Sacrifice
You are dragged into a building with a stone floor with a large boiling cauldron in the center. You are chained to the far side and left alone. Observing the room you conclude this is where the cooking and eating occurs. Long wooden tables with many chairs indicate this is some sort of mess hall. Why they brought you here of all places shivers you to the core.
Some time passes before the Red Blades return, this time dragging your wife in chains into the room.
“Helena!”
“Baalthar! What's happening?!” she shouts over crippling tears.
You have no response for her. You truly do not know. The Red blades snicker as they hook your wife to some wooden planks and chains above her, hanging below the ceiling.
“Your bride here is a bit thick in the hips, ain't she” One of them chides.
“Its the fat that makes them taste good!” The other cackles.
One of the Red Blades begins to turn a large metal wheel which drags Helena towards the boiling cauldron. The second operates another wheel, which controls your wife's vertical position raising her above the pot.
God no...They are going to boil her alive. You begin to scream and shout wildly, pleading for them to stop. Your only response is hoarse laughter. Helena's screams overpower the laughs.
“Baalthar! Oh God, help me! Help me! Not like this!”
“Helena!” Is all you can manage to scream. You pull on your chains but of course to no avail.
You watch as your wife is slowly dipped into the boiling oil, feet first. She bends her knees to save some time, but it doesn't matter. She is dropped into the pot and your eyes cannot shut, your voice cannot stop shouting for mercy.
She thrashes violently when the oil is up to her torso, her eyes bulging and bloodshot. Flesh from her cheeks begins to melt from her face into the pot. Her screams are bloodcurdling until she is finally fully submerged. The monsters pull her up for a few seconds after-wards to show off to you the sizzled corpse of your beloved. You shut your eyes and weep bitterly.
That night, the tribe dines within the mess hall. Your wife is consumed to much fanfare. Lurkol approaches you after the feast, toothpick in hand, flecking out grizzled bits of meat from his teeth. You glare at him in shock. No words need to be spoken. He smiles at you, walks away and shuts the door to the mess hall, leaving you to wallow in your own despair.
Some time passes before the Red Blades return, this time dragging your wife in chains into the room.
“Helena!”
“Baalthar! What's happening?!” she shouts over crippling tears.
You have no response for her. You truly do not know. The Red blades snicker as they hook your wife to some wooden planks and chains above her, hanging below the ceiling.
“Your bride here is a bit thick in the hips, ain't she” One of them chides.
“Its the fat that makes them taste good!” The other cackles.
One of the Red Blades begins to turn a large metal wheel which drags Helena towards the boiling cauldron. The second operates another wheel, which controls your wife's vertical position raising her above the pot.
God no...They are going to boil her alive. You begin to scream and shout wildly, pleading for them to stop. Your only response is hoarse laughter. Helena's screams overpower the laughs.
“Baalthar! Oh God, help me! Help me! Not like this!”
“Helena!” Is all you can manage to scream. You pull on your chains but of course to no avail.
You watch as your wife is slowly dipped into the boiling oil, feet first. She bends her knees to save some time, but it doesn't matter. She is dropped into the pot and your eyes cannot shut, your voice cannot stop shouting for mercy.
She thrashes violently when the oil is up to her torso, her eyes bulging and bloodshot. Flesh from her cheeks begins to melt from her face into the pot. Her screams are bloodcurdling until she is finally fully submerged. The monsters pull her up for a few seconds after-wards to show off to you the sizzled corpse of your beloved. You shut your eyes and weep bitterly.
That night, the tribe dines within the mess hall. Your wife is consumed to much fanfare. Lurkol approaches you after the feast, toothpick in hand, flecking out grizzled bits of meat from his teeth. You glare at him in shock. No words need to be spoken. He smiles at you, walks away and shuts the door to the mess hall, leaving you to wallow in your own despair.