GM Zero/GL's Giantslayer! (Inactive)

Game Master GM_Grandlounge

For a long few minutes, she considered killing him. He was actually asleep this time, not testing her — she could tell the difference. He wasn’t as clever as he thought he was. For one thing he was noisier when he actually slept. He labored for breath through his pinched nose or in drawn out gasps through his mouth. And he twitched, like the skin of a cow bedeviled by flies. Sometimes as she watched him, she would wonder if his sins were the flies that made him flinch and convulse through his wicked dreams, but Uncle Hebe had no guilt or regrets for his sins. They were the relish of his mean existence.

She padded toward him on bare feet, silent and careful as a cat. She was tall enough now to see the surface of his work bench. It was strewn with his notes and books and his vials and jars of powders and potions. A little brass spigot dripped a clear liquid into a cup near his head. Among the tools was a small knife, lying only an inch from his hand. She leaned closer to him, checking his eyes for any flicker of awareness. In the shadowy dance of the candlelight it took her a long time to be sure. Then, slow and smooth, practiced thief that she now was, she reached out and picked up the knife. She clutched it in both hands, her eyes scanning his twitchy, gasping form, looking for the best place to plunge its narrow point.

Her stomach recoiled and her throat tightened as the awareness of the opportunity bore in on her. His oily grey skin and lank stringy hair were hideous and repulsive, and the long thick nails of his dirty hands glimmered yellow in the half-light. It was already too late to turn back. He’d know she took the knife, even if she put it back. He always knew. He read her mind. He could speak the words and look at her and then she could feel him, pushing around inside her thoughts like a man in a dark room moving boxes around, looking for the one he wanted. He could do it subtly, less obviously, but he liked to remind her that she had no secrets from him.

She tried to stoke her courage and imagine herself going through with it. She could cut his throat. If she was quick she could cut him twice. If she did it right, he might not be able to speak his magical incantations. But one slip and she’d be finished. And even if she succeeded, then what? Trapped in the middle of an orc city whose layout she had no conception of— barefoot, half-naked, terrified— where could she go?

Her hands were trembling stiffly. The impulse to stab Uncle Hebe was passing and the idea of it now loomed before her as a terrifying mythic ordeal. Her arms were frozen and her heart was leaping in her chest. She couldn’t help it — the defining moment of her life reared up before her eyes, where she was driving a knife into the chest of her little brother and watching him sink down dead at her feet, then looking at her hands, still holding the knife, covered with his blood, and the screaming sound inside her ears as everything in her being collapsed and disappeared.

She turned and walked away quickly, then climbed the stairs out of the cellar, pushing open the trap door and emerging into the main room of the hovel. She wasn’t supposed to come up here without permission, but she had to get away from him and what she had almost done. She was trying not to think of him anymore, but for some reason her mind was playing a memory of him helping her read a book as he stroked his filthy fingers through her hair. It had been a nice moment. She had snuggled closer to him, enjoying his unwashed stink and his body’s warmth and his smooth reptilian voice.

“I hate him! I hate him!” she said aloud to herself, trying to remind herself, trying to convince herself.

There were no windows in the hovel. Only a doorway leading to the street covered by a rough curtain. The night was passing outside. The city was winding down and preparing to burrow away and hide itself from the glare of the oppressive sun. She moved to the doorway and peeked past the curtain. Several orcs were across the street around a campfire under a canopy. They often gathered there to drink the night away. The sky overhead was cloudy and a thin drizzle spit through the misty air. The orcs were vile and dirty and noisy, shouting and threatening and laughing rudely as they joked and snarled in their rough tongue. She knew some of them by sight, including one tall younger orc who sat silently by the fire poking it gloomily with a stick.

Lidia watched him. Stared at him might be closer to the truth. He wasn’t like the others. He was an orc, but he didn’t seem so wantonly cruel and stupid. She wondered what he was thinking about as he brooded over his fire. He looked lonely. Her staring eyes moved to his powerful bare arms, the smooth bulging muscles under his brownish green skin. He wasn’t flexing, he wasn’t even aware of being watched, but his strength lounged before her in careless glory. He wore a leather jerkin and a cloak, so her mind had to peel away the layers to view his broad chest and his tense thick neck and shoulders. It was like looking at the muscles of a horse or an ox. She put down the knife and her right hand slowly glided up her left arm, comparing her soft frailty to the vision of strength before her, goose pimples rising to meet her own touch.

She imagined speaking to him. He would be noble. Not kind exactly, but not wantonly wicked. He would have a certain dignity and masculine distance. He wouldn’t need anyone. He would be his own person. He would talk and she would listen, and she would understand all his pain. And she would reach out and move her fingers over his shoulders…

She snapped her eyes away and covered them. Daydreaming over an orc! It wasn’t the first time. Just like now it would sneak up on her and she’d find herself staring and imagining and yearning. The feelings and the sights would sing to her and draw her in and it would be so soothing and comfortable to just let her imagination drool and paw. If she wasn’t careful her lower parts would tingle and a surge of weakness would pass up her spine and her heart would quicken as a light perspiration coated her skin. She’d grow thirsty and warm and muzzy and she’d let her fingers tickle at one of her nipples contemplatively, each fond finger stroke merging with her dream-self caressing his cheek and inviting his hungry eyes to come closer and kiss her.

Somehow, without being aware of it, she was staring at him again, the tall young orc by the campfire. He was looking around now, like he was aware of being watched and was scanning for the gaze. She pulled back away from the door, but continued to stare at him, like a bird unable to look away from an approaching snake. The scenario changed — the dream orc was still strong and compelling but now he was grabbing her by the neck and holding her down. He was straddling over her, his weight pressed down on her and smothered her, leaving her helpless to fight back. She pushed and struggled and exhausted herself and he was pushing his face all over her, taking what he wanted. She felt herself getting warm all over and a violent thrill rolled through her like a wave. Then the dream orc punched her in the eye and called her a disgusting name and she felt her whimpering heart cry out with melting ecstasy.

Her reverie was ended sharply as vice-like fingers clamped onto her ear and yanked her head up and back.

“Well, well, well. What a wicked child we are.” sneered Uncle Hebe’s all too familiar voice. She squealed in pain — it felt like he was ripping her ear off her head. “And what are we doing up here, eh? Contemplating escape maybe? Maybe just a stroll in the morning rain? And after All - I’ve - Done - For - You.”

“Let go! Please!”

He wrenched her ear again, causing her to yelp and forcing her to cry.

“I’ve been too good to you. You’ll have to be punished.”

“Please! I’m sorry! I won’t do it again! Oww… oh oww!”

He released her roughly and hunched down, bringing his face close to hers.

“Tears is it? Spare me the performance, my little jug. You’ll not get off that easily. This gives me no pleasure, but I can’t let you simply do as you please. No, no, little pet. It breaks my old heart, but you have to learn a lesson.”

She lowered her head and nodded in abject submission, still weeping miserably.

He looked at her, considering, savoring various potential cruelties, then took a handful of her hair, preparing to yank.

“I’ll give you a choice,” he said, tilting his head sideways, speaking in a voice that oozed a false benevolence. “You must give something up. Your dress… or your cat.”

She looked up at him in shock. Uncle Hebe had given her a kitten three months after he had brought her to Urgir 4 years ago. It was something to coax her out of her wordless catatonia, but it had also felt like an act of actual kindness. It was typical of the vile half-orc that he could confuse a hundred petty cruelties with occasional acts of simple paternal generosity. It had been her one toy, her one friend, her one confidant ever since. Like her it was rarely allowed out of the cellar — if it escaped into the street it would not last 10 minutes with thousands of wicked hungry orcs about.

But her dress? She had only one. It was ragged and stained and now fit her growing frame so poorly as barely to cover her full torso. Without it she had only a wretched linen loincloth made from rags. It was a miserable thing, but it was all she had to cover herself. She shivered involuntarily at the imagined chill of the cellar air, sleeping naked on the dirty cold stone floor without even those meager scraps. And even worse, the thought of Uncle Hebe looking at her changing body filled her with overpowering shame. She had not merely grown taller in the last several months. Long, black, spidery hairs bloomed under her arms and between her legs. She was aware that parts of her were slowly expanding, like rising dough. Her chest was puffy and misshapen, and the space under her nipples was sore and hard much of the time. It was strange and horrible to have her body taken from her and replaced piecemeal with these unsightly lumps. As she thought of the prospect of losing her only covering, her arms moved up and tightly hugged herself protectively.

“When can I have them back?” she asked in a high quavering voice.

“Never. If you give me the dress, I’ll burn it. And if you give me the kitty… I’ll cook it and feed it to you.” he said, suddenly grinning with a slimy smile. He gave her hair a few playful warning tugs. “Choose.”

She shook her head and looked angrily at him. “I hate you!” With a quick motion, she grabbed up the knife and sliced at his arm.

But he was too quick. He released her and leaped backward. He spoke a single word and held his right hand out at her like a claw grasping some invisible knob and she felt her muscles knot up and freeze in a cramping agony. With his other hand he reached out and plucked the knife from her now helpless grasp.

“Oh my pretty little chuck, you really truly shouldn’t play with my knives.” he drawled cruelly, his face leering at her with a grisly smirk. “You might hurt yourself. You might even cut yourself. Take it back.”

He handed the knife out and she took it back, wholly against her will. Her body was no longer her own.

“That’s right. Now do it… come along now, don’t resist, it won’t do you any good to draw this out.”

She watched her hand draw the blade along the length of her arm and felt the sharp burning agony of the spreading wound. Hebe reached around for a bowl on a nearby table, still keeping the controlling hand pointed at her. He licked the bowl clean of yesterday’s dinner, then placed it on the floor to collect her blood.

“Oh, the fun we’re going to have. You know the things I can do when I have your blood.” he chortled. “Now choose! Or I take both!”

He released her by closing his hand, but he kept holding it up, ready to open it again at a moment’s notice. He didn’t even bother to take the knife back, and sure enough she immediately dropped it and slapped her palm over her wounded arm to staunch the bleeding gash. Her mouth tightened as anger mounted inside her. In a sudden brisk motion she wriggled free of her dress and flung it at his feet.

Like a snake, Hebe reached out and grabbed her by the hair and dragged her to the door then tossed her face-first out into the muddy street. The orcs across the way stopped and looked at her and at Hebe. Her blood mingled with the muck, and she lifted her face enough to spit the mud free of her tongue. She looked at the strong young orc. He looked at her impassively.

“You want to run away? Then run away! Live by your wits, like the little beast you are! Forget how I fed you, and clothed you and cleaned you! Forget how I took pity on you and took you in when the others wanted to throw you onto a spike! Ungrateful she-wretch!”

The orcs across the way began to look at one another and grin, enjoying the spectacle. She stood up with difficulty and tried to reenter Hebe’s hovel but he blocked her way. She knew what she had to do.

“I’m sorry Uncle Hebe.” she said in her most contrite voice, and threw her arms around the villainous half-orc. “I didn’t mean any of it. I love you. Don’t send me away. Please, please take me back.”

The orcs in the street hooted and jeered and threw clods of mud and stones at them. Hebe raised a hand to protect himself, but Lidia endured the storm.

He took her back inside and chained her to the wall in the cellar. He burned her dress as he had said he would. He didn’t feed her for three days, and didn’t speak to her for four, though he grumbled to himself just intelligibly enough in her presence to let her know how ill-used and hurt he still felt. But he left the cat alone. Whenever it came into her reach, she’d grab it up and clutch it to herself for all she was worth.