Chapter Text
206 Salvation Era
“This is pointless,” Wendell grumbled, kneeling as he picked through some rubble. “This place was cleaned out a century ago. If there was anything worthwhile here, the Church would have come back for it.” The broad man was grizzled, with rough skin and a coarse black beard.
“They say that a hundred Templars died here when the Witch of Kingu collapsed the redoubt on their heads,” Tira shot back. She peered into the gloom, her blue eyes glowing faintly as she invoked the Sight of Treasure to try to find fragments of gold or silver, not quite illuminating her olive skin and slender frame. “And it’s supposed to be haunted. People don’t come out here.”
“And yet.” Wendell stood up, holding a scrap of leather wrapped around a bit of rusted iron. “Even the corpses are gone. I think your source was a bust.”
Tira held up one finger. “Hold on,” she whispered. “I thought I heard something.” She crept towards the end of the hall, where a heavy door was rusting on its hinges. “Like… a voice?”
The hall fell still as she stepped up to the door, pressing an ear against it. She tested the handle. “Locked,” she hissed back to Wendell. “Can you open it?”
He frowned, stepping up beside her, and pulled out his picks. Now that she mentioned it, he could hear something too. Like a ragged gasp, occasionally punctured by squeaks. He knelt at the door, testing the lock, and then shook his head. “Rusted through,” he said. “Two hundred years of damp’ll do that. Take a peek through, you can see in the dark.”
Tira nodded, bending over to look through the keyhole and pretending she couldn’t tell that Wendell was staring at her ass. There were a few flickers of iron and the tiniest fragments of gold filigree, but… “It’s a rockfall,” she said with a groan. “Ceiling’s caved in. That sound must be the wind coming down from above.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here. This place gives me the creeps.”
As the two treasure hunters made their way out of the ruins, they didn’t see the ghostly eyes watching them from the shadows. They never knew how close they had come to the nightmare unfolding beneath them.
“Aww, your rescuers are departing,” the ghostly soldier whispered in her victim’s ear. She reached out, running her nails along the back of Sylvaen’s neck, grinning as another gasping moan of laughter echoed through the bottom of the redoubt.
If any of Sylvaen’s servants were still alive after two centuries, they would not have recognized the Witch of Kingu. Her once-tan skin was pale from her time in the darkness, red hair grown and cascading down to the floor around the stone altar to which she had been bound. Her own iron manacles were locked around her wrists and ankles, stretching her taut and leaving her body free for the dozens of spirits that thronged around her to torment and tease to their pleasure, and her eyes were wide and unfocused as she stared out into the darkness.
Magic had kept her strong and fit, though; her breasts were still large and firm, her muscles toned, and her ass round as it pressed against the stone. Sylvaen’s pussy was large and puffy, forced through cycles of denial for decades without an orgasm. And while a witch did not need to sleep, she needed to dream. The lengths to which the ghosts had gone to force their killer to remain awake had plunged her into a permanent state of half-hallucinatory dreaming, making her endless life nightmarish in more ways than one.
“Just think,” Claudia purred, as she reached down and dug her nails into Sylvaen’s oversensitive armpits, “they could have joined you. Given us someone else to focus on. Maybe let you catch your breath, wouldn’t that have been nice. But then, we try not to capture trespassers who aren’t servants of the Witches. They will go free, and tell everyone that there is nothing to be found here, and your isolation will only grow.”
“Hhhnnnh…” Sylvaean gasped, tears welling in her eyes as Claudia’s fingers sent waves of bitter cold into her skin, drawing goosebumps before digging in to sending another blast of ticklish hell down her spine. Centuries of nonstop laughter had ruined her throat, overwhelming even her magical healing and leaving her at the edge of silence. “Ppll….”
“Still trying to beg for mercy?” Claudia laughed, and gestured. A ghost’s tongue lapped into Sylvaen’s belly button, causing the former witch to jerk against her chains, and another began to run a spectral feather over her swollen clit, adding waves of sexual need to the torment overwhelming her. “There will no mercy, witch of Kingu. Your goddess will leave you, and then you will die, and your ghost will remain here with us for the rest of time, locked in a nightmare from which there can be no escape.”
Claudia’s bright laughter mixed with Sylvaen’s silent cries, unheard by the living souls above.