piece of the brain and bit a chunk out of it, spitting the rest of it at his feet.
"Where to?" He asked cheerfully, grinning at the man in front of him, so willing to give him more playthings.
Post by The Master Tactician on Jan 23, 2013 22:24:31 GMT -5
Satisfied with the sound of silence that followed the crunch of axe on bone, the general turned to go, his mantle still leaving smears where it trailed upon the grimy floor. "You'll prepare to depart immediately alongside my guard caravan. Marching orders will be given when my plans are final. Our destination will likely be... local."
He took a few uneven steps towards the door before he turned, leaning on his cane, to add, "Take your time with the next batch, Sion." He allowed himself a smirk. "Or I'll have the emptiest prisons in Valoran by the end of the month."
Post by The Master Tactician on Feb 9, 2013 4:45:42 GMT -5
February 5th, 23 CLE
A pit of grime. The rancid stink of piss, of shit, of death. In the twisting halls of the Undead Champion's dungeon domain, corpses lay like the discarded playthings they were, carelessly strewn about the squalid floor. Flies swarmed about the dead, their buzzing deafening in the underground passageway.
Hundreds of cells--once overcrowded, now sparsely populated--lined the hall. Inside, those prisoner-victims still alive hunched in the shadows: furtive, feral. They held no hope of grace or aspirations of freedom; they had seen the "mercies" of the abomination that haunted these halls. The way he savored the slow deaths of their fellow inmates, his luminous eyes flashing in delight at their cries of pain, sadistic.
Two visible guards stood posted at the entrance to these lower chambers, which led down from the Noxian underground, deep, deep beneath the mountain. They awaited the arrival of a "distinguished guest," their superiors had called her: a woman with a black rose tucked into her hair...
Post by Zorn Agammond on Feb 9, 2013 4:57:37 GMT -5
Amarills approaches the guards, her steps graceful and elegant despite the place she found herself in. Surely, she could have kept the prisoner elsewhere... but alas... this will have to do it seemed. She eyes the two guards, her lips smiling slightly, her voice sounded like magic as she created webs of illusions around them, simply for amusement... This place was depressing indeed. "Hello lovelies... I'm here to see a special someone... Mind leading me to him? I think you know who I mean..." The black rose in her hair seems to shimmer slightly.
"Lovely? Us?" One of the two men looked at the other, jaw agape and drooling with eyebrows raised and a shocked look on his face. "Ah, yes, we've been foretold of your arrival Milady." Said the other in a high weaselly voice, wiping his face on his sleeve and casting a quick glance at the stairs behind him before bowing lightly, kicking the other's knees to do the same. "Say, Leonard, don't the walls look awful purty now?" The bigger one grunted loudly, eyeing the walls confusedly. "Why's it all bright now?"
"Nevermind that Jeremy, we're to show the good Lady to the Headsman!" Leonard declared in his wispy voice, letting the larger man lead them down the dark and musty steps to Sion's den. "This way M'lady, and... don't look into the cells." He murmured, anxiously shadowing his colleague as they descended into darkness.
Post by The Master Tactician on Feb 9, 2013 21:06:16 GMT -5
What happened? What did I do wrong? Am I going to die?
The decorated general swallowed hard. Rancid stench filled his lungs, turned his stomach. Zorn Agammond lay motionless in the filth, his wrists shackled to the wall. He'd awoken to cries of agony, punctuated by the periodical thud of an axe, the oddly familiar cackles of The Tormentor. From his vantage point upon the cell floor, he could not make out anything meaningful--but the sound of footsteps echoed in his ears. Someone was coming. He strained to hear...
Post by Zorn Agammond on Feb 9, 2013 22:23:55 GMT -5
Lady Amarills Astucieux walks along with the guards, though she had been told not to... She had infact been sneaking peeks in the cells along the way to the headsman. She Wasn't at all suprised by what she saw... Filth, filth, filth... She couldn't help but be amused by the guards reactions to her illusions.
As either Sion or The cell came into view she smirks, her eyes seem to light up with a sadistic gleam in anticipation to what she was about to do.
Axe swinging in one hand with a torch in the other, the Torturer came bounding into view before the party, frozen smile stuck in place. "Madame." He spoke, playing with the word in his deep baritone. He waved off his guards with a roar, advancing on them as they fled. He began to laugh: "I hope they weren't a bother. The General insists I have guards. Shall we?" He continued, obviously struggling with the words, jerking his head towards the door of the cell while gazing at her as if she were just another piece of meat with his dead, red eyes.
Post by Zorn Agammond on Feb 9, 2013 23:49:06 GMT -5
Amarills let out a small laugh as he roars at the guards, they would find her illusion broken. Not that it mattered anymore. She notices him looking at her as though she were meat, it didn't seem to phase her in the slightest. smiling seemingly without a care in the world, she approaches the axe wielding undead man. Looping and arm around his, "Not a bother at all..." After all, she had LeBlanc chasing her at one point... And there will never be anything as terrifying as that. "Lead the way."
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