Lethal Reword 7 * True Lethal (IC)

Discussion in 'ROLEPLAY GRAVEYARD' started by Boss Frost, Nov 4, 2010.

  1. ...drip... drip... drip...
    What is that?
    ...drip... drip... drip...
    What is that dripping noise?
    ...drip... drip... drip...
    Is it the sound of freedom?
    ...drip... drip... drip...
    Or something sinister?

    You are cold - your body shivers from t
    he icy stones you wake up upon. The ground is not a simple stone floor, but seems to be a great deal of gravel, to make you as uncomfortable as possible. The skittering of creatures passes by your ears, and as something eight-legged speeds over your body, you realize you are naked.

    Opening your eyes, you can see
    nothing. Your legs itch, probably covered in bug bites. The sounds of breathing, the skittering of insects, a slow dripping sound reaches your ears. Your heart leaps for a moment in realizing you are not alone, until the reality seeps in...

    ...You are not alone.

    A scream of anguish from a nearby room stops your heart. For a moment, you feel the
    pain that the scream represents. Something bad was happening... are you in Hell? Is this purgatory?

    You remember what killed you, back in your old life. Your body feels... different, though you cannot see it to make sure. You hear a door open, and the soft light of a candle allows you to see for a moment. Two men dressed in black, their faces covered, drag what seems to be a heavy white sheet from another room.

    As it passes by, you can see that it is, in fact, an unconscious humanoid figure... pale white, and draconic of feature. Wounds of all sorts cover the muscular being's flesh, and they roughly shove it into a nearby cell - you can see, for a moment, the bars over your own cage. The two men leave silently, save for the snicker of one of them, closing the door and encasing the room in darkness once again.

    You realize, now, that the dripping sounds are closer, coming from the cell that the two men deposited the humanoid figure. You can smell blood.
  2. Musical Score: Scream, Aim, Fire - Bullet For My Valentine

    He awoke Groggily, as if hungover, the cold that permated his every muscle slowly being banished by depths of anguish and a burning and furious anger that refused to die.

    So this is death? motherfuckers hurt my faminly by killing me. rip and tear. rip! and! tear!


    "YOU'LL PAY FOR THIS WITH YOUR FUCKING LIVES! I WILL MAKE THEM SHORT AND MOTHERFUCKING PAINFUL FOR HURTING MY FAMILY! DEATH! DEATH AND MOTHERFUCKING PAIN WILL BE YOUR ONLY REWARD YOU CUNTSTICKS!" he thrashed at the bars as he screamed, slamming his forehead into the bars too, blackish blue welts forming on his wrists, chest, shoulders and forehead as the anger overwhelmed him.

    fucking thing killed me, mum, dad..........

    with a wordless scream, he fell backwards, falling into a sniveling pile on the ground, the shame and fear at having so hurt his family was unbearable.
  3. Death was uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and noisy as hell. Though if he could feel either he was either literally in hell or not dead. HE didn’t feel all that different. Though the scaly humanoid dragged to the cell and dumped unceremoniously in the floor. So death had a jail, though the memory of him dying had been confusing, he suspected he had been blinded early on in the umm.. process.

    Though with the pounding headache he had he couldn’t be dead and. That. Shouting. “FUCK!” he sat up gripping his hair squeezing his head. “Shut up.” He screamed mentally at the man. He needed to think, needed to make sense of this. There was an explanation, death had been a dream, but this was too real, he usually couldn’t think in him dreams. And if this wasn’t a dream he had been kidnapped,. His first thought were the Muslim insurgents you always head about in the south, it would explain everything, a bomb, then grab survivors and being a foreigner he was a priority target.

    “Why…. I didn’t annex you from Malaysia. Bastards!” He got to his feet, at least he could still stand. Suddenly he felt bad for the other guy, he lost his family to theses assholes. Though that still didn’t explain the….. scaly guy. “Hey are you alright?” he called though the bars, the smell of blood nearly unbearable. “Any idea where we are? Did they take us over the border?”
  4. Death had been unexpected to say the least, but at least it was painless, and over quickly. He grimaced as he adjusted on the gravel floor. The screaming of the other man wasn't anything he needed to hear however and quickly brought the headache that was just gnawing in the back to full force. He was thankful for the other voice that cried out for quiet.

    "Purgatory isn't as good as I thought it would be..." He whispered to himself. Suddenly a light appeared in the doorway and a dark dragon-looking person was tossed in a cage similar to the others around the room. He quickly stood up, and also looked to where the dragon was, the smell of blood was a bit stronger and he cringed back, placing his hand over his nose.

    "So that makes four of us in her by my count." He piped up, letting his voice carry around the room.
  5. He awoke, coughing up bile. Aching all over, he groaned, turning over on the cold gravel that was his 'bed'. He hissed in pain as a rock entered a barely scabbed-over wound. "Ugh..." He moaned, laying there - silent. Death had been slow and agonizing for him, though no one else had gone with him in his own death... He had struggled with it the whole time. This... what was after death, was worse. Spitting blood out over a cut lip, he managed to call out, "...Hurt!"

    Struggling with his pain for a moment, he lay there... something large and hairy crawled over him, causing him to whine pathetically. At the mention of how many there were, he groaned. He pants out, "Torture..." After a few moments, and a swallowing sound, he continued, "I don't know high-hell about a border, but they think we have some... weapon."

    Wincing a bit as he struggled to find a more comfortable position with his many, many wounds - he hisses in pain again, "Ugh..."
  6. "...Hurt!"
    "I don't know high-hell about a border, but they think we have some... weapon."

    The Lizardman's tortured cries stirred something inside the snivelling wreck and he shot upwards and towards the bars, replying to the call for silence with a snarled "eat a dick cuntbag, we died, our parents and loved ones are in anguish because of these self fucking shitbags, and I dont know about you, but that hurts and angers me, also, i died in Australia, not Malaysia

    I can heal......wait. i can heal? holy fuck, i know how to heal!

    "Hey, lizardmate, if you can get yourself closer to the bars between our cages, i may be able to heal you......dunno where it comes from, but i know i can do it, which in and of itself is disturbing" he called out, the knowledge that if the Lizardman didn't have his wounds treated promptly that he would likely die rising from some unknown place in his brain.
  7. Australia, weapon, death. No small portion of His mind wished something would start making sense. "It does." was all he said to the Australian as anger built. Four of them, and the only comfort was that their jailers didn't mind them talking, though it was safe to assume their conversational wasn't private. "Weapon, I don't have any weapons. Not ones that you can't buy for under a few hundred bucks anyway." he stood as best he could, feeling his way through the darkness to the bars of his cell beating one with his palm. "Ow thats... feels like cast iron, whatever kind of building we're in its old." he continued searching for a bar that could be loose working his way around as his eyes adjusted to the light.

    "I think I may be able to help if we can get him close enough to both of us, though without good light it might be difficult." he didn't really know where the flow of medical knowledge not filling his mind came from, it was different to the first aid books he had read and yet many of the underlying principles were the same.
  8. He struggled a bit, attempting to even lift an arm to drag himself to somewhere... "Augh! Son of a..." He paused, "...kite!" Wincing a bit and panting, he calls out, "S'no good. I can't move... wouldn't even know where to, it's so dark in here..." Confused for a moment, he rubbed his thumb and index finger against each other. "Ooooh my god." A chill ran up his spine, and he swallowed briefly. "They... how could...?" His breaths came out faster as he began to panic, "I... I think something horrible is going on here. I have scales, now... I... I used to be human."

    A few days ago, this would have been a dream for him. He had hated being human. "...Not like this..." He mumbled, whining to himself... "I don't think you could do much even if I did get over there, we don't have any supplies..."

    "Quiet down in there." A call came from above, and the door swung open, bathing the room in light again. The two men walked in, looking around through hooded gaze. Behind them were two more men, holding weapons and manacles. A larger, musclebound man in a black executioner's hood came last, looking at each of the jail cells.

    "You want we bring the loud one, boss?" One of the four pointed at Mick's cell. "Teach'm good."

    The tallest man shakes his head, "You heard him - how much he cares about his family. No... take one of the smaller ones. We'll make sure they scream extra-loud, though, so that he can hear them and know he is powerless to help. He can listen as we torture his friends... and then we'll get him, too." The five snickered, as a cell on the far end is opened, a beautiful young woman being taken from her cell - still unconscious. They drag her upstairs, and soon the darkness was upon them yet again.

    "S... sick f-..." He mumbled from his cell, grimacing in anger.

  9. As the door opened he shielded his eyes shrinking back out of reach from any guards reaching through the bars, it irritated him that he probably looked the jailhouse wretch his jailers were hoping to turn him into. "Sadistic bastards." he muttered forcing himself to lower his arms and face the light the stinging in his eyes serving to stimulate the part of his brain that still clung to the hope that this was a dream. Not only was it working on Mick but also in him. He sat down trying to hide that his hands were shaking, dreading the screams that would come.

    A voice in his head screamed at him to goad them into taking him instead, the thought of those brutes... he had to but at the same time couldn't "You'll never find it." he said his voice shaking. "Even if you torture us to death it won't do you any good. YOU HERE ME!? ITS TOO WELL HIDDEN TOO WELL PROTECTED." Still sitting he pushed himself further back into his cell the gravel grinding under him. He expected them to come fore him and out of nothing better he took a handful of gravel ready to throw it into the first guy's face.... then an Ideas struck him and he stared moving the gravel, digging, his sure what he'd find, probably nothing bad he had nothing else to try.
  10. [size=-2]
    Tinde awoke to pain, not mild pain that might make her wince but the kind of pain that made her think that she was being ripped apart. There was a ringing in her ears, a soul-wrenching sound of feral misery and she wanted to make the noise stop, until she realized that the sound was welling up from deep within herself. Tears streaked her dirty face with uncanny veins of pale skin beneath the grime, her whole body felt as though it were betraying her to feel such pain. Low laughter came from her side and she fought against her restraints to lash out at the sound but it was no hope.

    Without warning, the pain ceased and Tinde fell limply forward against her bindings. Rough hands passed over her body but she was too numb to make anything of it and instead lay still while tears poured down her cheeks. Her normally airy blond curls were plastered to her skin with sweat and filth, she wanted to question why she was here because she couldn't seem to remember anything, but there was no one to question. Unceremoniously, she felt herself being lifted, vaguely, as though her body and her mind were not attached.

    Not more than a minute later, Tinde heard the creak of worn metal and the gentle rustling of breath. She was no longer alone, it seemed, with her tormentors. She knew, in a place at the back of her mind, that she wanted more than anything to attack the arms that held her aloft but her body screamed when she tried to do so little as lift her head to gaze around. Not that there was anything to look at, darkness pervaded her vision and isolated her from the man who was lifting her. This she took comfort in, that they weren't really touching, she was an island buffeted by the calloused skin.

    A door opened and Tinde was tossed inside, landing on the stone floor and unable to move for the crushing pain of the impact. Weakly, she whimpered now, free of the grasp of fear and men.
  11. He remembered dying.

    It was painful, that was the most prevalent. He remembered what seemed to be like a million blades at once, piercing every point of his body. There was a group of them-- a bunch of thugs. He thought they'd leave him alone if he had just given them his wallet, his phone. That's really how it should have gone. But no, they weren't content with simply robbing a man. No, they wanted a greater thrill. They wanted to steal the most priceless thing: a life. And they had stolen his.

    They had paid, he remembered that clearly. He had been stabbed once, twice, thrice, but he had never let go of the man he had perceived their leader. His fist never stopped connecting to the side of his face as he was pierced over, and over again. He remembered his hand crushing teeth, shattering skull, goo and fleshy matter spraying about as he laid waste to the man under him, as the others laid waste to him.

    The last thing he remembered wasn't the pain, though. It wasn't regret at dying, of not having finished his life to carry out whatever it was he felt he was destined for. No, the last thing he remembered was anger. Pure anger.


    He awoke and gasped silently, writhing where he lay, suddenly aware of a million cold things piercing him all at once. Then they were gone, and he felt nothing but the uncomfortable stones piercing into his naked skin. Why am I naked, he thought idly as he tried to open his eyes. It was a difficult task for him, but finally, he got one eye open.

    The room was dark, and smelled terrible. He was preparing to stand, when suddenly a door creaked open and let in the soft glow of candle light. He tried saying something, but no words came out-- his mouth was dry, his throat scratchy, feeling like sandpaper. He noticed with his one eye that there were two men, and they both drug something in with them. He moved to get a better look, when he noticed the bars of his cage.

    Suddenly, he was once again feeling the rage he felt at the moment he died. Grabbing the bars of his cage, he screamed out at the men as they passed.

  12. Groaning he blinked against the harsh light when the fifth was tossed into the cage nearby, he could hear the others speaking but he really didn't care, his first concern was to get himself out but the others spoke, and yet another yelled. His head throbbed as he heard the others, screams from unknown areas.

    "I just wish there was a little light in here..." He waved his hand and a small, but bright light illuminated the place next to him. Nearly jumping out of his skin he stumbled back against the wall of his cage, blinking a few times as his eyes adjusted it was bright enough for him to see a few of the others in the cages. "Well that's certainly helpful...who knew I could do that!" A chuckle came from him as he scratched the back of his head, catching on the long ears protruding from his head. "What...where did those come from?"

    Suddenly, as simple as the spell came a sudden pain washed over him and he crumpled to the ground, clenching his jaw tightly, it felt like intense pain but he refused to cry out and join the chorus of voices that the cried out around him. I've lived through death, this can't be as bad!
  13. As they dragged the woman away, a surge of righteous fury filled Michael, and he threw himself at the bars, snarling at his captors
    "COWARDLY DRIBBLE DICK FUCKWITS! CHICKENSHIT COCKWORMS! YOU YELLOW BELLIED COCKJOCKEYS! FUCK YOU! FUCK YOU IN YOUR EYESOCKETS WITH A MOTHERFUCKING CHAINSAW! IN FACT FUCK YOU IN YOUR EVERY ORIFICE WITH A CHAINSAW! I WILL FUCKING END YOU!" he screamed, hands gripping the bars tightly, sheer rage forcing him to heave at the bars, as if he had the strength to move them, but the cold metal refused to yield, veins bulging across his body and his muscles aching from exhaustion as they brought the woman back into the room, at the sight of her broken-ness, new energy filled Michael and he pushed himself to his feet
    "oi, you, yes you with the pindick and the fuckin' ugly face" he drawled, pointing to the guard
    "you dont even have the balls to pick a bloke to torture, first you take the wounded lizardman, then the woman, you chickenshit fuck get over here and fight me, Australian to shitdick captor fucknut, i fuckin' dare you" he rasped, contempt and fury twisting his face into an ugly sneer.
  14. "Looks like I'm not the only one here that's pissed off," he said as he heard the angry Aussie's tirade. He would've kept on his too, but he was nowhere near as eloquent at stringing together curses as the behemoth voice. So he simply growled.

    "Where the fuck are we? What the fuck is this?!" He said instead with a snarl. He still couldn't open his left eye, and it was beginning to bother him. It just... refused to open!

    "And--holy shit, you have a flash light! Shine it over here so I can--" but before he could finish his sentence, another of the prisoners fell to the ground in a heap, writhing in pain. He couldn't make out much more than the shadowy-shape in the darkness; the sudden illumination had de-acclimated his eyes. Well, eye.

    "GodDAMNIT!" That was all he could muster.
  15. The five torturers ignored Micheal, turning to look upon Nick... or at least, they seemed to. Their hoods made which way they were looking hard to fathom, "This one's a magic-user, should have been able to tell. The book he was with was unreadable." Another one snickered, "Heh, you can't read anyway, not without pictures." The four were silent for a while, before the big one nodded, taking off his hood.

    He was almost... rectangular in appearance. His jaw was square, as was the rest of him. He was almost entirely covered in scars. Reaching into a pocket, he pulls out a device... inserting it into one of the four smaller men's lanterns, it became obvious it was a cigar, and he puffed at it - sending noxious fumes throughout the cell. One of the four spoke up, "...Sir, it's... ummm..."

    He turned to look at the man, glaring. "What?" The man shook his head, "N-nevermind."

    "No, go ahead." The tallest man said, taking another puff. The smaller man takes a quivering breath. "You're... you're not supposed to take your hood off."

    The tallest man seems to consider it. After a moment, he states, "You're right." The smaller man seems to relax... when the tallest man moves, grabbing the minion by the shoulder and slamming him into one of the cell doors - the man's head became indented with the cell door, and his body slumped... stuck there by his face. The smell of blood returned, stronger than before. "Anyone else?" Spitting on the corpse of his ex-minion, he thumbs at Nick's cell door.

    Another minion quickly steps forward and unlocks it, as the largest man steps forward, picking Nick up one-handed and carrying him into the next room, "Lucky I've just wasted my energy on that idiot. I can only devote a little bit to you. Luckily I've got the Iron Maiden all ready..." The four then leave the room, darkness remaining.
  16. Monsters.... So this was it, one by one they would be taken from their cells to face... the sick imaginations of a man who would kill his own fellows who were just trying to remind him of a rule. A rule that was no doubt made by who ever ran this hell. He stopped digging and stood. When they came for him they'd find a man. A man not willing to go without a fight. If he were lucky he'd be killed before they dragged him off.

    Magic, dragon men, australians. It was all so crazy, and so familiar. He used to do this... write about this kind of thing for fun. Enraptured in his characters' suffering and sharing in their triumphs. Only now did he truly know how they felt. He leaned against the bars forming the front of his cell, even now doubting he could put up much of a fight.

    Thinking about that.. guy, girl.. in an iron maiden was enough to make anyone fear the dark. They were getting into their minds. Wearing down the men who'd be harder to break. Home he was dead,here he was starting to wish he was. Dead, he hadn't really though of all that would mean to those in the real world. The other world, he corrected himself. To mast of the people he knew it would only mean a name no longer appearing of a forum.

    "FUUUUCK." he swore, more out of frustration than anger. He was were, the smell of blood overpowering every sense, people being tortured, screams. He just needed to do SOMETHING other than sit in a metal box arms and hand covered in dirt wanting to beat his head on the bars.
  17. [size=-2]
    Tinde had, for a time, let the enormity of her pain wash over her, comfort her like a twisted blanket, numbing her. It was when her fragmented mind registered talking in the background, the yelling really of the one man, that she began to piece her thoughts together in something more thank a lifeless acceptance of the cold floor beneath her and the darkness engulfing her. More talking, slamming, horrified intakes of breath... now she was curious.

    Her body throbbed with every breath, making moving a task, but she managed to pull herself up from the ground using the wall. On unsteady footing with muscles already screaming for respite, Tinde gazed out as her new world, as much as possible at least. It was dark, yet she could discern the shapes of others. Whether friend or foe, she was unsure, but she took some measure of solace in at least being able to see others.

    "What happened... why are we here?" she rasped to the darkness in general, probing anyone who may be listening for some sort of answer.
  18. "That's the number one question, isn't it," he said in response to the feminine voice that spoke up in the dark.

    He had watched with mild amusement the five hooded men as they came in, one un-hooding himself. One of them had tried telling him it was against some kind of rule, revealing his face like that. He took a moment to study that face to the best of his ability, and found himself, remarkably, able to picture it with surprising recall. He was somewhat horrified at what came next, however: the un-hooded man brutally murdered his companion. Well, minion.

    As he watched them drag away one of the other prisoners, he was filled with a fiery anger and wanted to lunge out to attack the group. He didn't care that he just saw some box-headed freak manhandle someone by shoving his head into a hunk of iron and making a dent; he just wanted to cause hurt to bad men. But he knew the futility of the act, and sat back in his cell by squatting on his feet.

    He felt strange for a moment, however; in the very instant he wanted to reach out and grab them, he almost thought he could, without trying. He could... feel them, from this great distance, as if he was standing just inches from them. It was like knowing something was in proximity of your imminently grasping hand.

    "What's your name? I'm C--" he almost said 'Chris,' but for some reason, knew that was wrong. It was his name, but it also wasn't. Not any longer. He felt another name come to his mind, something more familiar. Something more... fitting.

    "Sage. I'm Sage."
  19. "N-no!" He cried out, the words "Iron Maiden" frightened him, he knew of these contraptions from a past life. His light blinked out as the chief's guard slammed against the bars, the scent of blood in the air. Their evil extends to themselves, that could be a good omen, after all, if your enemies fight each other it saves the last for you, already beat up. He felt himself being picked up, dragging out into the other room, the one that the screams had come from. He was sure it wouldn't be a pleasant experience. "Who are you?" He gasped out, finding his voice, after all if he was to try and trick them into fighting each other he had to know a little information about them.
  20. "Tch." The largest one said, before shrugging, "Might as well. My name is Grave, and I am Grand Torturer and Leader of the fort you are staying in." Nick is hauled into another room, then bound.. and thrown into the Iron Maiden, every movement sending pain spiking through his body. "Now... I'm going to ask this once. Nicely." Raising his hand to tap the metal of the Iron Maiden, the square-jawed man states, clearly, "Where is the weapon? This can all stop as soon as you tell me where it is." He shakes his head, "Don't bother to tell me you don't know. You Elysians have left us to our affairs for decades, and now you appear in a massive explosion, killing so many... as well as the property damage. Now, it seems you are the arcane magic-user, and I know that means you're the brains, here... which means you know what punishments befall denying me what I request." He turns the dial, causing the metal spikes to lengthen, squinting at him through the candlelight of the torture-room. "Talk."

    Finally able to sit up, the dragonman immediately gasps and lies back down. "N-no... I'm going to..." Struggling, he turns over, getting onto his hands and knees, using the wall to stabilize himself as he rises. His teeth were perfectly audible as they ground together. "Gotta..." Shaking a bit, he steps through the gravel, finally touching the cold bars. "They... they think we have some sort of weapon. That's all they would ask me. Dropped a bunch of names, too. No idea what they were talking about..."

    "My name is... was? It was Oliver." He nods, mostly to himself, as it was pitch-black. "...But... what with changes, I think I'm... more than Oliver ever was." Gritting his teeth some more to dull the pain, he states, "My... name... is... Frost."

    Thinking for a bit, he gasped. Finally, he whispered, "Wait... the guard. The one that was killed. Who's cell is it against?" Suddenly excited, he continues, "Check his pockets... he might have a set of keys for the cell doors!"

    Who's cell door is it adjacent to? (open)


    1-3 = Frost
    4-7 = Nick
    8-11 = Aaron
    12-15 = Mick
    15-18 = Tinde
    19-20 = Chris