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SV's Occasional Crucifixion Thread

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Servus Venandi

Magistrate
Cross-Fit
by Servus Venandi

SW_Crux05_SageCross.jpg

The “cross-fitness” of crucified inmates is a running joke among guards at the NA East Detention Center. Each cellblock has a pair of T-shaped steel crosses on the lower level, used in nonlethal disciplinary applications against unruly residents, or schmucks who otherwise get on the bad side of someone with a little power. It can be a spectacle—nude prisoners, arms spread, struggling for the entertainment of guards and detainees alike. Some handle it better than others.

When Sage did a few weeks at NA East leading up to her fateful transfer to Zone 9 Asylum, she was already in fine shape. Assassination campaigns that span the galaxy tend to demand a certain level of physical prowess, after all, and wasting away inside the concrete walls of an ocean-based jail threatened her finely-honed edge.

After she drop-kicked the warden during orientation and got cruxxed less than an hour after arriving, however, Sage realized atrophy wouldn’t be a problem. All she had to do was violently resist some petty command once per day. They’d manhandle her, possibly lay a few stripes across her tits and ass, and then put her on one of the crosses in Cellblock F. It was a free hour-long workout, sometimes longer if she really pissed someone off.

By the time the poorly-named justice system shipped her off to the nuthouse in late EY2418, she was in better physical shape than when they’d arrested her.

To this day, Sage is fondly reminded of those grueling days on the cross every time she hangs from a pull-up bar.

I’m cross-fit as fuck, motherfuckers. Try me.

--
 

Apostate

Administrator
Staff member

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Servus Venandi

Magistrate
"And the assembled throng was sore distressed by the sight of the suffering woman, and cried out with one voice "Lose that goddam ball gag!!!" ;)

I know, I know. :lol:

If it isn't obvious, I'm somewhat of a gag fanatic, and it's integral to my fictional universe, right down to utility...


and philosophical foundations.


Alas, the ballgag is not a universal positive. I'll try to keep it in mind. :D
 

Apostate

Administrator
Staff member
I know, I know. :lol:

If it isn't obvious, I'm somewhat of a gag fanatic, and it's integral to my fictional universe, right down to utility...

Alas, the ballgag is not a universal positive. I'll try to keep it in mind. :D

Actually you need do nothing other than what you want.

I've spent most of two decades pestering actual artists to give visual form to my own fantasies, but I've never let myself forget that they do crux art because they like to.

You sound like you’re mainly into the maledom flavor of BDSM, so free to to tell me to take a hike. ;)
 

poem21045

Tribune
Actually you need do nothing other than what you want.

I've spent most of two decades pestering actual artists to give visual form to my own fantasies, but I've never let myself forget that they do crux art because they like to.

You sound like you’re mainly into the maledom flavor of BDSM, so free to to tell me to take a hike. ;)
One should never hike alone, Apostate. Perhaps, as your companion, this lady, who seems a bit absent-minded. . . ?
external-content.duckduckgo.com2.jpg
 

Apostate

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Apostate

Administrator
Staff member

Servus Venandi

Magistrate
The Elfin Assassin of Dourheim
by Servus Venandi

SW_Crux07_Elf.jpg

Phyra knew from the start this fate was possible, even if she never considered it all that likely. Of course, unlikely things happen all the time. Most aren’t significant—two specific people converging on the same doorway at the same instant, a glimpse skyward as a hunk of celestial dust incinerates in the atmosphere.

Some such events, however, carry grave consequences.

A half-asleep town guard glancing Phyra’s way right as she crept out the second-story window of a Dourheim mansion resulted in her arrest, a very swift public trial, and an even more public execution on the cross.

It wasn’t breaking and entering that saw her nailed to these wooden beams, however. That offense, on its own, might have garnered a whipping, perhaps some time in the stocks, but little else. Crucifixion? Punishment for the slaughter of Magistrate Hans Delorm, who lay upon his bed, in a pool of his own blood, at the exact moment Phyra slipped out his bedroom window in full view of a Dourheim guardsman.

The humans of this locale object to such things, apparently.

These objections do not extend to taking life in a general sense, as Phyra has learned. They kept her bound and gagged in a rat-infested cell for the night. Then, after the morning trial (the outcome of which was never in doubt), guards flogged her with belts, beat her with sticks, and then dragged her through town behind a horse until arriving at Algorn’s Hill.

Her cross waited on the ground, already marked—a rectangular sign denoting her crime, and a hand print formed with the blood of her victim. In the midday sun, with dark storm clouds stirring beyond green hills to the west, they nailed her wrists and feet and raised her, naked and broken, before a hundred jeering onlookers.

It has been hours. Her fingers and toes have gone numb, but the rest of her filthy body shivers in agony while breath comes in laborious gasps. She keeps hoping to lose consciousness from blood loss before she suffocates, but that seems ... unlikely ... at this point. The universe is amusing in its cruelty.

She smiles.

Phyra will swim in the Ocean of Souls soon, but the elf-butcher Hans Delorm went to his gods first. This isn’t her preferred means of leaving the world, but it is good enough.

Elfinkind will carry on without her.

“Hail Zola,” she says, her voice a harsh rasp, “my Mistress and my Queen. Long live the People, the rock upon which I stand. Glory to the Ocean Gods, my wellspring, to whom I serve in life and surrender in death.”

“Eh?” says a nearby guard. He prods her belly with a spear. “I see not much standing, but a whole lot o’ hanging, and not a god in sight. Shut it with the elf-y horseshit, or I’ll let ya check out with a gag stuffed in your mouth. How’s that sound, eh?”

Phyra looks at him, squints in the glare with her one eye that isn’t swollen shut. “Forgive me, human. None have come to give me the rites, and so I pray for myself.”

The man’s gaze softens. “I get that. Just ... keep it down a bit, ‘kay? I’m not s’posed to let prisoners talk.”

“I understand, and will strive to comfort my soul quietly.”

“Fair ‘nuff, elf.”

Phyra hangs her head, whispers the lines of commitment she has uttered since childhood, and waits for the hereafter tide to sweep her away.

--
 
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