The Queen's Captive
Sep. 18th, 2006 06:32 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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elseworldexilesHis cloak had been destroyed. His tomes vanished. The Eye? Hidden.
Some time ago (was it months? Or years?, he can't tell anymore), they tried drinking his blood. They only tried it once. From what he could understand, the unlucky imbiber still burned with the searing Flames of Faltine. Always burning, yet never consumed. Though he had been tricked into captivity, his magics remained potent before the bindings were secured and he took certain precautions to insure that his captor would be frustrated. It saved him from Vampirism to be sure and made them wary in their torments. Even in the countless 'sessions' with the damned husk of Orroro, he could tell that under her veneer of casual cruelty, there lurked an abiding fear and caution.
In the end however, Doctor Strange remained a captive. His body was bound in cold iron etched with glyphs of power (he recognized Mephisto's spider-like scrawl on his manacles...or was it Sattanish? Those details were hard to be sure of now). Torture and privation had been less effective. His mind retreated to the timeless peace of 'Mu' when he was pushed too far. The spiritual imprisonment however had been the most cunning of his bonds. Tied to the life force of Gaia itself, Strange dared not sunder those metaphysical chains lest he risk what life remained on this world. He needed someone else, someone outside the enchanted circle to undo the runes that held fast his spirit and his magic.
Long before the scourge of the undead, Death herself had 'gifted' the Master of the Mystic Arts with a limited form of immortality. Death would not take him through natural means. Age, hunger, thirst, sickness and the like would never touch him. It had seemed like a gift back then. The anhk that burned on his forehead offered him no comfort now. It's luminescence reminded him that the release of mortality was denied him.
Coughing, his throat dry and cracked, the Sorcerer Supreme forced his eyes to regain focus. The dim light was barely enough to make out the room where he was imprisoned. He had already counted the stones that made up the wall, he had even begun to consider giving them names. He chuckled bleakly to himself. His laugh sounded like a dying animal's death rattle.
"If I am to emulate a character from Dumas' fiction, then perhaps I shall be as fortunate."
Despite his morbid jest, he refrained from providing names to the silent stones. Instead he silently recited the tenth chapter of the Book of the Vishanti to himself.
Some time ago (was it months? Or years?, he can't tell anymore), they tried drinking his blood. They only tried it once. From what he could understand, the unlucky imbiber still burned with the searing Flames of Faltine. Always burning, yet never consumed. Though he had been tricked into captivity, his magics remained potent before the bindings were secured and he took certain precautions to insure that his captor would be frustrated. It saved him from Vampirism to be sure and made them wary in their torments. Even in the countless 'sessions' with the damned husk of Orroro, he could tell that under her veneer of casual cruelty, there lurked an abiding fear and caution.
In the end however, Doctor Strange remained a captive. His body was bound in cold iron etched with glyphs of power (he recognized Mephisto's spider-like scrawl on his manacles...or was it Sattanish? Those details were hard to be sure of now). Torture and privation had been less effective. His mind retreated to the timeless peace of 'Mu' when he was pushed too far. The spiritual imprisonment however had been the most cunning of his bonds. Tied to the life force of Gaia itself, Strange dared not sunder those metaphysical chains lest he risk what life remained on this world. He needed someone else, someone outside the enchanted circle to undo the runes that held fast his spirit and his magic.
Long before the scourge of the undead, Death herself had 'gifted' the Master of the Mystic Arts with a limited form of immortality. Death would not take him through natural means. Age, hunger, thirst, sickness and the like would never touch him. It had seemed like a gift back then. The anhk that burned on his forehead offered him no comfort now. It's luminescence reminded him that the release of mortality was denied him.
Coughing, his throat dry and cracked, the Sorcerer Supreme forced his eyes to regain focus. The dim light was barely enough to make out the room where he was imprisoned. He had already counted the stones that made up the wall, he had even begun to consider giving them names. He chuckled bleakly to himself. His laugh sounded like a dying animal's death rattle.
"If I am to emulate a character from Dumas' fiction, then perhaps I shall be as fortunate."
Despite his morbid jest, he refrained from providing names to the silent stones. Instead he silently recited the tenth chapter of the Book of the Vishanti to himself.
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Date: 2006-09-25 04:55 pm (UTC)His gaze flickers to the nightmare soldier that the foul monster wearing Orroro's face has created out of the ruin of Logan.
One day, he tells himself. One day, he will cleanse the honor of his fallen warrior friend.
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Date: 2006-09-26 01:10 am (UTC)"What is my nature, teacher? I was not born this way, nor did I choose to be. Yet, you look to my defender with an aspect of pity? He who embraces what he already was in the beginning." Her eyes lock with Logan's as she finishes softly, "A killer."
She circles to stand in front of Strange, cupping his haggard face upward.
"I preserve this land and the people here for the benefit of all. Or would you prefer what happened in Egypt? A power vacuum created by warfare. Vilely decimated until the land and her people returned to the sand from which both sprung and where no beauty will flourish again." Her eyes flash with sorrow briefly, though whether it's sincere or for his benefit, anyone can guess.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-26 05:39 pm (UTC)He croaks.
A wracking cough interrupts his rebuke, but he perseveres after it subsides.
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Date: 2006-09-27 02:15 am (UTC)"Wrong, magician. We are more alive than we have ever been and shall be the true inheritors of this miserable earth long after your stock crumbles. Cattle is what you are. What you will remain." Her eyes glow white with malicious promise, before stalking away into the vapors of fog suddenly shifting into the room. Unnoticed before, but obvious now with the visibility of an already dimmed room decreasing and seeping into the dark passages to camoflauge her.
He put her in the mood to hunt.
no subject
Date: 2006-09-27 02:37 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-09-27 04:05 am (UTC)Alone in the dark, he mutters and whispers.