Ingva peers through the reeds at the perimeter of the camp. Her deep blue eyes survey the scene. It's a small swampy clearing and in the center is a huge pyre, yet unlit. She can see a cauldron of water over slightly glowing coals. There is also a makeshift altar adorned with all sorts of wicked curiosities and totems. Her eyes search further for the prize she has traveled so far to reclaim: a small golden idol dedicated to the Virgin Goddess. The goddess being the primary deity that her fair people revere.
"It could be on the altar?" She wonders, "I've tracked the thief leagues across the Badlands, I'm certain this is where he's made camp and the idol has to be with him."
Before Ingva has time to deliberate further, she hears a stirring in the clearing. The statuesque warrior woman instinctively crouches down, like a cat on the hunt. A slender robed figure silently makes its way around the pyre, shoring up its supports with pieces of hemp twine.
"There he is, the thief!" Ingva thinks, "He's got to be alone, I've explored the perimeter and he's the only sign of life for miles."
What she is thinking is true. There are few living people this far into the Badlands. Very few sentient beings live in this area of the Great Continent. Certainly, there are goblins, ghouls and other monstrosities, but this clearing? This area is lifeless save for the two.
Planning her approach, Ingva could wait for an opportune moment when the thief is sleeping and perhaps sneak into the camp and search for the idol. She doesn't like that plan at all. She's already searched for too long and she's eager to return the idol. Besides, retribution must be paid by the thief. A direct approach is called for. He's alone and not expecting an attack, she decides to act accordingly.
The warrior silently draws her sword, takes a deep breath and slips into the clearing. With absolute silence she begins to close the distance between her and the robed figure, ready to strike. However, Ingva scarcely makes two steps before the figure turns. The figure raises a bony hand at the advancing blonde warrior and utters an incantation in a forbidden dark tongue. Ingva is instantly halted. trapped within her own body, under the influence of some wicked spell.
"You may stand at ease, girl" the man says, his voice reminiscent of the creek of an opening coffin.
Ingva without thought obeys. She relaxes before the hooded man, her arms hanging harmlessly beside her. She wants with every ounce of her being to strike the man down, but is irrevocably entranced.
He approaches the helpless woman, pulling back the hood that hides his face. Ingva is shocked at his visage. It is difficult to tell his age, yet she can see he's not too old, yet certainly not young. Shocks of unnaturally white hair crown his head. Grey skin seems to hang on his skull and dark sunken eyes seem to greedily peek out from their sockets.
"Drop your sword, girl," the gaunt man says, chuckling, "Sometimes I forget that one under the Glamour of Garzor obey orders to a most literal degree."
Garzor. Ingva knows that name. It is a name that is only spoken in hushed tones by evil apprentices. Garzor is the god of death and murder, whose followers are known to sacrifice women to him in wicked sacrificial rites, thus making them eternal concubines of the evil god.
Ingva is in grave danger.
The Acolyte of Death circles around the woman, taking in her form. She's strong, but not overly muscular with powerful legs and wide, shapely hips. There is a hit of muscle beneath the soft skin of her abdomen. Ingva's face is strong and regal, a true beauty with high cheekbones and a pronounced jawline and soft feminine features. Her long blonde hair is braided and tied with a leather strap.
The Acolyte smacks his lips, "Let's get you ready for the rite." He swallows hard, "You will get naked and enter the bath."
Ingva, still parsing out that she is in the command of an Acolyte of Garzor, begins to remove her "armor": a chain loin covering that hangs from her waist, a mail brassier which contains her very ample breasts. She peels herself out of her leather boots and, now helplessly exposed, makes her way to the cauldron as the Acolyte guides her with a bony hand pressing on her ass.
The water is warm and aromatic, it's not unpleasant with hints of nightshade and tobacco flower. At least, it would be more pleasant if she wasn't being prepared for sacrifice to an evil god.
The Acolyte approaches, "Wash yourself, girl" he creaks and begins to comb out her braid, allowing her long blonde hair to fall about her back and shoulders in soft waves.
"Curious," he says as he helps bathe his captive's full breasts with his bony hand. He kneads them, seeing how her nipples react to his touch, he gives them a playful pinch. Ingva, trapped in her own body, can only seethe internally, as her body betrays her.
"I have heard the women of the Wilds do not stand to have a single hair on them below their necks," The Acolyte moves his hands beneath the water and down her body, across her strong middle and ending between her legs."It seems that is true," he whispers, giving her clean smooth mound a gentle tickle with his thin creeping fingers. Ingva would shiver if she could.
"You have a great honor before you, girl, " he continues, his lips near her ear "you will spend eternity in the fiery realm of Garzor serving him as a concubine. You will be most prized in his realm, as he has not yet had a follower of the virgin goddess. You will no doubt spend many eons riding at the end of his monstrous barbed bone cock..."
The Acolyte pauses look Ingva in the eye before continuing.
