When she was finished, Lyssandra withdrew her consciousness from Lark's mind. Her physical eyes fluttered open. Before her, Lark remained suspended in the dungeon, utterly vulnerable. She felt a surge of desire when seeing him so broken always ignited a primal hunger within her.
The thought of sinking her massive cock into his stretched hole was tempting. But her nose wrinkled as she caught another whiff of feces.
'Hell no,' she thought with a shudder.
'Not even I'm that desperate.'
She flicked a finger. Tendrils detached themselves from the walls and floor. They coiled around Lark's limp form, wrapping him in a sticky, red cocoon.
With a sickening slurp, they pulled him directly into the dungeon wall and moved him out to the dungeon entrance. He vanished without a trace, leaving only smooth stone behind.
'Work's done,' Lyssandra mused. 'Now… the waiting game.'
Back in the present, Lyssandra returned to her original body. She stood atop the rocky hill overlooking the Red Death camp. Her hooded cloak fluttered in the evening breeze, the setting sun casting long shadows across the valley below. Night was fast approaching, painting the sky in deepening shades of indigo.
She took a deep breath, the scent of damp earth and distant campfires filling her nostrils.
'Everything is in place,' a fierce satisfaction warming her.
Her gaze swept over the camp - the crude palisade, the flickering torches, the figures moving about preparing for nightfall.
She lowered her voice, barely above a whisper carried on the wind. "Sharpen your steel. It's about to taste blood."
Behind her, three figures materialized from the shadows. The Shadow Goblins stood in silent obedience, their forms shimmering and indistinct.
"We obeyed, Great One," they rasped in unison, their voices like dry leaves skittering across stone.
Lyssandra turned her head slightly, acknowledging their presence with a slight nod.
The hunt was about to begin.
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"Hey!" Grog's booming voice cut through the noise of the camp.
He was sprawled on a pile of furs outside his tent, gnawing on a greasy bone.
"Where's that idiot Lark? And his boys?"
His eyes scanned the group lazily.
"Been a whole day now!"
He tossed the stripped bone aside and ripped into another chunk of meat, juices dripping down his chin and onto his stained vest.
A nearby bandit paused in sweeping the filthy ground.
"Dunno, Boss," he said with a smirk.
"Probably found a knothole in a tree, shoved his dick in it, and forgot what the fuck he was supposed to do."
A few others nearby burst into laughter.
Grog chuckled, a wheezing sound that shook his massive belly. "Well, at least he knows how to find a proper bitch for himself."
He tore off another chunk of meat, speaking with his mouth full. "How about the goods? The food?"
The bandit straightened up. "The goods are secured. Fed, cleaned. Ready for transport. All still virgin and prime for fucking."
He shifted uneasily. "Food… that's the problem. We got the order too quick. Our stocks are low. What you're eating is the last of the meat. That's why Lark and his party had to work overtime. Even then, they never came back…"
His voice trailed off as Grog's eyes fixed on him, the laughter dying instantly.
"IF THE FOOD ISN'T ENOUGH," Grog's voice exploded inside the tent, shaking the canvas walls,
"SEND MORE MEN OUT TO HUNT! I'M STILL HUNGRY!"
The bandit flinched, his face paling.
"But… it's getting dark, Boss. And...and dangerous out there. We could…"
"I DON'T FUCKING CARE!" Grog bellowed, his face reddening.
He hurled the half-gnawed bone with surprising speed. It struck the bandit square in the forehead, sending him stumbling back.
"GET THE FUCK OUTTA THERE AND GET IT DONE!"
The tent flap slammed open as the bandit scrambled out, clutching his head.
"NOW!" Grog roared after him.
The order spread through the camp like wildfire. "Hunting teams! Form up! Move out!"
Bandits scrambled, grabbing weapons and packs, shoving each other in their haste.
Outside the camp, chaos reigned for a few minutes. Groups of five or six bandits, armed with bows and spears, poured out through the crude gates. They fanned out into the darkening forest, their numbers visibly thinning the camp's defenses.
As the last group vanished into the shadows, an eerie silence fell. Leaving a few torches still burned, casting long, flickering shadows. Night deepened, blanketing the camp in an oppressive silence. On the high watchtowers, archers stood or slumped, their vigilance eroded by boredom and fatigue. One sentry leaned heavily against the rough wood railing, head nodding, eyes closed, lost in slumber.
He never saw the dark portal ripple open behind him. A green, long-fingered hand snaked out, clutching a wicked dagger.
It slashed in a single, fluid motion.
The sentry's eyes flew open, not in wakefulness but in sudden, horrific realization. A hot, searing pain blossomed across his throat. He clutched at the wound, fingers coming away slick with his own blood. His mouth opened to scream, but just a lone gurgling hiss emerged, drowned by the flood filling his windpipe. He toppled forward, crumpling over the railing like a discarded ragdoll, life draining from him as silently as it had been taken.
This grim scene repeated on the other towers.
Awake sentries fared no better against the silent, deadly assassins. The shadow goblins moved with inhuman speed, flowing like smoke from shadow to shadow. Their strikes were precise, lethal, and utterly silent.
A blade slid between ribs here, severed a hamstring there, slit a throat elsewhere. Each kill was efficient, brutal, and utterly devoid of sound beyond the soft gasp of a final breath.
With the watchtowers secured, the shadow goblins descended like a silent plague into the camp itself. They moved with terrifying patience, seeking lone bandits.
One lay snoring heavily on a crude cot in a tent, his weapons discarded carelessly beside him. A shade detached from the tent wall. A single, precise thrust of a dagger pierced his heart, stopping it instantly. The bandit stiffened, eyes wide but unseeing, and sagged back, the prevailing noise was the soft creak of the cot ropes.
Another bandit stumbled bleary-eyed from a communal tent, fumbling with his breeches as he made for a nearby bush to relieve himself. He was halfway through undoing his laces when a cold, clammy hand clamped over his mouth from behind. Another gripped his groin painfully. With surprising strength, he was hauled backwards into the dense foliage. A brief, muffled struggle, the glint of a blade in the moonlight, and then stillness.
Only the rustle of leaves marked his passage from this world.
The slaughter continued, methodical and silent. The shadow goblins hunted the isolated prey, thinning the camp's numbers one unlucky soul at a time.
-
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"HEY!" Grog's voice boomed through the walls of his tent.
"More meat! Bring it in here, you worthless sacks of shit!"
He slammed his meaty fist on the rough wooden table, rattling the empty plates and cups.
Silence was his only answer. Not even the usual scramble of feet outside or the muttered acknowledgment of his lackey.
Grog blinked, confusion momentarily replacing his anger. He waited, the sound of crickets chirping outside strangely loud in the absence of human noise.
"Are you all deaf?" he bellowed, his voice rising to a roar that shook the tent's supports.
"Get your asses in here NOW!"
Still nothing.
Solely the distant sigh of the wind and the flickering torchlight filtering through the tent flaps.
"Motherfuckers…" Grog growled, the word thick with fury.
"I'll kill every last one of you myself!"
He heaved his enormous bulk off the furs with a grunt of effort, his massive stomach straining against the seams of his filthy tunic. It took him several attempts, his legs trembling under the weight, but finally, he was upright. His hand lashed out, shoving the tent flap aside before he thrust his head out.
Grog blinked in disbelief.
The central area of the camp was empty and deserted. Torches guttered in their stands, bathing the packed earth in wavering light. The cooking fires were dying, their embers glowing dimly. The night's insect chorus was all he could hear.
Grog's small eyes, like black beads buried in the folds of his face, darted around the deserted square.
"Where… the fuck… is everybody?" he muttered, a seed of unease finally sprouting beneath his rage.
A cold wind gusted through the camp, carrying the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic.
He lumbered fully out of the tent, his massive frame silhouetted by the firelight.
"HEY!" he yelled, his voice echoing hollowly in the empty space.
"Where are you all hiding, you pieces of shit? Answer me!"
His roar dissolved into the night, swallowed by the oppressive silence.