From the Wild
Title: From the Wild
Author: pwkqi
Fandom: Adylheim
Prompt: tamingthemuse #92, center
Wordcount: 898
Warnings: Sexual situations, violence
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A mysterious captive waits patiently for her chance at escape. The first of a series, if all goes well. Set in the world of Adylheim.
Jiala had learned to tell time by the echo of dripping water. It should be near time for them to feed her, and it was about goddamn time. She ground the back of her head against the cool stone pillar as she licked the sweat from her upper lip and grinned in the dark. Her ass was getting numb, and her wrists were permanently calloused where the ropes tore at her skin, days at a time. She wondered if the rats could smell her blood. She wondered if the masked and prissy partygoers that pranced upstairs to terrible music would rescue her if they knew. Probably would just want their turn under her dress. She hated dresses. They were too convenient. She wondered if ghosts could hear her thoughts, and then spent the next twenty water drips consciously thinking of nothing, just to spite them. And then, the door opened.
It was Henry. The wine cellar was black, and the door to the house was around the corner and impossible to take into view, but she knew it was Henry. He always waited a split second after the lock clicked, pushed open the door with his thumb, paused another beat, then toed carefully down the stairway. Jiala liked Henry. Henry was fun.
The flickering glow of the torch felt like daggers in her eyes even before Henry rounded the corner. She closed them, smiled at the orange shadows that played under her eyelids. She must have chuckled a little, because the tray trembled before it was set on the flagstone floor beside her. He wasn't moving away, but wasn't coming closer. His nervous breath smelled like venison and rotten milk.
"Henry," Jiala moaned quietly, her throat exposed and knees parted. He liked it when she said his name like that, made little mouth noises with her tongue. She stifled a laugh at the ridiculous way his coarse hands fumbled on her skin, his sweaty body pressed between her thighs, his lips sought her neck like a suckling child. He'd spent all day thinking about this, the poor sod.
"Henry," she groaned again, just to send the stable boy over the edge. Jiala opened her bright brown eyes, draped one pale leg over his shuddering shoulder, massaged his back with her bare and blackened heel. She waited a beat, smiling prettily at his appreciative whimpers, and threw his head against the floor with a twist of her legs.
The drip, drip, drip, drip of the water roared in her ears. She was still, her breath caught in her pounding chest as she waited for signs of movement, pulse, life in the boy still held delicately in her legs. Blood was creeping between the cracks in the flagstones. His eyes were open and vacant. Was that normal? Open eyes? Did people pass out like that? Did people die like that? Jiala yanked away from the limp thing, suddenly horrid and grotesque, and rubbed the wet spots on her neck with a shoulder, clenched her thighs together. Anything to get the remains of it off her skin.
A muffled song upstairs finished, and the crowd stopped dancing to applaud the orchestra politely. The party would end soon, and the cook would be down to cuff Henry for being late. There was no time to be horrified, now.
Every footstep on the floorboards above her sent another shock of adrenaline through her veins. With a bit of painful maneuvering, she managed to pry off Henry's left boot with her feet and drag out the little knife he always kept there despite the Master's warnings. It took more twisting and struggling before the knife was close enough that she could snatch it up with her fingers. Now, it was only a matter of the rope.
By the time the cook gallomped down the stairs, Jiala was pressed in the darkness behind the stairwell, shaking on fragile legs. As soon as the crackling torch rounded the corner toward the wine cellar, Jiala sprinted barefoot up the mildewed stairs and slipped through the open doorway, her head roaring with every pulse of blood. She squinted in the lamplight.
This horrid, rank room was the center of the house. The heads of decapitated animals gaped from the acid-colored walls. Paintings and drawings of a foul-eyed man standing triumphantly in a variety of pompous positions were carefully hung between them. There were medals and trophies, won in diabolical contests, among proud bows, arrows, spears and knives. Everything was displayed with care on exquisite silk and polished wood. Even the bear claws and cougar teeth were made to look fragile and beautiful, as if their original owners were only glad to donate them to this morbid collection.
Feet were pounding the stairs from the basement. Jiala pressed her back against the wall beside the door, and didn't breathe until the cook rumbled past her and disappeared into the opposite passage. This will be the first place they'll look.
She replaced Henry's little toy with a hunting knife from the case, and tested the sharp blade on each one of the paintings on the wall. She tore the trophy heads from their mounts, laid them on the floor in death, struck slashes in the bearskin rug and the wood beneath it. When the room was satisfactory in its remodeling, Jiala made a run for it. Master would be pleased.
Author: pwkqi
Fandom: Adylheim
Prompt: tamingthemuse #92, center
Wordcount: 898
Warnings: Sexual situations, violence
Rating: PG-13
Summary: A mysterious captive waits patiently for her chance at escape. The first of a series, if all goes well. Set in the world of Adylheim.
Jiala had learned to tell time by the echo of dripping water. It should be near time for them to feed her, and it was about goddamn time. She ground the back of her head against the cool stone pillar as she licked the sweat from her upper lip and grinned in the dark. Her ass was getting numb, and her wrists were permanently calloused where the ropes tore at her skin, days at a time. She wondered if the rats could smell her blood. She wondered if the masked and prissy partygoers that pranced upstairs to terrible music would rescue her if they knew. Probably would just want their turn under her dress. She hated dresses. They were too convenient. She wondered if ghosts could hear her thoughts, and then spent the next twenty water drips consciously thinking of nothing, just to spite them. And then, the door opened.
It was Henry. The wine cellar was black, and the door to the house was around the corner and impossible to take into view, but she knew it was Henry. He always waited a split second after the lock clicked, pushed open the door with his thumb, paused another beat, then toed carefully down the stairway. Jiala liked Henry. Henry was fun.
The flickering glow of the torch felt like daggers in her eyes even before Henry rounded the corner. She closed them, smiled at the orange shadows that played under her eyelids. She must have chuckled a little, because the tray trembled before it was set on the flagstone floor beside her. He wasn't moving away, but wasn't coming closer. His nervous breath smelled like venison and rotten milk.
"Henry," Jiala moaned quietly, her throat exposed and knees parted. He liked it when she said his name like that, made little mouth noises with her tongue. She stifled a laugh at the ridiculous way his coarse hands fumbled on her skin, his sweaty body pressed between her thighs, his lips sought her neck like a suckling child. He'd spent all day thinking about this, the poor sod.
"Henry," she groaned again, just to send the stable boy over the edge. Jiala opened her bright brown eyes, draped one pale leg over his shuddering shoulder, massaged his back with her bare and blackened heel. She waited a beat, smiling prettily at his appreciative whimpers, and threw his head against the floor with a twist of her legs.
The drip, drip, drip, drip of the water roared in her ears. She was still, her breath caught in her pounding chest as she waited for signs of movement, pulse, life in the boy still held delicately in her legs. Blood was creeping between the cracks in the flagstones. His eyes were open and vacant. Was that normal? Open eyes? Did people pass out like that? Did people die like that? Jiala yanked away from the limp thing, suddenly horrid and grotesque, and rubbed the wet spots on her neck with a shoulder, clenched her thighs together. Anything to get the remains of it off her skin.
A muffled song upstairs finished, and the crowd stopped dancing to applaud the orchestra politely. The party would end soon, and the cook would be down to cuff Henry for being late. There was no time to be horrified, now.
Every footstep on the floorboards above her sent another shock of adrenaline through her veins. With a bit of painful maneuvering, she managed to pry off Henry's left boot with her feet and drag out the little knife he always kept there despite the Master's warnings. It took more twisting and struggling before the knife was close enough that she could snatch it up with her fingers. Now, it was only a matter of the rope.
By the time the cook gallomped down the stairs, Jiala was pressed in the darkness behind the stairwell, shaking on fragile legs. As soon as the crackling torch rounded the corner toward the wine cellar, Jiala sprinted barefoot up the mildewed stairs and slipped through the open doorway, her head roaring with every pulse of blood. She squinted in the lamplight.
This horrid, rank room was the center of the house. The heads of decapitated animals gaped from the acid-colored walls. Paintings and drawings of a foul-eyed man standing triumphantly in a variety of pompous positions were carefully hung between them. There were medals and trophies, won in diabolical contests, among proud bows, arrows, spears and knives. Everything was displayed with care on exquisite silk and polished wood. Even the bear claws and cougar teeth were made to look fragile and beautiful, as if their original owners were only glad to donate them to this morbid collection.
Feet were pounding the stairs from the basement. Jiala pressed her back against the wall beside the door, and didn't breathe until the cook rumbled past her and disappeared into the opposite passage. This will be the first place they'll look.
She replaced Henry's little toy with a hunting knife from the case, and tested the sharp blade on each one of the paintings on the wall. She tore the trophy heads from their mounts, laid them on the floor in death, struck slashes in the bearskin rug and the wood beneath it. When the room was satisfactory in its remodeling, Jiala made a run for it. Master would be pleased.