Servant

Servant

Daryl stumbled through the forest, breathing heavily as he pushed shrubbery, branches, and an assortment of decaying rot from his path. He was lost, even though he knew this path very well. The forest would lead him to the kingdom of Illis; home of Matron Ne'syl - the only one alive that could help him. Though that did not matter. He would never make it. For it was not his direction within the world that was deterred, but his past that had thrown him into an endless and chaotic misdirection. The effect of receiving the touch of a succubus.

A headache found it's way to the front of Daryl's skull as the image of his mistress flashed through the man's mind, along with the echoing words that described his inevitable fate. 'You will become a child of my blood - a demon within a man; though no longer will the men of your world excuse you for the worthless slave you are. You will kill - and they will kill you. And you will return to the hells, to be by my side for an eternity.' Her voice was stern, motherly, and solid. For she was a demon of one of the lowest planes of existence, and no man could deny the truth in her word.

He gasped for a moments breath, the pain within his forehead fuming to a whole new level of agony. Fire built behind the flesh upon his forehead, burning demonic rage that would no longer be suppressed by his will - could not be suppressed. Demonic saturation from years of serving his Mistress in a life of hedonism and subservient mannerisms had finally caught up to him - claimed him.

He was far from a man.

Though the initial pains were nothing but a lull before the storm, he could not help but fall to his knees. A cry - an incomprehensible curse to the winds - gave form through his orifice. How many nights before he gave up to the doom instilled within his blood? How many more nights could he continue to live on, before the succubus' touch would devour him fully? Perhaps, he thought, this was the night.

With a sudden jolt, a feeling that surpassed all pain, which made every inconvenience in Daryl's entire life worthless, manifested from his aching skull. There was no preparation for this new sense, this ultimate form of awareness. Flesh broke and tore as pieces of skull spouted from his forehead, slowly, as if willed by the sadistic natures of the Mistress. At first, they were blunt, unwholesome, cracked restructuring of his own bone - remnants of his flesh and blood still clinging to the newly grown.

Then, they were something more. And he had never been so far from being human.

He placed shaking hands upon 'his' horns, gripped them tightly, and sobbed inwardly. They belonged to her. Just as he was once hers. The bone heated and burned the flesh upon his palms - seared each and every layer until there was nothing but bone - then regenerated it all through supernatural force, only to start a cycle. His hands remained upon the portruding bone, adhered by melted muscle.

His whole body shook - from pain, from emotional distress, from self-loathing. "How many nights," he growled through gritted teeth, the words barely audible "must I be...tortured..." a laugh echoed through his mind, but he pushed it away. Willed it as much as he could to disappear. "No!" he grunted, and forced his head to the ground. Submission was something he could not do...not when he was so close to escaping the fate forced upon him.

Around him, the forest darkened. Slowly, he could feel himself disconnect from his world - drawn further into the hells that spawned this curse. Time slowed as the pains seemed to subside for a moments reprise - though he knew her presence was only a thought away.

Another shock erupted from somewhere in his body - another transformation, likely from contact with the taint. It began with his fingernails, each bursting from their perspective finger in a rhythmic order, a spray of gore followed each, which was in turn followed by a whole new nail - no, a talon. He roared his discomfort, smashed his horns into the ground, screamed out a dozen prayers to a dozen gods, but nothing could stop the alteration.

As if cast into the purest of fire, his flesh pealed back, then off, drifting away from the hand like an ember from a blazing flame. Underneath was no longer muscle, but a new skin - full of blistering boils, and red, hairless flesh. The chaos stopped at his elbow, but he knew it was far from over. With deep uneven breaths, he dropped his new appendages to his sides, and fell to his stomach in exhaustion.

"Matron..." he called into the earth, his voice muffled by the forest floor. "...there is only you..." he could not bare to finish his sentence, and found his consciousness drift further from him. Perhaps when he awoken, he would find that everything was nothing but a realistic dream...

Nothing...but a false memory....

Daryl's vision went black, and the distant call of owls and night dwellers carried throughout the forest.