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Nine Levels: Lust UNFINISHEDClick, click, click.
An absurd silence consumes the party of the corrupted and perverse high ranking filth of the worlds. Their unified source of amusement for this Wednesday evening is just starting to take an interesting turn, determined only by the mere weight of chance and fate.
If Pandora were one to believe in such a thing, she'd find the roulette's choice a very ironic joke. Fortunately for her, the High Council Time Ranger believes in nothing more than happenstance, hand in hand with social hierarchy contributing to an imbalance of fortune, whether in your favour or not. She also believes herself to be of superior renown and the highest covenance, but that too, of course, is highly subjective.
So when the roulette of torture determines, by way of a crude etching of forceful intercourse between two vaguely human forms, that the topic by which Pandora is to abide for her first participating round is lust, there is no doubt in her mind that this outcome is far too obvious.
Nine Levels: IntroductionIf ever more significant was a sky as red as the apple that stopped the white maiden's breath, then tonight, a simple Wednesday, would serve as a reminder of such significance. But as it were, a night in which fate itself would take a spin on loaded probability, would stand alone, unabated, waiting to taste and to bathe in such a sky as this.
Tapered fingers explore soft dark curls of hair, twisting one lock and pressing into it with ease a pin soon made invisible by another such lock. This process continues, labouring slowly, as perfection takes as long as it damn wants to get ready for the evening.
Her tongue glides over the edge of a pin that is held between her lips, which she no sooner tastes than she plucks from her mouth and slips expertly into her hair to hold in place another flawless loop. For a woman in her power, she could have commanded someone else do this chore for her, or, much less strenuous, magicked it so. But, in truth, Pandora savours the ridiculous amount of time
Poetic PsychosisIn thirty seconds, the next shell would fall. Every night was the same, but every night Lorenzo experienced it as if it were the first time. His throat felt swollen; breathing was hard. He glanced around at the others; young men like him who had been shipped out in the name of honour and freedom. There was no honour in this, no freedom. Only death behind your eyelids, and a fear so gutting, that it carved out your innards and left you a hollow husk. Lorenzo tried to breathe, tried to assure himself that he was still whole, still made of flesh. They had lied when they told him he was ready.
Matteo ran towards him, arms out, rifle swinging uselessly at his side. He shouted for him to run, but Lorenzo remained motionless, unable to move as his friend’s warning was lost in the constant blare of gunfire. None of them were ready.
“The cycle is repeating. It is not safe.” The voice was soft and weak, yet it carried over the gunfire and battle cries without impediment.
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