Post by kingfaraday on Aug 25, 2017 10:39:57 GMT -6
Swiftly Lost
by The masked man
Diana dismounted, landing lightly on her toes with impossible litheness. She stood up, her slow breath caught misty and visible in the chill air that surrounded the castle. She looked skyward, the thick iron clouds hugging close and dark around the rising spires and towers. They were blue and cold, hewn of ice, one might say, and feel, for the cold there was insufferable, inescapable. Diana shivered in her armor, scant as it was. Armbands of gold, a small collar and a jeweled belt, set against burgundy cloth, a small piece to hold her lush, swollen breasts, another to ensconce her groin, though most of her rich, smooth legs were open to the air. She was, though, one befitting such attire, the daughter of the twelfth king of Lorandell, with the noble features of her kingly blood and the soft beauty of her mothers before her, priestesses all, pure and radiant. She was a masterpiece, the product of careful lineage, a beauty destined for legend. And a warrior, she was, like no other. She ran as the autumn wind, knew strength beyond the hope of most hardy men, and it was said that a note from her nightingales voice would lull the sword out of a demons hands. And so, as she stood defiantly before the great crystal gates of Teraldorath, the citadel of the sorceress Gala, she felt no fear and knew no worry. She strode forward, hand on her dagger, prepared for anything. Anything, of course, but an open invitation. She leapt back in surprise as the gates thundered at her approach, grinding apart to allow her entry. She knew it was a trap, but no trap could contain her, as no cage can hold the phoenixes fire. She walked through the gates, into the court yard. This had once been a fair tower, Dellgaluvath, in the Alcharian tongue, a way stand of her fathers empire, a vestige of times long past, when the darkness still welled and pooled about the northern borders of the land. But now, in the years of peace, it had been neglected, and stood empty until the icy grip of Gala fell upon it, and she took it as her own. This was an affront to the empire, and demanded direct and immediate action, and though normally this would have been solved with a legion of imperial soldiers, Diana begged her father to let her go instead, to fell the pathetic spell thrift, and to ad to her growing fame. He had relented, trusting both in his daughters strength and his enemies apparent weakness, an old, withered hag as she was said to be. So, there she found herself, in the frozen courtyard of a once fine place, breathing in the icy air with what could only be described as a sort of lust, a passionate rapture of anticipation akin to gazing at a naked lover strewn across a soft bed. It was simply that she loved the act of defeating, destroying, to see another humbled and base before her obvious might, her eternal glory. This, to her, was pleasure beyond the sweaty thrusts of her man servants, the taste of rich food, the quiet song of birds. She lived for it. She giggled to herself as she mounted the winding stairs, growing to a sneering laugh that echoed upwards, the rumor of which Gala heard even in her chamber at the very apex of the spire. But, instead of quailing at the laugh, she chuckled back, limping about the room, readying things, adjusting tomes and stone casts, nearly singing to herself for joy. The laugh was louder when she paused at last before a great altar, though still distant. Gala cleared her throat and read from the book propped before her…quiet, muttered. A wind was born before her, though nothing like a young wind of springtime, with cheer and life in its folds, this was a deathly wind, hovering, swirling there, almost a shadow, it seemed. With another word she sent it speeding down the stairs. A moment later, Diana felt a wave of unease, almost nausea, which passed before she could experience it fully. She paused, and coughed, for it seemed that there was something fell about her last breath, a plague wind, perhaps…but a moment later it had passed entirely, and she all but forgot it as she leapt forward once more. Gala sniggered to herself, shuffling over to a large mirror propped against the wall. She stood as erect as her withered form allowed, gazing intently into her, sagging, wrinkled face. She smiled. Diana continued upwards, a grim smile set on her lips. She was almost there, she could practically see the old woman, prostrate before her, weeping and wailing for mercy. She laughed again. Then, she paused. She laughed again, and listened. Her voice was different. She tried again, speaking clearly. Her voice was a little deeper than usual…probably the echo. She started on again, but soon found herself quite out of breath, climbing at her normal pace. She slowed her pace, breathing hard. She had never been out of breath before. Never had she paused once in all her adventures. But here, now, she struggled to catch her breath. As she did so, a nagging cough caught in her throat, and for a moment, she bent and hacked like a crone. She straightened up, her back popping and stiff. “uuuhhh…” she moaned, rubbing with an equally stiff arm. Her skin felt strange, soft and rubbery, loose. She began to climb again, and found the task nearly overwhelming. She would ascend two or three stairs, and have to stop, stooping and wheezing. She began to notice her garments slipping or binding, her top piece was tight on the bottom of her breasts…she reached down to adjust it and gasped in shock. Meeting her hands was not the warm, firm bosum that was truly hers, but rather a soft, pallid sagging thing, pulling at the fabric, hanging obscenely, exposing pale flesh speckled with age. “N-no!” she gasped, extending her hands. They were slender and gnarled, loose, pale skin hanging, dotted with liver spots. Her knuckles were swollen and red, and they shook uncertainly. She moaned and wailed, reaching up to touch her face, her beautiful, legendary face, and felt only the wrinkled face of an elderly woman. She had grown old, there, on the stair case, caught in the web of Gala’s spell. She sobbed and wailed, her old lungs wheezing and coughing. Her long, black locks hung iron grey in her face, and about the jeweled belt there rested and sagging paunch. She hobbled upwards, knowing nothing else to do, moaning with every step, her withered legs barely able to keep her aloft, shaking with the exertion of barely standing. She could not breathe, each breathe a ragged wheeze, a toothless, moaning gasp. Soon her sight softened, blurred, and a shrill whine masked most of her hearing. Her breasts hung like the withered udders of an old goat, with one last gulp of rancid milk to keep them from becoming flat, empty bags. Her hip cracked with each step forward, her back arching stiff and immovable, forcing her to crawl semi blind up the stairs, one step at a time, resting for long spells in between. Finally, after a lifetime of climbing those stairs, she saw through her rheumy eyes a growing light. And so it was that Diana, the young warrior princess of the Lorandell, hobbled into the chamber of Gala, no longer young, no longer beautiful, but rather a withered and sagging old woman, wheezing and coughing, trying to speak with a toothless mouth, trying to see with eyes pale and dim. And there before her stood Gala, the old hag, but no, no longer. In her place there was a mighty beauty, a dark queen, young and glowing with vitality. Upon seeing the ruined princess. Gala laughed, full, and passionate and long. “You came here to vanquish me, to make me beg on my old knees for mercy, to grovel as a hag at the feet of a queen. Well, it seems things have changed.” Diana shuffled forward, her legs quavering in their weakness, her knarled hands grabbing at Gala’s robes for support. She looked up, the swimming blur of a young womans face towering above. “p-p-please, please...how did you do this to me…make me young again, I will leave you alone…please…” As she spoke, tears rolled down her lined face, and she sobbed wretched, hacking sobs. “Ha! No pity you would have shown me, I am sure. I would have been hauled to the courts, stripped of my power, set on the street as a beggar woman. No, I shall not bestow upon you the gift of youth, you have earned the years that lay heavily on you. I will send you back to your city, so all may see the wrath of Gala, and all may gape in wonder at the ruins I have made thee.” Diana wailed, sinking to her knees as one final layer of time fell on her, and she shriveled into a decrepit hag, drooling and moaning, not even the strength to cry out. Gala gave her a walking pole of ash wood, and put on the road, hobbling slowly along, her gold armor, the scant attire of a young woman in her prime hanging on her withered frame, her sagging breasts exposed, her stomach lolling over her belt, her long hair hanging ridiculously, grey white. And so, she returned to the city, and at first no one believed her tale, but as the days grew and no sign of the princess was seen, they grew to understand that this old woman, bent and withered, was their princess, their beauty of legend. From that day onward, no imperial legion passed within ten leagues of Gala, and slowly her power grew. A day would come when all of the kingdom would fall to old age by her withering words, but that is another tale. Diana, the beautiful, lived for many years, miserable and old searching always for youth, but never would it be hers again.
by The masked man
Diana dismounted, landing lightly on her toes with impossible litheness. She stood up, her slow breath caught misty and visible in the chill air that surrounded the castle. She looked skyward, the thick iron clouds hugging close and dark around the rising spires and towers. They were blue and cold, hewn of ice, one might say, and feel, for the cold there was insufferable, inescapable. Diana shivered in her armor, scant as it was. Armbands of gold, a small collar and a jeweled belt, set against burgundy cloth, a small piece to hold her lush, swollen breasts, another to ensconce her groin, though most of her rich, smooth legs were open to the air. She was, though, one befitting such attire, the daughter of the twelfth king of Lorandell, with the noble features of her kingly blood and the soft beauty of her mothers before her, priestesses all, pure and radiant. She was a masterpiece, the product of careful lineage, a beauty destined for legend. And a warrior, she was, like no other. She ran as the autumn wind, knew strength beyond the hope of most hardy men, and it was said that a note from her nightingales voice would lull the sword out of a demons hands. And so, as she stood defiantly before the great crystal gates of Teraldorath, the citadel of the sorceress Gala, she felt no fear and knew no worry. She strode forward, hand on her dagger, prepared for anything. Anything, of course, but an open invitation. She leapt back in surprise as the gates thundered at her approach, grinding apart to allow her entry. She knew it was a trap, but no trap could contain her, as no cage can hold the phoenixes fire. She walked through the gates, into the court yard. This had once been a fair tower, Dellgaluvath, in the Alcharian tongue, a way stand of her fathers empire, a vestige of times long past, when the darkness still welled and pooled about the northern borders of the land. But now, in the years of peace, it had been neglected, and stood empty until the icy grip of Gala fell upon it, and she took it as her own. This was an affront to the empire, and demanded direct and immediate action, and though normally this would have been solved with a legion of imperial soldiers, Diana begged her father to let her go instead, to fell the pathetic spell thrift, and to ad to her growing fame. He had relented, trusting both in his daughters strength and his enemies apparent weakness, an old, withered hag as she was said to be. So, there she found herself, in the frozen courtyard of a once fine place, breathing in the icy air with what could only be described as a sort of lust, a passionate rapture of anticipation akin to gazing at a naked lover strewn across a soft bed. It was simply that she loved the act of defeating, destroying, to see another humbled and base before her obvious might, her eternal glory. This, to her, was pleasure beyond the sweaty thrusts of her man servants, the taste of rich food, the quiet song of birds. She lived for it. She giggled to herself as she mounted the winding stairs, growing to a sneering laugh that echoed upwards, the rumor of which Gala heard even in her chamber at the very apex of the spire. But, instead of quailing at the laugh, she chuckled back, limping about the room, readying things, adjusting tomes and stone casts, nearly singing to herself for joy. The laugh was louder when she paused at last before a great altar, though still distant. Gala cleared her throat and read from the book propped before her…quiet, muttered. A wind was born before her, though nothing like a young wind of springtime, with cheer and life in its folds, this was a deathly wind, hovering, swirling there, almost a shadow, it seemed. With another word she sent it speeding down the stairs. A moment later, Diana felt a wave of unease, almost nausea, which passed before she could experience it fully. She paused, and coughed, for it seemed that there was something fell about her last breath, a plague wind, perhaps…but a moment later it had passed entirely, and she all but forgot it as she leapt forward once more. Gala sniggered to herself, shuffling over to a large mirror propped against the wall. She stood as erect as her withered form allowed, gazing intently into her, sagging, wrinkled face. She smiled. Diana continued upwards, a grim smile set on her lips. She was almost there, she could practically see the old woman, prostrate before her, weeping and wailing for mercy. She laughed again. Then, she paused. She laughed again, and listened. Her voice was different. She tried again, speaking clearly. Her voice was a little deeper than usual…probably the echo. She started on again, but soon found herself quite out of breath, climbing at her normal pace. She slowed her pace, breathing hard. She had never been out of breath before. Never had she paused once in all her adventures. But here, now, she struggled to catch her breath. As she did so, a nagging cough caught in her throat, and for a moment, she bent and hacked like a crone. She straightened up, her back popping and stiff. “uuuhhh…” she moaned, rubbing with an equally stiff arm. Her skin felt strange, soft and rubbery, loose. She began to climb again, and found the task nearly overwhelming. She would ascend two or three stairs, and have to stop, stooping and wheezing. She began to notice her garments slipping or binding, her top piece was tight on the bottom of her breasts…she reached down to adjust it and gasped in shock. Meeting her hands was not the warm, firm bosum that was truly hers, but rather a soft, pallid sagging thing, pulling at the fabric, hanging obscenely, exposing pale flesh speckled with age. “N-no!” she gasped, extending her hands. They were slender and gnarled, loose, pale skin hanging, dotted with liver spots. Her knuckles were swollen and red, and they shook uncertainly. She moaned and wailed, reaching up to touch her face, her beautiful, legendary face, and felt only the wrinkled face of an elderly woman. She had grown old, there, on the stair case, caught in the web of Gala’s spell. She sobbed and wailed, her old lungs wheezing and coughing. Her long, black locks hung iron grey in her face, and about the jeweled belt there rested and sagging paunch. She hobbled upwards, knowing nothing else to do, moaning with every step, her withered legs barely able to keep her aloft, shaking with the exertion of barely standing. She could not breathe, each breathe a ragged wheeze, a toothless, moaning gasp. Soon her sight softened, blurred, and a shrill whine masked most of her hearing. Her breasts hung like the withered udders of an old goat, with one last gulp of rancid milk to keep them from becoming flat, empty bags. Her hip cracked with each step forward, her back arching stiff and immovable, forcing her to crawl semi blind up the stairs, one step at a time, resting for long spells in between. Finally, after a lifetime of climbing those stairs, she saw through her rheumy eyes a growing light. And so it was that Diana, the young warrior princess of the Lorandell, hobbled into the chamber of Gala, no longer young, no longer beautiful, but rather a withered and sagging old woman, wheezing and coughing, trying to speak with a toothless mouth, trying to see with eyes pale and dim. And there before her stood Gala, the old hag, but no, no longer. In her place there was a mighty beauty, a dark queen, young and glowing with vitality. Upon seeing the ruined princess. Gala laughed, full, and passionate and long. “You came here to vanquish me, to make me beg on my old knees for mercy, to grovel as a hag at the feet of a queen. Well, it seems things have changed.” Diana shuffled forward, her legs quavering in their weakness, her knarled hands grabbing at Gala’s robes for support. She looked up, the swimming blur of a young womans face towering above. “p-p-please, please...how did you do this to me…make me young again, I will leave you alone…please…” As she spoke, tears rolled down her lined face, and she sobbed wretched, hacking sobs. “Ha! No pity you would have shown me, I am sure. I would have been hauled to the courts, stripped of my power, set on the street as a beggar woman. No, I shall not bestow upon you the gift of youth, you have earned the years that lay heavily on you. I will send you back to your city, so all may see the wrath of Gala, and all may gape in wonder at the ruins I have made thee.” Diana wailed, sinking to her knees as one final layer of time fell on her, and she shriveled into a decrepit hag, drooling and moaning, not even the strength to cry out. Gala gave her a walking pole of ash wood, and put on the road, hobbling slowly along, her gold armor, the scant attire of a young woman in her prime hanging on her withered frame, her sagging breasts exposed, her stomach lolling over her belt, her long hair hanging ridiculously, grey white. And so, she returned to the city, and at first no one believed her tale, but as the days grew and no sign of the princess was seen, they grew to understand that this old woman, bent and withered, was their princess, their beauty of legend. From that day onward, no imperial legion passed within ten leagues of Gala, and slowly her power grew. A day would come when all of the kingdom would fall to old age by her withering words, but that is another tale. Diana, the beautiful, lived for many years, miserable and old searching always for youth, but never would it be hers again.