(Written with permission, knowledge, and consent from the other adult RPer that this scene features. This story is that of a scene that took place in the Undercity last night between Ban and a prisoner as a part of Dance Of The Dead.)

The Chair And Her Many Gifts

The capture and retention of Worgen had posed a variety of complications to the Forsaken. Painful trial and error had taught the Forsaken many lessons when working with the Worgen. The primary trouble being in that the beasts could easily shift forms and through such escape or destroy restraints. Having learned from their commonly fatal lessons, a variety of rather painful restraints had been developed over time: the most popular was a certain chair that sat in the depths of the Undercity Labs.

The trick that they had learned was to acquire a Worgen in human form, and restrain them in such a state. More so, insure that the restrains used on the limbs of the subject were strong enough so that if the person shifted into their larger and more dangerous bestial form, that the restraints did not give way, and would potentially crush bones.

From the lot of Prisoners fought and acquired in Pyrewood, Ban selected one. She did not want to select someone deemed vulnerable  weak, or a dishonorable target for what she had in mind.  Selected was a larger male who struck her as a sort of leader figure, Nicholas Graveshire. Nicholas was not retired to the prison cells, rather his still unconscious body was dragged down into the labs, he was sent to the chair.

Restrain after restraint was put into place, securing the unconscious human form to the chairs frame. Each restraint, a mixture of leather reinforced with metal that would lock the victims limbs in place at several key pressure points. Last, his head was pulled back, and secured in an upright position, jaw shut. When finally the work of securing the newest victim to the chair was done, those assisting with the task departed, leaving the Deathstalker to her work.

Within the labs, and specifically the laboratory, the tables surrounding the chair offered a dazzling collection of horrific tools. Most of these tools were not sterile, still befouled by previous victims or experiments. Some of the tools had been designed just for Worgen, others were re-imagined for Worgen. Ban’s personal favorite of the tools was a simple devise that was originally used by morticians: a sort of bolt gun used for wiring a mouth shut.

She’d grown tired of the threats, and banter of the prisoners and was no sooner inclined to listen to this new mutt bark at her than she was any others. More so, this method she had found was extremely effective at addressing the danger of Worgen bites. Holding the slender instrument in hand, Ban moved to claim a seat in the man’s lap, straddling his legs and facing him in a manner in which a lover might. This act was to be intimate, but if only to further leave him with a sense of violation. He would live, and he would be whole…but he would not forget her.

Pressing her body close to his, she reached forward to gently shift his upper lip, exposing the upper gum line. Pressing the guns tip to his upper mandible, she pulled the trigger, firing a fine metal anchor into flesh and bone. The resulting blinding burst of pain was his rude awakening. 

In full disregard for the now fully aware Worgen, she continued to her work. Under her, she could feel him starting to struggle. Each restraint was tested and pulled on, as he tried to turn his head away. Fresh blood was starting to pour from the anchor wound, bathing his front teeth, lips, and chin in crimson.

From the top, down she moved. Once more his lip was pulled back a bit with the application of force and the gun was pressed to his lower jaw at the root of his gum line. For a moment she lingered, letting his fear  build for but a few moment before once more she pulled the trigger and fired a new anchor through his lower mandible. Through clenched teeth he screamed with renewed pain.

Attached to the back of the instrument was a collection of metal wires for this much intended job. Ban selected a wire and then wired his jaw shut using the anchor points in his upper and lower mandible.

“There. Now, so long as you behave I won’t have to add anymore,” Her words were spoken in common with a rather calm tone, she was pleasant if only to add further insult. He could only scream through his closed mouth, eyes clenched shut in pain. To this, she undid the restrains that originally held his jaw shut, just for such a task. When it came to the Worgen, the Forsaken had their torture down to a science.

It was now time to retire the gun, and so she slipped free from his lap and walked back over to the nearby table of tools. The bolt gun was laid down without cleaning, as she seemed to have difficulty deciding on what to use next. The truth was she knew exactly what would come next, if only to save the man’s life for further fun. The purpose of the faux delay was to give him time to move past the pain, and to look upon the depths of the Labs. There were many horrors to behold.

Too many who engaged in torture did so on an amateur level, crudely destroying the body with no appreciation for setting, layers of pain, mood, or emotion. Here and now, she had no intention on breaking his body. Physical wounds heal quickly, far too quickly with Worgen. This man’s case required a delicate and skilled hand, one that understood the nature of prolonged suffering.

To endure those coming days, much less the next few hours Nicholas needed to heal. The original fight in Pyrewood had been violent, and bloody. From the table, she selected a rather long tube. Returning to him, Ban gave pause and appreciate the defiant bloody snarl now etched on his lips. He was seething mad beyond the realm of logic, and in his state of pain he was a prime candidate for her games.

Once more she reclaimed his lap, pressing close and lingering if only to better stare him in the eye. Under her, she could feel his struggles now mingle with revulsion as if he wanted to all but crawl out of his own skin to escape the undead woman who was now taking disgusting advantage of the situation. 

With his mouth wired shut, paired with his blind hatred and distrust for the Forsaken she would be unable to feed him anything, at least willingly. This is where force feeding came into play. “For this, I advise you to co-operate, if only to reduce the possible complications and pain that you will suffer if you do not otherwise. When you feel a tickle or scratching in your throat, you should swallow.” To that, she unwound the tube, and pressed just the end of it to the tip of his nose.

“Between the threat of your bite and the fact that most of you refuse to eat while here, preferring to try and kill yourselves through starvation we have come up with this feeding system,”  though it was unseen, she was smiling under her leather face mask. The end of the feeding tube was tapped on the tip of his nose a few more times. Without a word of warning, or even the benefit of lubrication, she proceeded to then stuff the tube up into his nose.

This was a new kind of pain, that even a seasoned veteran of combat had never before experienced. From within, a new series of nerves were awakened as the passage of the feeding tube was forcefully working its way up through his nose, into his sinuses, and then down and into his throat and finally stopping nested within his guts.

By the time the feeding tube had been secured, he was panting with rage. A sort of shiver was building as he resisted the urge to release his fury. Every part of his being wanted to rip the undead woman before him apart. Over the years, he’d heard tale and rumor of the Forsaken’s machinations, and yet prior to now had been mercifully free of such cruelty.

Once more Ban retreated from his lap, leaving Nicholas to his suffering and dread. He’d watch her move about the room, noting the sure direction and movement of the woman’s step. He noticed she lacked eyes, or an upper face and now had to question as to how such a being functioned without any handicap. He’d also note that she seemed to favor an injury, and her armor bore heavy fresh patches and mends.

From the tables she plucked a collection of bags of ‘food’, and finally a health potion before eventually coming to a stop before a common Goblin made blender. The health potion was first poured out into the blender, and then each bag was opened and carefully dumped in. From where he sat, it was hard to initially make out the contents of each bag. It was by the second bag when the ‘food’ began to try and crawl out of the blender glass that he understood that the bags contained insects: cockroaches, maggots, and flies stripped of their wings. This is the food the Forsaken ate, and in turn offered their prisoners.

From this noxious combination a foul and gritty soup was made: the blender doing a fine job of obliterating it’s contents. Blender glass in hand, Ban returned to him once more. As the contents of the glass swished and swirled, Nicholas could already feel the bile rising in his throat.

“Mind that you keep this down, we need to heal those wounds and get a meal in you,” the truth was that she didn’t care if he listened. The moment fresh vomit hit those fresh anchor points in his jaw, would be when he learned to never vomit again.

This time, she would not claim his lap, knowing what was to come.

No sooner was she pouring the soup into the tube was Nicholas gagging. He tried once more to thrash himself free, wholly ineffective at even moving. The noxious mix was cold, and as the sludge began to move through him he could feel its creeping advance.

No sooner did the sludge begun to fill his stomach did a series of powerful contractions wrack his body: he had to vomit. The very moment that the fresh bile and foul concoction hit his mouth wounds he became painfully aware of the peril of vomiting. Through clenched teeth  he sputtered, trying to control the reaction while also trying to breathe. Not only was he in pain, but he also was in danger of asphyxiating. Through sheer will, and the primal drive to survive he suppressed the reaction and swallowed back his own regurgitation if only to be able to breathe.

Ban took this all in with callous disregard and trained patience. Nicholas was not the first Worgen she’d tortured, but he would be one of the few to survive.

When finally the contents of the blender glass was fully poured out did she step away, offering the top of his head an affectionate pat. “That’s a good boy, now if you just listen to my advice the next few days will go so much easier for you. I have quite a bit of gold on you surviving the Dance.”

My Mood Music: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZxYGeTV6fCw House Of The Rising Sun, http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dF-fKECmLQA Don’t Let Me Be Misunderstood