HOME | DD

Description
Morelunain entered the temple; mind still entirely engrossed in the images of the sacrifice. As he passed through the black gates, a priest appeared beside him, paced to be just slightly behind him and off to the side, like a nagging guilt. It was the only way he ever felt such a weak sensation any longer. Weakness was not looked upon approvingly by his dark lady, the goddess-queen of his life, and so he removed it from him as a man removes the swaddling clothes from his infancy and takes on the more sturdy clothes of manhood. The two walked along the quiet passageway to the sanctuary in silence for long minutes.

"It is finished," he finally said.

"It is good that it is done/The dark lady would have it no other way," the priest replied in the double-tongued, double-voiced clamor that signified a true cleric of Tarhanniel.

A man once said that a true cleric would have to be like two men of identical perceptions: one holy and in contact with their god, the other natural and in contact with those not so enlightened. The dark lady decided to turn this into her signature to discern true clerics of her faith. She took two priests who wished to ascend to clerical status and joined them mind, body, and soul. But she put two of opposing perceptions. After all, things were more interesting when the simplest problem was observed in two opposite lights then simultaneously attacked by opposing powers. All-powerful, yet powerless.

"Yes," he continued with the darker mind, as was his tendency.

"She would have it no other way/ She deserves it no other way.

"You are very loyal to her, aren't you/She feeds her pet power, and he does tricks for her favor."

"Yes." Reaching the sanctuary, they continued on, moving to a stairway in the back that plummeted into an inky well of darkness strong enough as to be a physical presence. The descent spiraling down to the worship chamber felt to the patient Morelunain as though it took an eternity to reach this holiest--or unholiest--of places.

Here had the powers of fire been granted him, and now he returned for another mission by his lady. She seemed to make these missions herself to best use his range of talents. Though, of late the missions were more taxing and less fulfilling than they once had been. The cleric opened the door to the chamber and allowed Morelunain entrance. Then he closed the door and stood blocking the entrance for any other wishing entrance.

Inside, there was less darkness, though it was still heavy in the air. An altar stood opposite the door, a single enormous black pearl carved into a smooth, ovular statue of a pile of skulls. Each skull was individually carved, no two being the same. Human skulls, and elven, those of cattle, of birds, of children. Skulls of every sentient race and insentient creature. The flat, level platform on the top was large enough for a large steed to be lain down for offering, as had been done in the past. It was said that the pearl altar grew; that the skull of each sacrifice was formed in the base or sides of the altar. To either side of the altar were two small silver lamp stands, each topped with a golden hand, palm up and parallel with the ground. A censer of pungent, overpowering incense hung limply from each hand as it clutched a round, dark candle. Instruments for sacrifice were hung from the walls everywhere.

Morelunain noticed also, in the mindless dread-ecstasy that he felt in this unholy place, that the light of the candles was being held back by the darkness, instead of the usual of light forcing the darkness back. This was most noticeable at the door, where that tangible darkness of the stairwell seeped in under it.

He did not know whether he had adequately pleased his lady with his last sacrifice to be allowed more power or if he would only get a vision of what his next mission was to be. He did not know what messenger might appear in this vision or, if he was lucky, within the Chamber with him. He had not brought a sacrifice, and he did not know if he would be ignored for this pointed change in the customary ritual. He did not know if what he was about to do would be frowned upon by the Dark Queen Tarhanniel. He did not know, but he was not afraid. He had decided to try this method while he was making his sacrifice three days ago, and he would not back down for fear. This would be worth the risk if it pleased his lady.

Slowly, ever so carefully, he removed his thick, black cloak and laid it out perfectly on the ground. Then he removed his armor, even more carefully, and placed it out on his cloak as it would look on him. Breastplate with supple chain mail shirt within set at the top of the cloak. Shoulder guards attached to breastplate. Arm guards to cover the upper arm, working with the shoulder guard seamlessly so that there was neither any point where the mail was seen nor any restriction on the range of motion. Chain mail gloves attached to the sleeves of the shirt and were covered by vambraces made so that each joint of the finger and the wrist could move as though without any covering but a thin woolen glove. The vambraces stretched up to the elbow, where they worked to not only do to the elbow what was done at the shoulder, but there was also a thin, spiked blade that ran out of the back of each vambrace. This blade fit within a special crease in the arm guard when the two ran in a line together. Mail pants joined with the shirt, and mail socks joined with the pants. Thigh guards and greaves did to the legs as the arm guards and vambraces did to the arms. Boots covering the feet allowed for full range of motion at the ankle. All of this was made of the same dark, mysterious steel that was able to be extremely thin while still incredibly strong, even without the magical enchantments he had added. Plate and chain together covered him as though he wore merely a layer of wool and a layer of silk, yet it was inconceivably resilient and impossibly light, a mere twenty-six pounds. Nothing could penetrate that armor, be it arrow, blade, or even water. The mail seemed also to prevent sweat from accumulating or, perhaps, from even developing.

He had once been unhorsed and trampled when he first got his armor, before it had been magically reinforced. The force of the weight of a war-horse and a fully armored knight would have put a hole in any stainless steel armor far thicker than that armor which he wore. He had, himself, pointed out that the armor seemed too thin. And yet the dent made over his stomach was barely a finger's width deep and a palm's breadth across. The mage-smith at the temple easily fixed it. Morelunain had not removed the armor, save that on his hands, since it had been returned to him five years ago.

The armor's only enchantment when it had been given him was the darkening spell. The metal began a silver-white color, but darkened to black as the knight gained power. His had been brand new when the dent had been made and fixed. It was soot black the next year. He realized that, since the sacrifice three days ago, there was now a new coloration on the armor. The flickering of the flames had never left.

He placed lastly his sword, daggers, and darts to the side of each hand.

Naked, he looked at what five years had done for his physique. The muscles promised by the outline of the armor were now apparent on him, tight and firm even while relaxed. None could call him ugly and, had his face not been so hard and cold, he would truly be a gloriously handsome man. The long, raven hair on his head hung down to the middle of his back. His body was now entirely hairless, though, and fingernails had been reabsorbed into the fingers. The skin was paler than it had once been, but would still look tanned to those who did not look at the much darker skin on his exposed face and neck. He looked down at his new, black skin. It was identical in every aspect, save the toes, to his true body. He realized that it was as if he was the soul escaped from the body, roaming free from physical bonds.

Now that he was uncovered, he approached the altar and took up a ceremonial blade. He sliced deeply into the flesh of his forearms straight up to the back of the wrist. The blade was exceeding thin and sharper than any that he carried. The blood trickled slowly out onto the altar. When it was covered thinly in his blood, he lay upon the altar and closed his eyes, waiting for the vision...

"And what, Morelunain, do you think you are doing now?" an amused woman's voice asked him. He opened his eyes, sat up on the altar, and beheld a woman more beautiful than he had ever imagined possible. Platinum hair gliding down her back, a little longer than his own. Pale, soft looking skin was seen on her face, arms, and legs. A thin, milky red slip covered her torso. It covered none of her legs, and had no shoulder straps, so that it looked almost as if she had fastened a towel around herself. Her ample bosom was almost half revealed. Large, red, pouting lips rested under a fine-featured nose. And above this nose balanced a pair of large, crystal clear blue eyes, with long lashes that were used to enticingly look through.

"Truly you are beautiful, mistress of my Lady," Morelunain began. "I am offering my own body to our Queen, that she may see I am hers entirely. If I have displeased her by this act, then she may end my life now on this altar."

"Well, let me tell you that I can personally tell you that she is very pleased with you. More pleased, in fact, than she is with many of her own clerics and even some of her handmaidens. Even this sacrifice has been happily accepted. See how even now your skull forms at the base of the altar. Only those sacrifices she receives in good favor appear."

"You speak as one who sits always at her feet, honored mistress."

"Oh no," she laughed, a tinkling, beautiful noise. "No, never so low as her feet. I am better than that."

Anger rose in Morelunain. "Are you saying, mistress, that you are the equal of the Dark Queen, Tarhanniel?"

Again, she laughed. "No, no. Nor her better. I am her, foolish Morelunain. I am your Dark Queen. Hear my words and know them to be true."

His anger quickly dissipated, replaced by a sense of awe. "My Lady, I am not worthy," he exclaimed, looking down at her feet. "I never believed that I would one day be allowed into your full presence or be able to converse with you."

"Yes, well, you now see that you are in my company. I hope my appearance does not offend your tastes? If not, then why only gaze upon my feet? Lovely as they are, my face is far more appealing, is it not?"

His gaze rose again. "My Queen, you speak truly. But I am unworthy of such gifts as looking upon your radiant face."

"If I found you unworthy, I would have sent one of my handmaidens. They can suffice for even my clerics. But you, you I am pleased with as I have rarely been pleased with anyone. Your sacrifices are always made spectacularly. Many times, this time included, you have made a sacrifice like I have never before been given. This sacrifice you place yourself completely at my feet, to do exactly as I please," her eyes ran playfully over his body. "Your creativity in destruction surprises even myself sometimes. What little power you have been given you have used to its fullest potential. And now, I am here to reward you."

She shifted her body slightly, and the slip fell away, fully revealing the perfect female form underneath. His shock and her beauty stole the breath from his body. His jaw dropped and he would have inhaled had her own mouth not at that very moment found his, locking him in a long kiss. She pushed him back onto the altar and climbed atop him.

Breaking away from the kiss for a moment, Tarhanniel purred, "Accept now the reward I grant my most faithful servant." And then, before he could reply, the kiss was rejoined, and unimaginable carnal pleasure enveloped his being.

Description
Morelunain entered the temple; mind still entirely engrossed in the images of the sacrifice. As he passed through the black gates, a priest appeared beside him, paced to be just slightly behind him and off to the side, like a nagging guilt. It was the only way he ever felt such a weak sensation any longer. Weakness was not looked upon approvingly by his dark lady, the goddess-queen of his life, and so he removed it from him as a man removes the swaddling clothes from his infancy and takes on the more sturdy clothes of manhood. The two walked along the quiet passageway to the sanctuary in silence for long minutes.

"It is finished," he finally said.

"It is good that it is done/The dark lady would have it no other way," the priest replied in the double-tongued, double-voiced clamor that signified a true cleric of Tarhanniel.

A man once said that a true cleric would have to be like two men of identical perceptions: one holy and in contact with their god, the other natural and in contact with those not so enlightened. The dark lady decided to turn this into her signature to discern true clerics of her faith. She took two priests who wished to ascend to clerical status and joined them mind, body, and soul. But she put two of opposing perceptions. After all, things were more interesting when the simplest problem was observed in two opposite lights then simultaneously attacked by opposing powers. All-powerful, yet powerless.

"Yes," he continued with the darker mind, as was his tendency.

"She would have it no other way/ She deserves it no other way.

"You are very loyal to her, aren't you/She feeds her pet power, and he does tricks for her favor."

"Yes." Reaching the sanctuary, they continued on, moving to a stairway in the back that plummeted into an inky well of darkness strong enough as to be a physical presence. The descent spiraling down to the worship chamber felt to the patient Morelunain as though it took an eternity to reach this holiest--or unholiest--of places.

Here had the powers of fire been granted him, and now he returned for another mission by his lady. She seemed to make these missions herself to best use his range of talents. Though, of late the missions were more taxing and less fulfilling than they once had been. The cleric opened the door to the chamber and allowed Morelunain entrance. Then he closed the door and stood blocking the entrance for any other wishing entrance.

Inside, there was less darkness, though it was still heavy in the air. An altar stood opposite the door, a single enormous black pearl carved into a smooth, ovular statue of a pile of skulls. Each skull was individually carved, no two being the same. Human skulls, and elven, those of cattle, of birds, of children. Skulls of every sentient race and insentient creature. The flat, level platform on the top was large enough for a large steed to be lain down for offering, as had been done in the past. It was said that the pearl altar grew; that the skull of each sacrifice was formed in the base or sides of the altar. To either side of the altar were two small silver lamp stands, each topped with a golden hand, palm up and parallel with the ground. A censer of pungent, overpowering incense hung limply from each hand as it clutched a round, dark candle. Instruments for sacrifice were hung from the walls everywhere.

Morelunain noticed also, in the mindless dread-ecstasy that he felt in this unholy place, that the light of the candles was being held back by the darkness, instead of the usual of light forcing the darkness back. This was most noticeable at the door, where that tangible darkness of the stairwell seeped in under it.

He did not know whether he had adequately pleased his lady with his last sacrifice to be allowed more power or if he would only get a vision of what his next mission was to be. He did not know what messenger might appear in this vision or, if he was lucky, within the Chamber with him. He had not brought a sacrifice, and he did not know if he would be ignored for this pointed change in the customary ritual. He did not know if what he was about to do would be frowned upon by the Dark Queen Tarhanniel. He did not know, but he was not afraid. He had decided to try this method while he was making his sacrifice three days ago, and he would not back down for fear. This would be worth the risk if it pleased his lady.

Slowly, ever so carefully, he removed his thick, black cloak and laid it out perfectly on the ground. Then he removed his armor, even more carefully, and placed it out on his cloak as it would look on him. Breastplate with supple chain mail shirt within set at the top of the cloak. Shoulder guards attached to breastplate. Arm guards to cover the upper arm, working with the shoulder guard seamlessly so that there was neither any point where the mail was seen nor any restriction on the range of motion. Chain mail gloves attached to the sleeves of the shirt and were covered by vambraces made so that each joint of the finger and the wrist could move as though without any covering but a thin woolen glove. The vambraces stretched up to the elbow, where they worked to not only do to the elbow what was done at the shoulder, but there was also a thin, spiked blade that ran out of the back of each vambrace. This blade fit within a special crease in the arm guard when the two ran in a line together. Mail pants joined with the shirt, and mail socks joined with the pants. Thigh guards and greaves did to the legs as the arm guards and vambraces did to the arms. Boots covering the feet allowed for full range of motion at the ankle. All of this was made of the same dark, mysterious steel that was able to be extremely thin while still incredibly strong, even without the magical enchantments he had added. Plate and chain together covered him as though he wore merely a layer of wool and a layer of silk, yet it was inconceivably resilient and impossibly light, a mere twenty-six pounds. Nothing could penetrate that armor, be it arrow, blade, or even water. The mail seemed also to prevent sweat from accumulating or, perhaps, from even developing.

He had once been unhorsed and trampled when he first got his armor, before it had been magically reinforced. The force of the weight of a war-horse and a fully armored knight would have put a hole in any stainless steel armor far thicker than that armor which he wore. He had, himself, pointed out that the armor seemed too thin. And yet the dent made over his stomach was barely a finger's width deep and a palm's breadth across. The mage-smith at the temple easily fixed it. Morelunain had not removed the armor, save that on his hands, since it had been returned to him five years ago.

The armor's only enchantment when it had been given him was the darkening spell. The metal began a silver-white color, but darkened to black as the knight gained power. His had been brand new when the dent had been made and fixed. It was soot black the next year. He realized that, since the sacrifice three days ago, there was now a new coloration on the armor. The flickering of the flames had never left.

He placed lastly his sword, daggers, and darts to the side of each hand.

Naked, he looked at what five years had done for his physique. The muscles promised by the outline of the armor were now apparent on him, tight and firm even while relaxed. None could call him ugly and, had his face not been so hard and cold, he would truly be a gloriously handsome man. The long, raven hair on his head hung down to the middle of his back. His body was now entirely hairless, though, and fingernails had been reabsorbed into the fingers. The skin was paler than it had once been, but would still look tanned to those who did not look at the much darker skin on his exposed face and neck. He looked down at his new, black skin. It was identical in every aspect, save the toes, to his true body. He realized that it was as if he was the soul escaped from the body, roaming free from physical bonds.

Now that he was uncovered, he approached the altar and took up a ceremonial blade. He sliced deeply into the flesh of his forearms straight up to the back of the wrist. The blade was exceeding thin and sharper than any that he carried. The blood trickled slowly out onto the altar. When it was covered thinly in his blood, he lay upon the altar and closed his eyes, waiting for the vision...

"And what, Morelunain, do you think you are doing now?" an amused woman's voice asked him. He opened his eyes, sat up on the altar, and beheld a woman more beautiful than he had ever imagined possible. Platinum hair gliding down her back, a little longer than his own. Pale, soft looking skin was seen on her face, arms, and legs. A thin, milky red slip covered her torso. It covered none of her legs, and had no shoulder straps, so that it looked almost as if she had fastened a towel around herself. Her ample bosom was almost half revealed. Large, red, pouting lips rested under a fine-featured nose. And above this nose balanced a pair of large, crystal clear blue eyes, with long lashes that were used to enticingly look through.

"Truly you are beautiful, mistress of my Lady," Morelunain began. "I am offering my own body to our Queen, that she may see I am hers entirely. If I have displeased her by this act, then she may end my life now on this altar."

"Well, let me tell you that I can personally tell you that she is very pleased with you. More pleased, in fact, than she is with many of her own clerics and even some of her handmaidens. Even this sacrifice has been happily accepted. See how even now your skull forms at the base of the altar. Only those sacrifices she receives in good favor appear."

"You speak as one who sits always at her feet, honored mistress."

"Oh no," she laughed, a tinkling, beautiful noise. "No, never so low as her feet. I am better than that."

Anger rose in Morelunain. "Are you saying, mistress, that you are the equal of the Dark Queen, Tarhanniel?"

Again, she laughed. "No, no. Nor her better. I am her, foolish Morelunain. I am your Dark Queen. Hear my words and know them to be true."

His anger quickly dissipated, replaced by a sense of awe. "My Lady, I am not worthy," he exclaimed, looking down at her feet. "I never believed that I would one day be allowed into your full presence or be able to converse with you."

"Yes, well, you now see that you are in my company. I hope my appearance does not offend your tastes? If not, then why only gaze upon my feet? Lovely as they are, my face is far more appealing, is it not?"

His gaze rose again. "My Queen, you speak truly. But I am unworthy of such gifts as looking upon your radiant face."

"If I found you unworthy, I would have sent one of my handmaidens. They can suffice for even my clerics. But you, you I am pleased with as I have rarely been pleased with anyone. Your sacrifices are always made spectacularly. Many times, this time included, you have made a sacrifice like I have never before been given. This sacrifice you place yourself completely at my feet, to do exactly as I please," her eyes ran playfully over his body. "Your creativity in destruction surprises even myself sometimes. What little power you have been given you have used to its fullest potential. And now, I am here to reward you."

She shifted her body slightly, and the slip fell away, fully revealing the perfect female form underneath. His shock and her beauty stole the breath from his body. His jaw dropped and he would have inhaled had her own mouth not at that very moment found his, locking him in a long kiss. She pushed him back onto the altar and climbed atop him.

Breaking away from the kiss for a moment, Tarhanniel purred, "Accept now the reward I grant my most faithful servant." And then, before he could reply, the kiss was rejoined, and unimaginable carnal pleasure enveloped his being.