K, Mozenrath's mamluk slaves, having received a sudden, temporary burst of intelligence gang up on their master and pay him back. Gang rape, horror, violence, all that. Make it horrible. The zombies might have the brains to know what they're doing, but they can't talk, and the flesh drips off and everything.
As long as they aren't EXACTLY like they are in the show, you know, green...rotting, ugly. Maybe with the burst of intelligence they get a burst of hygiene?
Morituri te salutant (part one)toadstoolcouchFebruary 14 2012, 22:42:07 UTC
A/N: Sort of snuff-ish, I suppose. Necro, violence, non-con. Check out the prompt.
The problems of magic are rarely in its doing, and more often in its undoing.
If the magic had not been undone, for example, he would never have remembered. As it is, he does not remember much, but it is there: once he was alive; once he had a family; once he felt. Now his skin slips on his bones and his body cracks and tears as he moves.
He tries to scream, but his lips cannot move; it becomes a muted moan. Perhaps that is enough.
Because there are others, rising from their slumber-stupor, and he can see the deadened horror in their glassy eyes as well. Some of them reach out to touch each other, and he feels cold, greasy fingers slipping on his arm. He shakes them off and pushes through the muddled crowd, remembering the shape of an enchantment, a knife in his heart
( ... )
Morituri te salutant (part two)toadstoolcouchFebruary 14 2012, 22:43:00 UTC
He pushes his hand deeper, feeling the warmth tight around him, now sticky; whenever he inches back his arm, it is marked with blood. The red smears against white thighs and in dark hair, as well as on his own withered flesh. Nails are still on the hands of many, and now as they scrape over and over at skin they begin to break it, bringing dark beads of blood to bear and staining the air with metal. Even fingers cannot now muffle the screams torn from his throat as they force their fingers into him, and the magic seeps out with his blood as their bodies begin to fail them, disintegrating into shreds of meat and sherds of bone, and before all is lost he clings to one last memory, wishes that it was his name, and clenches his fist to drive it hard into the sorceror's body as all is lost to screams.
Re: Morituri te salutant (part two)guiltyhousewifeFebruary 15 2012, 01:02:52 UTC
Oh My God, I will never sleep again.
This was so horrifying and chilling and hurt like a needle-like accuracy. Man, the point of view you gave is amazing; it really works. I am so shaken, but it's a good fic when it can give you a visceral reaction.
K, Mozenrath's mamluk slaves, having received a sudden, temporary burst of intelligence gang up on their master and pay him back. Gang rape, horror, violence, all that. Make it horrible. The zombies might have the brains to know what they're doing, but they can't talk, and the flesh drips off and everything.
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The problems of magic are rarely in its doing, and more often in its undoing.
If the magic had not been undone, for example, he would never have remembered. As it is, he does not remember much, but it is there: once he was alive; once he had a family; once he felt. Now his skin slips on his bones and his body cracks and tears as he moves.
He tries to scream, but his lips cannot move; it becomes a muted moan. Perhaps that is enough.
Because there are others, rising from their slumber-stupor, and he can see the deadened horror in their glassy eyes as well. Some of them reach out to touch each other, and he feels cold, greasy fingers slipping on his arm. He shakes them off and pushes through the muddled crowd, remembering the shape of an enchantment, a knife in his heart ( ... )
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This was so horrifying and chilling and hurt like a needle-like accuracy. Man, the point of view you gave is amazing; it really works. I am so shaken, but it's a good fic when it can give you a visceral reaction.
Man, ouch.
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