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The Price of Gratitude	By : Mayamahal Category: +S through Z > World of Warcraft Views: 6057 -:- Recommendations : 2 -:- Currently Reading : 2
Disclaimer: I do not own Blizzard or World of Warcraft. I make no profit or money for writing this.

Chapter List
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Maia was having a very difficult time staying sane.

In the beginning, the borderline dehydration her captors kept her left her in a near constant state of delusion. Her vision swam, tinged around the edges with shadows that made it hard to focus on anything real.

And the drums ... the drums went on all day, and all night.

She was kept in a hut that was always guarded, at least without if not within. Bound to a stake in the center of the structure, her clothes completely removed. Her nakedness didn't bother her near as much as when they cut her hair; she wept during that whole process, the only thing keeping her from fighting was abject fear, and the weight of the gold bracelet they let her keep on her wrist. She was told if she held still, they wouldn't rip it off her arm.

Despite her lack of clothing she wasn't molested. If anything, they thought she was disgusting, words she picked up and heard around her and through the walls of the hut, comments about her ugly coloring and short stature, small feet and impish facial features. Still, she was left mostly alone.

Except by him.

He introduced himself as Jul'Kazor, Atal'ai priest and humble servant to Hakkar. If that wasn't enough to send chills down her spine, it's the way he looks at her, erection apparent through his loincloth, walking around her with one finger always on her skin, be it her shoulder or her neck or the arms she has pulled backward and bound into place. He brushes his hands lower now and again to grip her breast and heft it like he's testing its weight, or maps the curve of her hip with a clammy hand like a person would examine ripe fruit. This is about his extent of his molestation; he barely speaks to her in these moments, and they're pretty rare on their own.

Only once does she think he's going to actually rape her.

It's in the middle of the night, sky black with scented smoke and thick with pounding music and wailing, horrific chanting that puts nasty images in her head. The ruckus has reached its zenith, echoing through the strange village, when he throws back the curtain of the hut and marches in.

He's naked, foul-smelling and sweat-drenched, gripping her chin as he hauls her to her feet. The wild, feral look in his eye sends terror spinning through her limbs, and she's thrashing before he even makes his intentions known.

Hands yank at her thighs even as she twists, her croak of fear sounding feeble and pathetic in her ears. He's panting, his skin is damp and leaves traces of moisture on her own flesh, makes her shudder at the physical evidence he's leaving behind. He reaches for her sex and it's then that she shakes the last of her stupor from her and screams at the top of her lungs. With a deft jerk of her shoulders, she eliminates the space between their skulls and slams the top of her head into his face.

Blood spurts, nasty and free flowing, a geyeser of blood as he howls in pain and rage. He backhands her and lets her drop back to her knees, swearing up a storm as he leaves the tent. His eyes have become less wild, though, no longer the dilated insanity of a Troll berserking. Despite his anger, she gets the feeling she's saved him from something.

Something he didn't want to let himself do.

She's left kneeling, struggling to breathe around her panic in the emptiness of her prison, wondering what could be worse than that creature putting anything of himself on her, or in her.

ooo

Days later, they move her to the great temple that's submerged in the cove at the heart of the Swamp known for its sorrows.

Females attend her, fearful creatures that are probably less malicious than starved wolves, unbinding her hands and bathing her in clear water, annointing her with strange oils that make her flesh tingle. Maia can't even steal a sip of her bath water, so diluted by unholy ointments and the milk of some mammal.

When she's clean and reeking like a perfumed, sacrificial mare, she's presented with the remains of her long, dark hair.

They've bound it to the end of what looks like a short wand, the hilt wrapped in leather that's pulled so tight it makes the whole thing smooth. Her severed hair dangles free and untangled on the other end, flicking like a tail.

When they hold her over a barrel and pry her legs apart, she knows this description is horribly apt.

Even gentle, it's the humiliation of the whole thing that finally breaks her.

It's night when the bind her to the altar.

The stars have come out and the moon is red, gibbous and bright in the sky. She's told she must stay here to be held in the eye of Hakkar, so that he might see the vessel of her body and accept it as the offering it is.

They're almost reassuring when they say it, like she should feel safe and honored.

Jul'Kazor is leering at her, running his hand over her prone body, tugging at the gleaming tail that dangles from between her buttocks. She looks away from him, miserable and terrified and weary of this mess.

He leaves her though, untouched but prone, bound in place, arms above her head and legs outstretched beneath the sky, alone on the make-shift platform at the very top of the temple rising above the red waters.

Her sobs of misery echo across the cove, the chorus of frogs her only company as, finally, the village of her jailers goes silent and still, a day of rest before their moment of spiritual manifestation.

She whispers Koda's name, tears tracing cold lines down her cheeks, despairing.
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The Price of Gratitude