The Cavern of Secrets holds much more than you can imagine. Once a forbidden place, the ban on entrance has been released...yet, is it a good idea to enter?
Once a great battle had been fought in this cavern, against a dark beast that had once - and still might - dwell here. No one knows where he disappeared to, but there are rumours...
I'm Your Worst Nightmare Dressed as your Day Dream ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ After her initials screams and cries from the dislocation of her hip, she remained relatively quiet. The only things to murmur from her maw were the whimpers that fell from her pitifully. Without regret or remorse, Draven continued to drag her through the caverns, making sure that their path crossed over itself time and time again so that even if she were able to escape from his den, she would not be able to find the path out. The Caverns themselves were a labyrinth, a set of tunnels that were confusing because they all looked the same… they all smelled the same… and of course there was the darkness. In the depths of the abyss there were no light sources to show the way except for in a few key rooms where the ceilings were thin enough to have broken and crackled across the ages to allow small rays of sun through. For example – in his own den. By the ceiling was high, and never could be used as an escape, and so Draven had no worries about bringing her there. After all, none of the prisoners that Draven had ever kept within his prison had managed to escape. The way that he dumped them in was impossible to scale upward, and the path that he himself took was treacherous – the steps were nearly invisible and unless you knew exactly where to step, where to jump, you were more likely to lose your balance and fall to the hard rock floor than to succeed where so many others had failed. When he arrives into his den, she is asleep, or rather more accurately unconscious. Draven waits patiently for her to awake, which takes only a few moments. There is no rush – for they have all the time in the world. Especially down here, where it is impossible to keep track of time. And he would not want her to miss a single minute of his torture – not one single second. And so he sits, his rump resting on the floor with only his plume to cover them. He briefly thinks about waiting for her to wake in his bed. It is lined with the pelts that he has flayed from his previous roommates. It is a tedious task perhaps, for it takes careful, patient work to ensure that the entire pelt is removed in one session without ripping. The pelts become individual blankets that he then has to drag outside. No… not drag, but carry. It is difficult enough to leave his den on his own, but carrying another’s furs not only sets off his own balance due to the weight, but adds the risk of tripping should it fall. But it is necessary so that the hot sun can dry the pelt thoroughly so that mold and necrosis does not creep throughout it and ruin it. He does not mind the smell of death and surely is not the neatest or most hygienic varg to have ever walked the earth, but he does not want his home to be gross or ill kept. The bones are piled neatly in one corner, the furs in another. The dried furs… his blankets… his bed. It is all too comfortable, but he does not want comfort now. He wants to see the fear in her eyes when she wakes and finds him standing over him. And as she opens her lids and starts to sit up, Draven’s lips curl upward slowly into a maleficent grin. ‘Why are you doing this?’ The chuckle is to follow starts quietly, deeply, eerily. But it grows to a great, guffawing noise that echoes throughout his chambers, the sound bouncing richly off of each wall and reverberating back. If nothing else, the arching slope of the walls provided a beautiful echo. And because of that very echo, it takes a few minutes after he falls silent for the rest of the cave to follow suit. But it does, certainly, eventually, and he loves the drastic difference between the two. For dramatic effect, he waits and slinks slowly closer to her until he is looking into her eyes. “Because, doll… I can. Perhaps you have not noticed, but wolves are a superior species on the totem pole, with few predators of our own. It has made our species as a hole grow lax and lazy… but I am here to change all of that. I am a predator of our own, and it will force the others to follow suit. Only the strongest will survive my reign of terror… but that is the best part of all of it isn’t it? Because I don’t want to rule. My needs are varied and unnatural and my only goal… well… one of my goals is to spread concern and chaos. And so you see, doll, with you I will be an artist. You shall be my canvas. My nails and teeth will be my paintbrushes and your blood my paint. You will be a living piece of art who I shall eventually consume. But not for a long, long time.” Draven moves to her side and evaluates her pelt. It is dirtied, bloodied… gross. But it would make a beautiful blanket. It is too bad that she will never be one of his perfect blankets… no… her pelt will be too destroyed for any of that. Lunging at her, his teeth grasp onto her exposed left shoulder superficially, sliding just below her skin. Sharply, he rips it away from her, teeth tearing through flesh to leave two long garrows through her fur that immediately begin to bleed. They marked only where his canine had entered and nothing else. This is how it would start – superficially. For that was where all of the nerve endings were, and would cause the most pain… except for broken bones of course. But all in time. He would ease into it all. Draven spit out the fur strips – he had no desire to ingest her hair and develop a hairball. “You are mine, and I cannot be bargained with. But since you are to be here a while, I wish at least to know who I am tormenting. So tell me… who are you, doll? Other than my slave?” ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ |