Kabal:Threshold

A sharp breeze slices through your cell, reopening the scars on your back. You pull your prison blanket tightly around you, in an attempt to close your wounds. The scars follow the claw-scratch pattern of a cat-o-nine-tails. Though you have never seen them, the monotony of your whippings has engraved the scars upon your mind. Right. Left. Right. Left. The barbed rope rips open its path across your back. You clutch the ragged remains of the battered blanket around your body and try to forget the only memory you still have. You hope for the best, an executioner to end your misery.

You no longer look up when they open your cell. You don't have to. You know what will happen. Two guards will enter your cell. They will be wearing black scaly armour with tall spiked helms. An armour so black, light doesn't even reflect off them. Not that there's much light in your prison. The dim bulb in the hallway barely illuminates the hallway, much less any of the cells.

The two guards never speak. They never speak to you. They don't speak to each other. You don't speak anymore, either. You don't remember how. The guards merely kick you until you get up. They shove you in the direction they want you to go. There is no need for words. A kick to the groin means to get up. A shove to the back says, start walking. A slap to the head, stop. A punch in the stomach means get down. They don't hurt anymore. You're ready when they come. You've done this so many times, you know when to get up, when start walking, when to stop, where to lay down. You don't even open your eyes anymore. The only thing that changes are the faces peering out of the other cells. They don't matter.

They shove you out of your cell. Out of your cell and down the hallway. Down the hallway to the left. It takes thirty-one steps to reach the first turn. Turn to the left. Twenty-nine more steps to another turn. Left again. Fourteen steps this time. Turn right. Eighty steps. In this hallway you feel the guards glide beside you. You hear the absence of their steps. You know there is a moving walkway to either side of you. Once you tried to step on it. That was the last time you actually felt a beating. That was the last time you cried.

At the end of the hallway, you wait. You hear the squeal of rusted iron. It screams like a baby for its mother. Once it frightened you. Now it merely marks the end of a passageway, the opening of a gate. It takes seven steps to enter the room. You are thrown against a hewn rock wall. Your face is pressed into the wall. It is smooth, worn by the tears of those before you. The wall is warm and sticky. You are not the first, you never are. The blood tastes sweet, the sweetness of death. The last one here must not have survived. There will be meat in the gruel today.

Your arms are pulled away from your body. Pulled out of their sockets. A rough leathery rope is wrapped tightly around your wrists. Three wraps on your left wrist. Four wraps on your right. The fourth wrap is extra tight. They still don't know you favour your left. You laugh. A strangled gasp cut short by the first crack of the cat-o-nine. Tiny barbs, sewn into the ropes, bite at your skin. They tear a trail down your back, like a motorbike through a grassfield. You don't scream. The pain is nothing new. Merely new scars over the old. The first slash is always from your right shoulder down to your left hip. The second cuts its way from your left shoulder to your right hip. Right shoulder. Left shoulder. Right shoulder. Left shoulder. Right. Left. Right. Left. Right. Left. They don't stop until the barbs of the cat-o-nine get stuck. Stuck in bare bones of your ribcage.

The ropes on your wrist are cut. Your broken body falls. You lie there, choking on the air. You keep your eyes shut tight. Your body twitches while you wait. They pour salt on your wounds. A few sprinkles at first, building to a slow trickle. Each granule bites into your open flesh. Each deeper than the last. Each more painful than the one before it. You do not scream. The fire that courses through you forces you to your feet. Forces your eyes open.

You are prodded. You are shoved to a table in the corner. A table to the left of the Wall of Tears. The table is black and smooth. Glowing with the spirits of those who died on it. The lucky ones. You will never be so lucky. They won't let you die. They heave you onto the table. The Alter of Luck, you call it. On your back, they spread your arms and legs. Rusty clamps hold you down. Once you thought the rusty clamps might break. You might escape if you just muster your strength. Now you know the rust is an illusion. An illusion to give hope. Your captors feed off hope.

The first instrument is an iron brush. They start with your chest, then work down to your belly. With bristles of sharpened iron, they rub your skin raw. Side to side. Left to right. They start with light strokes you can barely feel. Left. Left. Left. Right. Right. Right. There is a rhythm to their brushing. Left. Left. Right. Left. Left. Right. With each change of pace the brush digs deeper. Right. Right. Right. Left, left. They enjoy their work. Right. Left, left. Right, right. Left. Slowly, they brush off your outer layer of skin, leaving only pink tender flesh.

The next instrument is called the Little Imp. A device with two jagged beaks, it is adorned with little curved horns. Two tiny gems have been placed in the handle just above the beaks. Two little red eyes, that gleam with delight when the beaks pierce your flesh. The handle has been carved to look like a body with two grasping, clawed arms, two leathery, spiked wings, and two hairy, hoofed legs. A dagger tipped tail extends from the handle. Pulling the tail brings it to life. The Little Imp bites into your flesh and chews, not bothering to swallow. Rend, rend, rend. Chew, chew, chew. It starts with your left nipple. Four solid chews, then it lets go. Ahhhh, the Little Imp sighs. Three grinding bites leaves your right nipple a bloody mess. Nibble. The Little Imp whispers in your right ear. You don't understand. Your left ear doesn't get nibbled on, it just gets torn to shreds. The Little Imp kisses your upper lip, then licks the tiny nub. It grabs your lip with its beak and twists left and right, trying to rip it free. Slurp. It sucks up blood from your lips, and is sated.

The third device is a tiny hooked blade. So tiny, your captors wear the blade on a ring. The little blade is silver and polished till it gleams. The inner part of the hook is sharpened to a razor edge. The outer part is smooth and tickles like a feather. One at a time, your two guards run this blade up and down your chest. First the smooth, soothing side. Slowly, steadily it traces a rune on your chest. Left to right, a straight line across the top of you chest. Right to left, a short curve down from the left side of the first line. Left to right to left, a slashing cutback from the top of the short curve. Left to right, a short line connecting the short curve and the slashing cutback. Top to bottom to right, a hook from the middle of the first line. Left to right, a short dash about halfway down the hook. "Shi." It is the rune of death. The second guard leads with the point of the hooked blade. Tracing backwards, the point digs deep and the sharpened inside carves the rune into your chest.

The fourth implement is a length of monowire. A wire so thin, you don't even feel it touch your skin. You just feel your skin split apart as the wire is drawn across you. They start with your arms. Your right arm is first. From your wrist to your shoulder, they draw the wire in twists and turns. Slithering like a snake the wire traces its path. Up the underside of your arm. Down the backside. When your right is done, they move onto you left. From your arms they switch to your legs. Your left leg gets to be first. Starting at your feet, the wire draws a wavy path. Back and forth. Side to side. It dances up to your knee, then races to your hip. From your left hip it jumps to your right hip, then down to your foot. Your torso is next. The wire starts its journey at your crotch. It wiggles like a worm. It darts like sparrow. Back and forth. Side to side. Left to right. Bottom to top. Stop and go. Slide. Glide. Twist and turn. The wire reaches your neck after a meandering waltz across your chest. Like a tongue, the wire caresses your neck. It licks your adam's apple, then surrounds it with a lazy circle. It traces your jawbone, from ear to chin to ear. It tastes your lips, and dances a spiral dance on your cheeks. It tiptoes across your eyebrows, then sneaks across your forehead and disappears. A guard taps you once and your body flays open like a blossoming flower.

Your body is plucked from the table. Next to the table is a vat of sludge. A green sludge, that glows with the light of the souls it has consumed. It hums the death screams of those who have bathed in it. A haunting tune, it draws you near. La la la la Uuuu Wa Uuu. It grabs you by the ears and smothers your senses. It beckons to you, promising a place of comfort. La la la la Uuuu Wa Uuu. It envelops you in a blanket of warmth. Surrounds you with a sphere of safety. A guard shoves you to the sludge. It brightens as you near. It giggles when you hit it and sink like a rock. The sludge burns at your soul. It hurts. More than any physical pain. It hurts. You scream. The pain of the Cat-o-Nine, the Iron Brush, the Little Imp, the Rune of Death, and the Monowire is forgotten. The sludge burns your soul. You Scream. Your body is pulled out of the sludge. Your soul is left behind. Your body is healed, no sign of the torture you just went through. You Scream.

Your torture is done. You climb to your feet and walk to the gate. A punch to the stomach and you fall to the floor. When you can stand again, you are shoved towards a dark portal. A smoky hole in the wall, it is framed by an obsidian snake. You have never seen this before. This is not part of your torture. Where did this come from. It wasn't here last time. What lies beyond the dark portal. You've never gone through one before. Why are they doing this to you. Why are they changing the scheme of things. Why are they introducing something new. Nothing changes here. Why now.

You are shoved. Time slows. The black portal approaches. Its smoky tendrils reach out to you. You bring your arms up and cover your face. You close your eyes. You stumble forward. One step. Two. Three. Your foot catches something. You fall. You look back, but the portal isn't there. Just past your feet lies a body, the steam of life still escaping through the gash in its chest. Its face is locked in a grimace of pain and fear. Its eyes are wide open. Its teeth are clenched shut. It wears nothing. In its right hand is a short blade. A dagger, held tight by the onset of rigor mortis. You hear a snarl and turn around.

A live body slips out of the shadows. He grips a jagged spear like a lifeline. His eyes are wild with fright. His body is covered in blood. Pieces of flesh still cling to the spear. He cries a glutteral cry and charges at you. He stabs to your left. You dodge to the right. You look to the left. You dart to your right. He slashes at your head. You jump back. You stumble and fall over the dead body. He stands over you. His eyes are now wild with victory. He raises his spear up high. You watch your death speed down. You feel the dead body's dagger in your hand. You stab up wildly. The spear clatters harmlessly on the cold floor. His body falls warmly against yours. His wet, sticky blood covers you. You dab your fingers in the pool of his blood. You draw a line down your nose and across each cheek. The rest you drink. His blood is now yours. His spear is now yours. His body you push aside.

A scream to your left whirls your head around. From the shadows, another attacker charges out. He too is covered in blood. He carries a wicked looking axe. The axe is double bladed and heavy, with jagged edges and a long spike at both ends of the handle. He swings it back and forth, daring you to come near. You crouch low, holding your spear out in front. He eyes its bloodied blade warily. Lowering his swing, he dashes the spear out of your hands. It falls to the ground out of reach. He growls and lunges. You roll and dodge. He stays between you and your spear. Inch to the left. Dive to the right. You pick up the dagger and hold it before you. Heh, he grunts and a sneer appears on his face. Deep in your throat, a rumble begins. Your voice, so used to screams and nothing else, begins to come to life. Grr. Grr. Grrrrraaaaa! You roar at this man who would kill you. You lunge and throw your dagger at his face. He bats it away with his axe. His counterswing is too slow, and you're on him. You pin his arms with yours. Your teeth reach for his throat and you bite with all your strength. There is a sickly crunch and his struggles cease. The blood is sweet. You roar to the Sky.

You are in a maze. There are bodies to kill. You have killed many. Your trail of dead leads back to the beginning, like a sick trail of breadcrumbs. They all died quickly. More or less. Some by your spear. Some under your dagger. Many met their end to your bare hands and teeth. Each kill feels better than the one before. Each victory greater than the last. The blood of each new dead tastes sweeter and sweeter. You lick your blades often. The blood tickles your tongue. Your blood is the sweetest of all.

The center of the labyrinth comes quickly. Too quickly for you. You have not killed enough. You want more. You want to kill. Kill slowly. Kill painfully. There is only one man waiting in the center. He is unlike the other. He wears armour like your former guards. A black, scaly armour. Covered in spikes from head to toe. His tall helm is bladed, silver and black. In his right hand is a cat-o-nine. On his left fist, he wears a three-prong claw. He beckons you with the claw. He motions for you to bow before him. As you watch him, he appears to fade into the shadows. He still motions with his claw. You snarl then charge. Your spear held out before you, you jab at his belly. You feel no resistance as your spear passes through his shadow. A hand slaps your back. Forces you down to the ground. You fight back, on your hands and knees. With a slash of the claw, the hand lets go. You hear the familiar crack of the cat-o-nine. Something tickles your back as you scramble to you feet. You whirl around and bring your spear up. Something grabs at your back as you turn. He stands before you. In his right hand, he holds the handle of a cat-o-nine. You reach behind you. You feel your back. You feel the whips of a cat-o-nine embedded in your back. You pull them out. It doesn't hurt. You smile. You laugh. He lunges with his claw. You block it with your spear and kick at his belly. Your foot clangs off his armour, but he goes back. You twirl your spear over your head. You aim for his head and thrust. You're on target, but hit nothing. He slashes with his claw. Your belly flays open. Like a hammer, you bring down your spear. A square hit to the head, your blade slices through shadows. Why can't you hit him. He isn't even dodging. He jabs his claw at your gut. You move forward to meet him. His claw pierces your belly and stabs out of you back. He can't pull free. You bring your dagger up to his chin. An uppercut stab. You hit something solid. His body shudders and slumps. You look down as his body disappears. Soon there is only the empty shell of his armour, and the claw stuck in your gut. You pull it out and place it on your fist. You punch to the sky and scream.

"Welcome."

You turn around to face another shadow in armour. The armour is splendid, in a disturbing way. It is smooth yet scaly. There are spikes and wicked curved blades at every joint. The shoulders are flared out and up. The fingers drip blood. Decaying heads are impaled on spikes strapped to its back. It wears a necklace of gemstones. Each broken. Each dark. Each missing the spirit they once held. There are skulls on the knees. They laugh. They smile. They chatter to themselves. The great helm is horned. Great spiral horns that corkscrew into the sky. The faceplate is daemonic. Leering red eyes. A sharp hooked nose. Thin jagged teeth in a wide-open smirk. The forked tongue of a snake plays with the air. Tastes it. Your own tongue flickers out. The air is heavy with the sweetness of death. The taste of blood lingers near.

"I am Jyanussss Kaal, the One Who Liessss," he hisses. "Welcome to the Kabal of the Ssssplit Tonguessss."

Archon Jyanus Kaal, of the Split Tongues Kabal
"Let not the Truth distract you from your Path."

Terry -Boy of Deeeestiny, "Seize the Day and Throttle it!"

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