Diaries of a Dar Princess

21

th

Palesong, Year 879 of the Age of Shadow.

Dear Diary,

Our people are, I suppose, somewhat wasteful in their pursuit of glory.

For every Dark Emperor there are a half-dozen forgotten claimants, poisoned or knifed or executed by their brothers or sisters or cousins or uncles. For every Dread General there are ten thousand dead soldiers lying rotting in some distant battlefield. For every Dark Priestess there are those that the Dark Gods have refused their blessings, their bodies used as sacrifices in dark rites to the very entities they worshipped.

Each one of them imagined themselves a contender. Each one of them imagined in themselves the seed something great; something divine; something unique. And they were all of them wrong.

How awful, the moment of realization? How shocking, the revelation that they were not destined for greatness but the shadows of obscurity and an early grave? Did they imagine that they might succeed right till the very end? Did they think that they could scheme their way out, fight their way out, find some dark miracle that might save them? Or did they understand that they had, in the depths of their pride and arrogance, risen too high? Too fast? Their fall is inevitable- and always terrible. These people, these insects who dreamed of being giants, are dragged down deep into the very depths of loss and despair; and with them they bring those foolish enough to believe in them and their tragic, awful hopes. Those whose only real sin is to trust in another.

There is a lesson, diary. Pride comes before the fall.

...

I mean for other people.

Because my evil scheme worked brilliantly and I am the smartest, most intelligent, most brilliant woman who ever lived! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

I am an evil genius! I am the mistress of mysterious ends, the cunning conspirator of clever cons, the subtle and sensuous seductress who's web of willful wonders weaves an impossible illusion of illustrious intrigue. I am a Dark Princess beyond compare, the Darkest, the most Princessy and the most breedable-

Alright, that last one is mostly hopeful conjecture but the rest is entirely true! I have triumphed over my foes and shall bring about a new age of glory to the empire!

Very well, diary. I suppose that I should explain myself. Merely beg for me to offer you enlightenment with all of your papery heart, and I may-

may

- be inclined to take time out of my rather busy schedule to inform you of the particulars of my glorious triumph.

Triumph.

Triumph.

T-R-I-U-M-P-H

Yes, diary, I like to write that word. What of it?

Anyway.

I rose early this morning. In accordance with the Plan-

(Yes, it gets a proper name while you, diary, did not. When have you ever allowed me to conquer my enemies and bring low my foes? One day, if you continue to provide me with excellent service, I might be willing to allow you that privilege; until then know your place, oh pitiful pack of paper!)

-I slept on my own; partially in accordance with father's orders- it would not do to get caught so close to my triumph- and partially to ensure that I was not too distracted from my goals. I had worried that I might find myself beset by late-night insomnia- perhaps inspired by a dread dream or two about failure- but instead there was only the minor issues concerned with the unpleasant ache between my legs and the lack of my handsome peasant boyfriend (resting back in the cell that I first put him in, with the door open this time) or Shadra (sleeping alone in some shadowy corner) to attend to it. There were no dreams-

Well, alright, one dream. I stood atop a grand temple; huge and vast and filled with greenery. A city of dark colors and green foliage spread beneath me on all sides; and it was filled with people. Dozens of people, great and small, from the lowliest beggar to the greatest noble; and all of them stared up at me, their eyes full of wonder. I was, I realized with a shock of joy, entirely naked, with each and every man and woman down there- all of them staring at my breasts, at my hot, wet quim...

And not just me. Sammy was beside me, his tanned muscles gleaming in the sunlight, his glorious length hard and proud between his legs. We basked in the love and adulation of the masses, gathered from every corner of the Empire; come to see and spread the word of our glory and beauty. Atop our heads were a pair of gleaming crowns, one dark and sinister and threaded with gold, one green and wrapped with vines; and he stared into my eyes and told me-

Well, I don't recall what he told me. But all in all it was rather positive and sweet and I didn't mind in the slightest when he bent me over the railing and, in full view of the entire city, vigorously fucked me. I moaned loudly and shamelessly for the crowd below as my breasts heaved and wobbled with every glorious stroke. My joyous cries reached the crowd below who burst into cheers while I was bred before my people-

All in all a pleasant dream. The only downside was that I woke with a rather pressing need between my legs, which I had to attend to on my own like some sort of

commoner

-

(Yes, it was my suggestion that Shadra not sleep next to me that night. Yes, I will still be punishing her for her lack of attentiveness on the most important day of my life. She'll get upset if I don't).

I rose and dressed in my most formal robes. I washed and attended to my daily routine. I sat and thought about checking my ritual notes one more time; but no. I had checked and re-checked them to the point where I had to merely close my eyes and I would see them, floating on the inside of my skull. Clean. Pure. Perfect. The work of a master. With some help, I am generous enough to admit.

There was a knock at the door. Terra answered, flanked by a pair of Shadow Guards. There was no hint of the luscious libertine lady that had consorted with half the priests and all the priestesses of the Chapel of Shadows; nothing in front of me but the woman who, equal parts bratty and mad and cunning, had given me so many headaches over the years. "You are summoned," she said, with one blonde eyebrow raised, "to attend the great and terrible ritual of claiming; the conquest of the Light of Princess Hopestra and the Ascension to Godhood of the Great and Mighty Emperor of Darkness, Soon-To-Be-Ruler of the World, Vilus the Mighty."

I solemnly bowed my head. "I obey the summons with a fearful and obedient heart."

I looked at her. She looked at me. Both of us were a heartbeat away from bursting out into evil cackling laughter, which would have been awkward and unseemly and have led to us needing to kill the guards, complicating matters tremendously. We managed to compose ourselves and I was led through the palace. Sammy- dressed, as always, as Bruticus- appeared with Shadra, the two of them walking silently like behind me.

We approached the Throne Room, the Shadow Guards at our side. No last-minute denunciations: no desperate attempts to stop me. I allowed myself to feel a silent sliver of seductive hope as we stepped into the Throne Room.

It had been transformed into the grand ritual chamber. The great gallery was filled with the cream of nobility of the empire, all gathered to pay worship to their soon-to-be god. The great entryways and ranks to the door were filled with bristling ranks of elite soldiers, all of them waiting in expectation for Prince Strengan- probably at the head of some motley band of ruffians and desperados- to come and attempt to stop the ritual, as his sort is want to do.

The very centre of the Throne Room, the space where men and women knelt to pay obedience or beg for their lives or whisper sweet lies or some strange mixture of the three, was filled with the ritual lines. Ink and paint and charcoal, mixed with the sap of plants from the darkest jungles of the empire, ground minerals hewn from the deepest mines of our great mountains and the blood of horrors conjured from the most profane levels of hell. They had been drawn, painted and sketched into long-winding patterns, interlocking circles that seemed to imply thorns or roots that ran along the stone floor. And in the very centre of the patterns lay an altar of wood, so fresh-cut that the sap still oozed from the sides. Bound to the altar was the small, delicate form of Princess Hopestra.

She stared at me as I entered and I could sense her awful fear. It was one thing for her to agree to this plan as I curled up naked on her bed, whispering hot promises into her ear; quite another to be found ready for sacrifice, with naught but a promise from a Dark Princess between her and her dreadful doom.

Watching all of this- sitting atop his Shadow Throne, encased in his great ebon armour, sat Father. His burning eyes peered out of his Great Helm. I saw no suspicion; no uncertainty; no fear; nothing but the stern, implacable will of a man who ordered- forced- all those present to obey his every whim as a matter of course. Anyone who did not know him, anyone who had not been raised by him, would have missed the signs; the slight tenseness in the way he clamped onto the throne, the intensity of his eye-glow as he stared at me. I quickly averted my gaze with submissive fear even as my heart beat just a touch faster, the thrill of anticipation racing through my body.

I nodded at my sister. I reached for the book. I looked at the incantations imbibed within and smiled, shutting the tome. I needed no instructions. I had written them, refined them and refined them further, the logic of each arcane phrase leading on to the next. I nodded to Sam, dressed up in his Bruticus mask, and he stepped forward.

Father spoke, his voice a rumble of thunder. "What is the guardsman doing? Why is he here?"

"He is a vital part of the ritual," Terra said. "An exemplar of the vitality and potency of empire. Through the sacrificial rite, he will-"

"Why," my father spoke over her, "am I not personally involved? Surely that would provide a better example?"

Terra did an excellent job of cowering as she responded. "You are the Ruler, my Emperor. It is you who commands, rather than do-"

"Nonsense," Father growled. "I find this very suspicious indeed-"

I nodded gravely. "You are right, father. Terra has overstepped her bounds... I will cancel the ritual. We will merely have to wait until the stars are once again right. In the meantime it would be best to ensure that my sister's punishment is severe, so better to-"

That did it. Not the claim to cancel the ritual; not the implication that it may be some time before we could perform it again. No, it was the act of my offering up my sister for punishment. A simple act. A familiar act. It set him at ease; made him think that he still existed in a world where his daughters fought and sniped and sabotaged each other to receive his attention. It soothed him. Relaxed him, just enough to tip the scales between paranoia and arrogance, between caution and greed.

"Continue," was all he said as he settled back on the throne.

I bowed so low that my forehead touched the floor. "I can only hope that my dazzling display of absolute arcane power might offer you some small justification for sparing my life, oh Great Dread and Powerful Emperor." When he did not speak nor move, I turned back to the other ritualists. "We shall begin."

As they took their final positions I closed my eyes. I felt it. Felt it in the air, so thick and so potent as to be nearly solid. Power, strong and glorious; the power of an innocent virgin girl, just past childhood, a paragon of a divine bloodline blessed long ago by benevolent gods. Power that lay just beyond my reach. Power enough to change the world, to tilt the direction of creation in another direction. Power that created possibility in its rawest, most potent form.

Power that was mine to take, to manipulate, to control.

The priestesses began to sing. The lines of the ritual began to glow, burning as the ritual art began to bind the arcane energies that had begun to coalesce. Sam moved with agonizing slowness towards the princess, holding a wickedly sharp knife in his hands. The blade gleamed, sharp and awful, as he approached. His demon mask was featureless and empty-souled as he came closer, closer...

A dread black mist descended upon the ritual, cloaking the participants in shadow. I chanted the next prompt, pleased with the way the priestesses followed along. Sam and Hopestra were nothing more than vague shadows in the black mist, their forms nearly obscured. His blade appeared briefly, raised in two hands above the chocking ebon mist; and then it descended. There was a terrible shriek from the Princess; an awful cry of agony. Then Bruticus's shape bent down low.

More sounds emerged from the black mist; shrieks and moans, grunts and muttered begging. The sounds of a woman in distress; the sounds of a woman being tortured. I glanced up to see the gallery transfixed on the scene, their eyes burning with intensity. Straining to make out what was being done to the girl; wanting, more than anything, to understand what was happening so that it might be forever fixed in their minds.

The chanting rose, the lines burned with brighter and brighter power, building the great and powerful spell that would at last use the power of Princess Hopestra's Light. The moans and shrieks continued, the power rose-

Of course it couldn't go smoothly.

I do not know what tipped father off. Some subtle understanding of the ritual purpose, despite my very best attempts to disguise what we were doing behind layers of arcane confusions; something glimpsed, perhaps, in the depths of the black mist we had used to mask the proceedings. But it was with a deep well of horror that I observed him rising and, with a single raised finger, dispelling the misty veil.

The scene in the center of the ritual lines was revealed.

Samuel- his black mask cast aside- straddled the wooden altar, his great muscular form rearing over the tiny princess. Her dress had been ripped open and her delicate body was open not only to his eyes, but now the eyes of the entire elite of the Dark Imperial society. The knife was gripped- unbloodied- in one hand, while the other pinned her in place. His glorious erection, however- that blade was firmly lodged between her legs, sliding in and out of her tiny little cleft. The sounds that escaped her lips were revealed for what they were- whorish pants and moans, whispered exaltations to take her

harder

, shrieks of pleasure as he dove into her... her torture, her weeks of agonized waiting after meeting Samuel and falling under our joint erotic spell, were finally over. With every stroke, with every thrust, he was driving her towards her desperately sought release- and the final trigger of the ritual.

For a few seconds, no-one spoke. For a few seconds, no-one moved. For a few seconds the entire ruling class of the empire was transfixed, too shocked- or too impressed- by the sight of my proud peasant lover claiming the Princess of Light.

And then my father shouted, "Stop the Ritual! I command it!"

His voice was certain in its authority. It was the voice that had spelt life and death for men and women throughout the length and breadth of the empire. It was a voice that had never, in my living memory, been disobeyed.

It was being disobeyed now. Though the priestesses in the ritual circle trembled, although they flinched, although their voices shook with fear, not one of them stopped or faltered. Terra did not stop; I did not stop. Samuel did look up, though and- even if his pace did not falter as he ploughed the living hell out of the moaning Princess- he smiled at the Ebon-armoured, Darkness infused figure on the throne.

"Well hello there, Mister Emperor," he said. "My name's Samuel, and I'm your lovely daughter's boyfriend. Sorry that I can't be more polite but I'm helping her with something all big and complicated- won't be more than a little while, and then we can do proper introductions, all fancy- like." And then he began to thrust harder against the writhing, panting, not-so-virginal-any-longer princess with even greater vigor, his divine phallus vanishing nearly to the hilt in between her outspread legs.

Father roared, his eyes blazing behind his great dark helm. He pointed his fingers and said in tones laced with terrible arcane power, "Stop the ritual! Kill everyone involved! Now!"

The entire assembled elite guards turned their blades upon the ritual members. Their weapons raised, flashing with terrible fury-

Only to strike an invisible barrier. Men roared and cursed as their blades and spears bounced off the now-shimmering force field that I was maintaining. I smiled and turned to face father fully, my ritual notes falling to the floor. "My awful, treacherous sister was lying," I said. "It turns out that I was not needed for the ritual after all. I did always warn you that she was untrustworthy-"

When this is over, dear diary, I will track down the cabal of tutors that trained me; every near-blind arcanist who forced me to research evocations, every grey-haired hag that whispered dark incantations into my ear, every demon pulled from the abyss that grudgingly handed over its secrets. They saved me from the lance of twisting dark energies that darted from Father's hand to strike at me. It dissipated right before completion, stopping me from simultaneously being turned to stone, burning to a crisp, teleporting a thousand feet up and dissolving into dust all at once.

He lowered his hand and cocked his head. "So be it," he whispered. "You think yourself a proper arcanist? You will learn."

He raised his hand again and I saw a dozen spells, each more fiendish than the last, coalesce around him. With half my attention focused on keeping the barrier raised I knew that there was no way that I could possibly stop him. I watched with detached interest as the spells began to form-

And then

things

dropped from the ceiling, where they had stealthily been creeping forward. Demons, snatched from unfathomable dimensions, their formless bodies given shape. Strange shapes. Unknowable shapes.

Sexy,

fun

shapes.

The carnival of sexy demonic clowns danced around father, their voluptuous bodies twisting around him while carnival music filled the air. They could not hurt him, not through his armor or his protective spells; but their swaying forms hemmed him in, causing the great and powerful evocations around his body to wither as his concentration was disrupted. He snarled, weaving spells anew, only to have gaudy-painted breasts thrusts into his face while pale asses rubbed against his legs. Always in motion; always shifting in a whirling, chaotic pattern of greens and reds and yellows painted onto naked white skin. They laughed in their motely nakedness, swooping in to land slaps and tickles and kisses on the shimmering ebon armor of the most powerful man in the Empire.

From behind me I heard an exclamation of joy, "Well blow me! I got to see the circus after all! Well, this is just the best day ever! Wait till the folks back home hear about this!"

Father let out a terrible bellow of rage and a primal wave of power erupted from his body. Two of the sexy clowns were destroyed in a heartbeat, their bodies fading into splatters of demonic goo. One of them landed but an inch from the lines of ritual power where it hung in the air, sizzling and cooking. He cried out in a terrible boom, "Morticus! Aid me!"

I turned to see the brutish form of Father's great general. I saw him start, as though waking from a dream, and turn away from the rutting vision in front of him where the Princess's cries grew ever louder. I saw his hand move to his sword-belt, where a blade of spell-breaking power hung. I saw him hesitate. I saw him look at me.