The Summit of Yyingrigotl (Part 1 / NSFW)


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Thread: The Summit of Yyingrigotl (Part 1 / NSFW)

  1. #1

    The Summit of Yyingrigotl (Part 1 / NSFW)

    A heavy tapestry whipped and churned, its duty to bar cold snow and freezing winds failed so often few even knew of its original purpose. Beyond this curtain’s ill-kept barrier was a dangerous outcropping that only the intrepid were bound for, hewn from the very mountain it jutted from. With a picturesque view of unparalleled grandeur, the balcony overlooked the Lochnormouthin (“Lake in the Mountain”, Lock-nore’moo’thin), whose waters’ calmness juxtaposed the turbulent inhabitants that looked down upon it. From this theatre, an additional peak could be distinguished that was entirely shattered and on the brink of collapse. It provided little challenge to its rival, the Yyingrigotl (“Astral Ascent”, Why’in-grih’go’tuhl), which had wrested the title of the tallest peak from Mount Eksnothrar (“Mortal’s Reach”, Eck’s-noe-tr’arr) after its solemn doom. As the weather’s wroth became magnified, crimson arcs stringed from the heavens only to sunder the ground below while a horrific bark trailed every strike. At twilight, these wicked images were only intensified as darkness consumed the sky and blazed the red streaks at their apex. Such bizarre anomalies were the norm over Northern Mok, a land twisted and rent by malignant deities spurred on by its own inhabitants.


    Footsteps had erupted from within the hall, still discernible even with the sounds of pure rage outside. Long and macabre shadows flickered on the rough carved walls of dreary slate, a sight best left unspoken. These creatures, who skittered about the long and empty corridors, made their way to an even more voluminous chamber, of which the lighting had dimmed beyond a reasonable level and sweet smoke wafted about. Those weak of composure could be entranced by its swirls and grace, let alone a scent capable of blissful intoxication. Above the dirty and unswept rocky floors was a titanic vaulted ceiling that appeared to ascend into the very sky itself, such a height so absolute that even the light was stretched far too thin upon its descent. Along the ceiling’s four large panels which sloped into the skylight, were crude and horrifying murals of devious imagination. The subject matter of these gruesome works of art was irredeemable slaughter and bestial depravity, among other vile events considered beyond the pale. An observer could find themselves unnerved by the elegance and captivating properties of the illustrations despite their malevolence.
    The implications for such heinous depictions were only unveiled as the shadows lengthened. Sanity itself had seemed to erode, crumbled to dust with only great woe and terror to serve as comfort. At the center of this odious hall was a simple throne, sculpted similarly to that of the walls. On this seat were sinewy legs draped on the floor, its feet scaled and toes clawed. Two individuals enshrouded in cloaks of darkness had assembled just below the hallowed seat, their necks bent in what was either fear or respect, the difference indistinguishable. “My Lord…” spoke the servant on the right, his voice shrill and shallow, “...shall you deliver us to our preordained prey?” The other servant’s head whipped about to look upon his comrade as if such a sin was grave enough to endanger both their lives. The silence echoed and wailed within the minds of the addressors, the seconds of placidity melted into hours of what was an indescribable agony. And through this lull, which had shrieked and pierced the very souls of the two creatures, their master finally answered. With grave intent and an undertone of anticipatory joy, quite similar in vein to a young boy’s glee in the murder of vermin. He who sat upon the throne announced, “Indeed...”, his abhorrently aroused forked tongue slithering about on his bloodied gums.

    Fraught with suspense, the two servants warily peered upward to look upon their master. Glazed upon their serpentine faces was the honor and terror of being their Lord’s lightbearer, a distinction of unmatched importance among his surreptitious court. Those who held this position often found their neck rendered flaccid for even the slightest degradation of such sanctified traditions. In an almost religious act, the pair produced ornate metal torches from their ceremonial garb of red and black scale mail. With their claws, each ignited the relics entrusted to them with a curious object that was obscured in their offhand. The staves blazed so brightly that the servants cast their eyes away for but a moment, the once abyssal room bathed in purple and blue illumination. Assembled in seemingly endless rows and columns were a legion of warriors, their attention sternly pointed forward, the observation of the throne the utmost concern to them. Their Lord’s eyes penetrated the duo even through the eldritch war mask that concealed his tyrannical gaze, that of pure savagery and wroth that even the hundreds of soldiers at their rear could not provide vanguard against. The silent servant thought of nothing but the sweet chance of escape from such a hellish palace, however, such a temptation spurred his muscles to betray him.

    His master’s precognitive ability was absolute and before he could bolt his neck was within the clutches of his master’s left claw with preternatural dexterity. The servant writhed and squirmed in terrible pain under the constriction which tightened with furious hatred, all the while needle-like claws burrowed in between the orange scales that encased his spine. A rivulet meandered down his shoulder, yet before any serious harm could be done the claw relaxed and let the petrified servant drop back to his knees. Racked with terror so compounded he could hardly perceive his surroundings, he instinctively craned upward to beg for mercy as his master’s claw returned. Before any pleadings could bound off his forked tongue the servant gagged as two clawed fingers pried deep into his throat. For a moment, the two locked eyes, both in full knowledge of the events to proceed. In acceptance, the servant’s eyelids closed in compliance as he choked out harrowing screams that showed little emotion in comparison to the ecstasy that caused his master’s body to quiver with a sickening exuberance. A slickened snip resounded throughout the throne room and the servant collapsed onto his elbows, utterly defeated and unable to mount any shred of resistance. From his now silenced maw, blood poured through his teeth that pooled on the cold ground, that which cared not for a drop of his suffering.
    A wicked grin split the other servant's mug as he too drank in the jubilance of the moment, in full revel of the grace and ease in which his master had collected such a trophy. Pinned between two of his Lord’s outstretched fingers was the disgrace’s long serpentine tongue. Despite the savagery of such an action, the skillful manner in which he moved his sword like claws brought on a strange admiration for the monstrous creature as if he was not a butcher, but rather a surgeon. A tall and astute warrior stepped out from behind the throne, clad in bulky ceremonial armor that plated his body from neck to ankle. The guardian spoke in a soft and respectful tone to his Lord and asked, “Shall I excise this vermin for you, my Great Tyrant?” Dressed in a long red and purple cloak that covered his entire right shoulder all the way down to where his clawed hand would be was a Drakhul of considerable age, recognizable due to his reddish grey scales that rippled along his lean and muscular body. Without any contemplation, he replied, “No, Relikaart (Rell-ih’cart), his only punishment has been dealt. Those who will not use their tongue out of fear need it not.” And with these words, Relikaart fell to one knee while he bowed and said, “Of course, Lord Viedskavn (Feed-scah’finn). Shall we proceed?”

    With his eyes still upon the freshly cut trophy, Viedskavn shifted focus to his royal guardian as he discarded the forked tongue onto the rough floors. For but a moment more, he savored the sweet stench of the atmosphere for it smelled of blood and fear. However, Viedskavn was compelled to abandon the bliss and return to his duties, in turn, he asked his guardian, “Are the ships prepared for our voyage?” Relikaart silently nodded, his head scarred regardless of the natural plating densely packed over his lizardly head, far tougher than knotted hardwood. With regal majesty Viedskavn arose from his dark grey throne, eyes shut as he stepped off of the platform to address the brave servant. “And what is your name, lightbearer?” asked Viedskavn, who looked down upon his remaining servant, “If you are to ascend to my flank for this campaign I require a label beside your position.” With his heart aswell, the prideful Drakhul gleefully answered, “Selyarrtz (Sell-yart’s), my Lord.”
    Selyarrtz gestured to behind the throne with his torch whose banishment of the shadows had laid bare the remainder of the room for all to see. Surrounded by Primevean (“Slender fleshling”, Pry-me’vee’ann) thralls was an ornate dining table packed with an overindulgence of meats and a plentitude of strong intoxicants of liquid and gaseous form. The humanoid servants were all youthful and of the female gender, most likely by Viedskavn’s twisted and carnal proclivities, however, this was drawn into discrepancy by their garment as they were robed despite the obvious expectation. All but one of the servants’ heads were pointed down to observe the floor, whose icy eyes stared through the throne and seemed to perforate Viedskavn’s very skull. Her blonde locks flowed out of her white hood even though they were incarcerated in such a dark place, one that had banished all things of beauty long ago. Her face was contorted in anger although it had been concealed from the light, most likely caused by the tight grip she maintained on an object in her right hand. The little skin exposed under her elbow revealed a fibrous arm that flexed with such fury enough to rival that of Viedskavn’s ire in the face of discourteousness.

    Viedskavn, Relikaart, and Selyaartz made their way over to the table, all the while Viedskavn ogled the servant girls with hideous intent. At the head of the dining area, Viedskavn gestured to his two guests to sit as he addressed them, “We have prepared a special meal for such an auspicious and rare occasion. Raiding parties under my warrant have procured families from across the sea, for we shall test them on this day in accordance with Hurok’s will” With his claws Viedskavn now beckoned his guests to taste the succulent meats that almost dwarfed his own legions. “These thralls are the only remnants of their associated families. All other members have been prepared for our enjoyment, as to guarantee that the conquered lands are of a fine enough caliber for Drakhullic consumption” The blonde servant girl twitched and smoldered barely able to maintain her patience, her desire written all across that pretty face of hers. A wicked joy overcame Viedskavn, who had taken notice of the displeasure of the young girl, as he called out, “Young thrall, would you be so kind as to bring me a side of your father, the dish in the middle. I’m led to assume his meat is rather tough, if Relikaart did not embellish his narrative…”

    Relikaart was now seated beside his master and clarified, “It brings me great shame to admit mortally wounding him, but he would not abandon his hubris. A most valiant warrior, let it be known he died with honor” The young girl’s vitriol turned to the plated warrior, but it did not wander for long before Viedskavn snapped his fingers in impatience. With the plate that held her father’s cut scooped up in her arm, she made her way over to the tall and gilded chair that Viedskavn rested in, her body quivering in disgust and despair to no end. As she passed Selyaartz, he took notice of something in her right hand that she had attempted to hide. Gripped by her thigh, the Drakhul hissed, “What is that in your hand, thrall!”, but as he reeled her in the servant girl raised her clenched hand above her head. With a wickedly pointed shank the girl impaled Selyaartz’ neck, with an initial spray of red liquid only to take resurgence in a fountain of crimson blood that stained the royal spread. Selyaartz’ arm limpened and his claw flaccidly hung at his side as the servant girl now moved to the true target, unable to comprehend anything but Viedskavn’s neck as her vision melted away in pure hatred.

    Without hesitation, she leaped at the Great Tyrant, knife poised to sunder his jugular if not for a wall of metal that mocked the blow at the last second. A ringing sound echoed throughout the hall that terrorized the servant girl and filled her with dread. In between her and the very thing she hated most was Relikaart, whose monstrous breastplate remained stoic, unlikely to suffer even a scratch. Viedskavn let out a shrill cackle from behind Relikaart as he dutifully apprehended the rogue servant. With one hand Relikaart pinned the servant girl’s arms behind her own back and his other claw rested on her shoulder. His grip, however, was light and gentle despite her ferocious resistance and insurmountable willpower. With his mouth close to her ear Relikaart whispered, “I need not hurt you. Comply, I beg of you” The servant girl ceased her resistance and no longer squirmed while the two awaited Viedskavn’s inevitable interjection. His laughter drawn to an end, Viedskavn looked up and asked, “Weigh our culture, our habitual offenses, and my power over you, girl. What is it that you think I shall levy against you for such a crime? Be truthful, my supple guest” Hatred flared in her very being and it seemed for but a moment Relikaart’s hold would not contain her.

    “You will defile me…”, her composure began to shatter as rivers of agony ran down her cheeks. “And then you will kill me and eat my very bones for you are monsters of unmatched evil!”, spat the young girl whose whirlwind of fear, anger, and misery quenched Viedskavn’s cruel desires like never before, a feeling of unmatched euphoria that nearly caused the ancient dragon to scream in climax. Disturbingly aroused by the response the Great Tyrant said, “I will do no such things until your duty is fulfilled. Both of my prospective lightbearers have failed and you are all that remains. You have no name, as all thralls share such a state. But a lightbearer needs a name. You will usurp your predecessor’s name, Selyarra (Sell-yar’ruh)” With his long arm, Viedskavn reached out to Selyarra’s cheek as a drop of blood coursed down its soft curvature, accidentally inflicted by his claw. He continued to ogle her while his vile tongue wagged about in his wretched mouth, which salivated in delight as he said, “That would be wasteful of me, as you will make a fine vessel for not only my cruelty, but our progeny as well” Her eyes dilated in a split-second and the young girl went limp only to be caught in Relikaart’s arms as she fainted under the very weight of her doom. “Carry her, old friend. We leave now”, Viedskavn said as he turned to face the grand staircase that his unflinching legions split in half to reveal.

  2. #2
    Thanks for sharing!

    To be honest, I found the purple prose to be a tad much. A colorfully antiquated expression here and there isn't necessarily a bad thing, but trust me, it's easy to get carried away with them. The same with adjectives.

    Those who held this position often found their neck rendered flaccid for even the slightest degradation of such sanctified traditions.
    Rendered flaccid? I'm not sure what that means.

    But interestingly, near the beginning you use the modern phrase:
    Such bizarre anomalies were the norm
    This stood out a bit. If you're going for a quasi-medieval style, it's better to be consistent.

    That's all I have for now. I would go through with a comb and cut out some phrases and descriptives that don't contribute to the pace or feel of the story. Read it out loud! It sounds stupid but it really helps, I promise. Keep writing and good luck!

  3. #3
    You paint a good picture and at times it feels like a thesaurus dump. There was plenty of opportunity to show us what was happening, but I couldn’t latch onto a character that I cared about. There is a lot here and I’m sure you’ll work it out. Give us something up front. Let us know what is going on with the characters and not so much with the scenery.


    A heavy tapestry whipped and churned, its duty to bar cold snow and freezing winds failed so often few even knew of its original purpose. This sentence felt clunky to me. I think to tighten it up I would delete ‘cold’ used with snow. The heavy tapestry felt like it might be worn and light. I couldn’t see it whipped and churned if it was heavy. And I think you could make it stronger with a change in the syntax. Maybe...The tapestry failed to keep out the snow and freezing winds as it was whipped and churned about.

    hewn from the very mountain it jutted from. I think we would know where they come from. It seems a little redundant.

    With a picturesque view of unparalleled grandeur, the balcony overlooked the Lochnormouthin.. Where did the balcony come from?

    whose waters’ calmness juxtaposed the turbulent inhabitants ....Not sure about the turbulent inhabitants. Perhaps you just wanted to show a contrast to the calm water.

    spurred on by its own inhabitants. ....Maybe we will get a description of the inhabitants later.

    sculpted similarly to that of the walls.....I think you could get away with similar here.

    The silence echoed and wailed within the minds of the addressors, ...Great verbiage, but there is a POV problem. Plus silent echos?

    unmatched importance among his surreptitious court..... I could picture a surreptitious court.

    soldiers at their rear could not provide vanguard against. ...I’m not sure that soldiers at the rear can be a vanguard.

    a hellish palace. However, such a temptation spurred his muscles to betray him. need a sentence break here.

    His master’s precognitive ability was absolute and before he could bolt, his neck was within the clutches... A break is really important after ‘bolt.’ Precognitive is out of place here ...Maybe foreknowledge...

    A rivulet meandered down his shoulder, Was this blood?


    Sorry I ran out of time

  4. #4
    A heavy tapestry whipped and churned, its duty to bar cold snow and freezing winds failed so often few even knew of its original purpose.
    There are so many extra words, and this isn't important part of the story.
    A heavy tapestry whipped and churned, failing to bar snow and wind so often few knew why it was there.

    It could all do with a bit of simplifying, and losing a lot of little words that don't actually do much.

    Beyond this curtain’s ill-kept barrier was a dangerous outcropping that only the intrepid were bound for, hewn from the very mountain it jutted from.
    The intrepid come between the outcropping and its description, that sort of hides the illogicality of hewing out something so it juts out
    'Beyond the curtain's ill kept barrier was a dangerous outcropping from the mountain, hewn to shape, only the intrepid headed for it.'
    The word 'that' is often a good clue you need to reconsider your wording.

    With a picturesque view of unparalleled grandeur,
    Does it really need to be picturesque, and unparalleled, and grand?

    the balcony overlooked the Lochnormouthin (“Lake in the Mountain”, Lock-nore’moo’thin), whose waters’ calmness juxtaposed the turbulent inhabitants that (who) looked down (up)on it. From this theatre, an additional peak could be distinguished that was entirely shattered and on the brink of collapse. It provided little challenge to its rival, the Yyingrigotl (“Astral Ascent”, Why’in-grih’go’tuhl),
    Another 'that' moment, you could get better emphasis with punctuation than by adding little words.
    'From this theatre another peak could be seen. Entirely shattered and on the brink of collapse it provided little challenge to its rival, the Yyingrigotl (“Astral Ascent”, Why’in-grih’go’tuhl).

    Which had wrested the title of the tallest peak from Mount Eksnothrar (“Mortal’s Reach”, Eck’s-noe-tr’arr) after its solemn doom. As the weather’s wroth (An adjective, the noun is wrath) (became) magnified, crimson arcs stringed from the heavens (only) to sunder the ground below, (while) a horrific bark trailed every strike. At twilight, these wicked images (were only) intensified as darkness consumed the sky and blazed the red streaks at their apex. Such bizarre anomalies were the norm over Northern Mok, a land twisted and rent by malignant deities spurred on by its (own) inhabitants.

    Can you see that qualifying words like 'were, only, became, own' don't add to the main image, but tend to subtract from it? And replacing a word like 'while' with a comma or full stop adds emphasis to what follows?

    Hope this helps some, Olly.
    Last edited by Olly Buckle; June 5th, 2020 at 03:21 PM.
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  5. #5
    The first two paragraphs were much more descriptive than I'd normally ever have time for, but somehow in your hands I enjoyed them. I thought they were very well executed.

    But I lost patience and stopped reading once the characters were introduced, because there was much too much description for me of what they were thinking, how they said what they said etc. It makes it lose energy and feel like wading through treacle so I couldn't continue.

    I edited two paras, bringing them down from 349 words to 182 words. If it was all written much more simply I'd enjoy it.

    At the center of this odious hall was a sculpted throne. On this seat were sinewy legs draped on the floor, its feet scaled and toes clawed. Two individuals enshrouded in cloaks of darkness had assembled just below the hallowed seat, their necks bent in fear and respect. “My Lord…” spoke the servant on the right, his voice shrill and shallow, “...shall you deliver us to our preordained prey?” The other servant’s head whipped toward his comrade, in deathly terror at his boldness. The silence echoed and wailed. Then their master finally answered, “Indeed...”, his abhorrently aroused forked tongue slithering about on his bloodied gums.

    The two servants warily peered upward to look upon their master. Glazed upon their serpentine faces was the honor and terror of being their Lord’s lightbearer, a distinction of unmatched importance among his court. The pair produced ornate metal torches from their ceremonial garb of red and black scale mail, then ignited them with a curious object. The staves blazed so brightly the servants looked away. The once abyssal room was bathed in purple and blue light.

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