You regretted touching that crimson sigil. Varre had told you not to travel to Mohgwyn Palace yet, but you had never been one to allow such arbitrary impositions to impede your progress. Oddly, the trinket he had given you did not transport you directly to the palace, instead leaving you to wander through vast mausoleums. It seemed at first like an oversight to offer such an item to a visitor, or an honoured guest. After trailing through crypts for what felt like hours, dispatching various denizens that haunted the place more aggressively than any ghost, you came upon a glowing symbol carved into the ground. You had not come this far to leave any aspect of the area unexplored, so you pressed your hand to it and waited for the telltale grip of teleportation magic to spirit you away.

When you opened your eyes, it was as though you hadn’t moved at all. Still in the dimly lit mausoleum, you took a cautious step forward. Out of the corner of your eye, a familiar figure manifested, wearing bloodstained surgeon’s garb. Varre. He was not impressed. The seething man immediately launched into a derogatory lecture. “Why, Tarnished, must you continuously meddle where you are not wanted? Is it not enough for you to cause trouble above, now you must bring your lowborn presence upon our noble house?” You shuffled uncomfortably, mumbling a small apology. Upon hearing your voice, he seemed to slow, recognising you. He continued his tirade, but seemed to change his mind about something. His tone shifted, and what could only be described as an entertained undertone crept in.

“Well, as it turns out, you were of no use for anything else of value. However, I don’t see why that means I should allow you to continue wandering down that hapless vein.” His cruel words punctured deeply, barbed arrowheads hooked beneath your skin, designed to rupture if you dared to pull free. “My master is, after all, benevolent and gracious in his will. He would accept such an offering if I were to prepare it for him. In the end, and the beginning, he and the Mohgwyn dynasty are instruments of unimaginable love.” Though he spoke of love and benevolence, unease twisted and churned ever-stronger in the pit of your stomach. You zeroed in on one of his words. Offering. You blinked. In the low light, you could swear that you saw the carved mouth of the mask upturn in a heartless smile.

Suddenly, so quickly you almost wouldn’t have seen him at all if it weren’t for his pale shroud, Varre was upon you. You raised your hands defensively, but he already had your most dangerous wrist encircled in a vicelike grip. He squeezed ruthlessly, making to crush your bones as though they were hollow. Imagery of mutilated flightless birds soared to the forefront of your mind. Although you were not so delicate, it hurt, and you yowled as he increased pressure, dropping your weapon to the ground. Varre’s waiting boot kicked it swiftly into the darkness. You swallowed, hard, unable to make out its shape in the gloom. With your only real means of self-defence dealt with effortlessly, he moved closer still. You backed up as far as possible until you felt the rocky wall push against your back. Oh, gods. He walked menacingly towards you, impassive, nothing discernible on the face of the familiar white mask. You fought the childish urge to close your eyes, as though it may save you from what was yet to come.

Varre’s gloved fingers dug in to your sides, startlingly sharp, prying a small cry from your lips that brought a smile to his face. The chill of a blade bit your neck and you made a humiliating squeak which you tried unsuccessfully to disguise as a cough. “Var…re…” you whispered urgently, fear-stricken, trying not to swallow or breathe lest the knife open your throat for your indiscretion.

“Oh, do speak up now lambkin, I do so enjoy hearing your pitiful whimpering.” As he spoke, Varre nuzzled into the crook of your neck affectionately, the cool chill of the mask causing you to shudder as it kissed your skin. His words always wrong-footed you, the sweet and sickly tone dripping like honeyed blood from a vicious serrated edge. The term of endearment he chose for you, lambkin, evoked lurid images of slaughter and sacrifice when uttered from his cruel mouth. You grit your teeth and stared into the darkened eyeholes of that apathetic mask to confront the butcher.

“Hmm, such defiance. Don’t you think you should be a little more apologetic for your ill-conduct? Seeking violence, heedless of my warning?” Your head felt muddled, you hadn’t really been seeking violence… You just wanted to explore the area. You opened your mouth to explain yourself, but he cut you off. “If I weren’t so fond of you, I’d ensure you regretted such ungrateful actions. I would be sure to grant you a miserable death.” He was... fond of you? The implied death threat shocked you far less than this notion, and you gazed at him questioningly. “As it is…” he trailed off, and the expression in his eyes darkened, clouded with an emotion you couldn’t place.

Varre reached a slender hand up to tilt his mask back, then paused. Reaching into his robes, he pulled out a length of what looked to be cloth bandages. With a chill, you noticed they were… dirtied. Rust-coloured fingerprints and smears soiled the pale material, and you wondered what he kept these for. Winding one end around his hand, he unwound a fair length and used his blade to slice it clean of the rest. “Hold still…” he instructed, without elaboration, and wound the fabric around your head as a makeshift blindfold. Though the mausoleum was already dimly lit, being completely blinded was a whole different situation. Feeling utterly helpless, you scrunched your toes in your boots and allowed him to finish without protest. “That’s it… that’s good…” he praised, running gloved fingers along the side of your head in a warped simulacrum of affection. Bringing this same hand under your chin, he tilted your face to bring his lips to yours.

Startled at his forwardness, you flinched. His tongue was wet, slick like viscera, and tasted of iron. Immediately repulsed, you wriggled in his grasp. He clamped a hand to the back of your head imperiously, keeping you pressed to him. Feeling the tip of a blade in the small of your back, you involuntarily flinched up into him, offering more contact. Feeling his mouth curl in a smile, your knees trembled. He kissed you deeply, eagerly, without remorse.

“Come, my lambkin… Make yourself comfortable.” Without hesitation or shame, Varre grasped your wrists and pulled you atop him. You stumbled, wrong-footed once again, and he guided you downwards with deceptively strong arms. He sat, bracing his back against the wall of the mausoleum, while you knelt over his lap, straddling him. He paused his motions, and you could tell he was appraising the scene in front of him. Something about the position felt absolutely obscene, and your face burned. You averted your gaze, embarrassed, despite the blindfold. Varre was impossible to ignore for long, however, and you found yourself with a thumb brushing boldly along your lower lip. Pressing the gloved digit slightly into your mouth, you tasted dried blood on the worn leather. “You can begin to make amends by cleaning these up for me” he instructed, pulling his hand back and then pushing two fingers across your tongue, sliding them straight to the back of your throat. “That would be a fine use for that insolent mouth of yours.”

Proud of yourself for not immediately gagging at the unexpected intrusion, you set to the task at hand. Moments in, and you felt a familiar tingling sensation in your lower body as you responded to the heady feeling of submission. Blushing furiously and deciding there was nothing to lose, you began to be a little more responsive, twirling your tongue around the tip of each finger. The way he shifted beneath you was beginning to make you slightly lightheaded, and you suppressed a moan when he shifted just-so and brushed against your increasingly sensitive core through your trousers. He hadn’t even touched you directly yet, and here you were unravelling. You were almost getting used to the metallic taste when he pulled back his wrist. Retrieving his fingers from your obedient mouth, glistening from your attentions, he made a soft sound of contentment. A thin string of saliva stretched from his glove to your tongue, breaking on your chin. Breathing already slightly laboured, he praised your impassioned performance. “Ohh, you have done so well already. I am so pleased you have decided to begin your penitence for the difficulties you have caused me.”

Varre’s scent was heavy and oppressive, floral with unmistakable undertones of decay. As you tried to focus on the rosy notes you felt like a plague doctor, heaving breaths through a posy while the fever takes hold regardless. “Mmm,” he groaned as he rubbed himself up against you, “You feel so wonderful, my lambkin…”

Bringing out his blade once again, he tugged at your armour. With deft fingers, he swiftly unclasped various pieces, shedding your clothes with ease. When it came to your undershirt, he brought the point of the knife up to your clavicles, tracing it gently along the slight curvature of your bones that peeked above the neckline of your shirt. Your breath hitched as he dipped the point teasingly into the dip of your throat. Warmth flooded the pit of your stomach and you shivered, grasping at his thighs for stability. Trailing the knife downwards, he suddenly made a swift vertical cut, slicing open the material effortlessly. You gasped, stunned at the sharpness of the blade and the accuracy with which he wielded it. He pared the material open, methodically, like an autopsy, using his fingers at the end to pull the fabric completely apart. As he did, he allowed his gloved hand to trail across your stomach. Your gasp turned into a low moan at the unexpected stimulus.

Varre chuckled at your response, bringing the knife back to your bared chest. The sharp edge played against your sternum, close to your pounding heart, and you stilled in his lap. You felt cold metal dance slowly, ever so slowly, across your skin. Varre murmured lowly in your ear, breath ghosting across your neck as he reached a long-fingered hand to your throat. “Now,” he nuzzled against you, pausing to inhale deeply as he brought his nose to your thundering pulse, “Won’t you bleed for me?”

You could feel your pulse racing at his request. Your blood raced, defiantly, but you couldn’t help but wonder if it was eagerness instead, keen to be spilled by those meticulous surgeon’s fingers. Curiously, he had not proceeded, seemingly waiting on a vocal response. “Hmm?” he prompted, one hand trailing slender fingers along your sensitive neck whilst the other held the weapon to your upper body. As you trembled, speechless, you felt warm lips begin to suck and bite delicate blooms along the expanse of your throat.

“O-ohh..! Mmmmn…” you sighed, quivering with increasing need at his sinful endeavors. Feeling the knife press slightly harder in your distracted haze, you forced yourself to give an intelligible answer. “H-hah…Y-yes… I will…” you breathed, still clutching ineffectually at his robed thighs, and felt his sharp tongue lave at one of the marks he had made on your skin. You felt delirious, foolishly light-headed under his touch. “I…-” you cut off with a strangled noise as he made the first incision, surprised by how much it hurt.

Hot tears sprung to your eyes at the intense sensation and you hurriedly blinked them away. Varre moved as though entranced, carving what felt like elaborate curlicues under your collarbones, moving slowly downwards to trace the tip of the blade across to a nipple, already hardened in anticipation. Your breath caught in your throat, fearful. Mercifully he skipped over them, preferring instead to smooth the knife’s edge along each of the hollows in your ribcage, decorating them with vivid crimson. Feeling small hot rivulets run down your torso caused you to shiver, overwhelmed.

After he had made a lattice of delicate cuts along your breastbone, he leaned in closely. You could feel the warmth of his eager breath, the way the sight of the blood caused him to shudder. “Ooh… I shouldn’t, but I am Luminary Mohg’s most loyal servant. I am sure he would not begrudge me just a little…” You jolted as his tongue suddenly lapped across one of the cuts, causing it to sting painfully. “Mmmm…” he hummed contentedly, breathing heavily through his nose as he lost himself in the alluring taste. Beneath you, you felt him grow painfully hard. His hands were all over you, some prying open the shallower cuts that threatened to close, dipping his tongue inside the wounds to savour the mouthwatering blend of your blood and agony.

Feeling his physical reaction to this rubbing firmly against your thigh caused you to flush, heat creeping up your neck to the tips of your ears. “Varre…” you sighed, shifting to align yourself so that the two of you would brush together and ground your hips down upon him hungrily. The delicious sensation of you moving against his engorged length, even through your garments, wrenched a tortured groan from the man beneath you as he raised a hand to clutch at your neck. The sensation of his hand positioned so dominantly combined with the sheer need had you moaning and writhing, all semblance of decency utterly left behind. You rutted against him, lost in the moment as you stammered his name. “Varre… please… please” you mumbled hoarsely, leaning against him and trembling. The cuts on your chest stung terribly as you pressed yourself to him, but it only heightened your desperation.

“Oh, you are so naughty my little lambkin…” he purred, and you could hear from his voice that he was smirking. “If you wanted me to claim your helpless body so badly, you need only have offered.” You heard the sound of tearing fabric, and realised Varre’s knife was being put to use on your trousers. He seemed to have given up on being cautious, and the blade nicked you a couple of times as he sliced the offending material to ribbons. You yelped as the blade caught you, and he chuckled affectionately. Blood trickled down to your inner thigh, and you felt him swipe it up. You sighed at the fleeting touch in such an intimate area, opening your legs for more. You heard a soft wet sound, and realised he was sucking the blood from his fingers. “Oh, so desperate, so obedient…” he smirked. “Mm, yes. Who would have it any other way?”

His lips dripping with such devious words had you quivering with anticipation. You ached for his touch, arching your back and squirming on the spot, legs opened wide and waiting. When he finally touched you, he wasn’t willing to be merciful. His fingers dug in to your thighs, hard enough to leave marks. His touches grew increasingly brutal, harder than necessary. You felt he may snap you like a wishbone, pausing only to whisper a desperate prayer to his master as he devoured your fragile remains. The thought of it made you shudder, and not wholly with fear. Involuntarily, you moved your hips, seeking more friction, and he brought the knife about again to slash at what was left of the fabric on your lower body. You felt scraps of it fall to the floor, now nothing more than bloodied rags. With a clatter, you heard him set the knife aside on the ground while he turned his hands to his own clothing. After a short amount of him fumbling with his robes and underclothes, with you wriggling in such a way as to try and assist him with his endeavours, you felt the contact of his heated skin on your own and let out a desperate whine.

Without adequate warning or care for your comfort, he shoved his heated length against your entrance and pushed, hard. Shocked, you yelped at the sudden contact and the initial burn. “Oh, good heavens. Clench your teeth, or something.” His tone, so suddenly disparaging, left you stunned. Evidently he could tell from the look on your face that you were offended, and cackled with mirthful glee at your affronted expression. Mildly irritated, you resolved to lessen your vocalisations and act more detached. However, you could hear the slick sound of his free hand spreading the fluid bubbling at his tip, smoothing it along his length to assist with ease of entry. You wished fervently that you could see this, imagining the sight made shameless heat pool in your stomach, but made do with the sounds alone. Rubbing himself along your inner thigh, then up against your opening, he coated you both with a combination of arousal and blood and breached you.

With his first proper thrust inside your eager opening, your slightly frosty demeanour at his earlier comment melted away and you slid gratefully back to foolish delirium. Your mixed arousal allowed him to glide inside you without further resistance, and you curled your toes in abject pleasure as he began to set a punishing rhythm. Once more showing his surprising strength, he bounced you atop him easily, wringing desperate sounds from you both as you collided in a frenzy of desire. Moving his mouth to your neck, he began to bite at the exposed flesh with unforgiving teeth. Sore and heated, you cried out but made no move to stop him. Peppering his savagery with tiny kisses and kitten licks, he managed to keep the experience balanced on the knife-edge between pleasure and pain.

When you were almost at your peak, Varre paused, trailing his fingers along your inner thighs but deliberately avoiding touching where you needed him. He stopped moving and you cried out, babbling for him to continue. You felt so incredibly full, torturously close, and yearned for release.

“Now, now, my lambkin. Won’t you show me how much you need me? How awfully sorry you are for your misdeeds? How grateful you are to me, for setting you on your new path?” His words buzzed in your ears, distantly. He took your earlobe in his mouth and sucked, punctuating his low murmurings. All you could think of was coming hard on his aching length, trembling in his lap, being his to do with as he would. “…Hmm? Won’t you do that for me?” Gods, yes, you thought, still swaddled in your own sinful thoughts. You nodded, dazed.

You opened your mouth to speak, wholly unprepared to articulate your thoughts, and he placed a gloved finger to your lips. “Mm, no, lambkin. I need you to show me. I need you to work for it.” As if to demonstrate, he rolled his hips, not enough to grant any relief, but to make his desire evident. He whispered, conspiratorially, as both his hands snaked up to your throat. “Show me just how much you need me. I would venture to guess, but that would be… unbecoming.” As though you could see his face, you could imagine the shameless curve of his smile, taking pleasure in your embarrassment.

The way he spoke frustrated you, and you hated just how quickly your body responded to his cheap domination attempts, but gods, you couldn’t deny that they worked far too well. You obediently began to move, grinding down in his lap, impaling yourself on his rigid length. As soon as you brought yourself back down upon him, he hissed with delight, squeezing his long fingers around your neck. You quickly became light-headed under his cruel hands, and gurgled fearfully, scrabbling at his fingertips in an attempt to loosen his grip. “Mmmn… Ahh-” he groaned lustfully as you worked yourself on him, admonishing your pathetic escape attempts in between gasps and moans. “Shhh, my lambkin… Don’t you want to prove your - nnngh - worth? Don’t you want to - ah - please me?”

Hearing him say such sinful things while his hands kept you delirious, starved of oxygen and touch, made your head swirl dizzily. You wondered hazily if there would be imprints of his fingers, so cruel and delicious, around your neck for weeks to come. It felt like he was ready to crush your throat, and you wondered with what processing power you had left whether this might be the end. Does it matter? asked a small voice in the back of your head, as your whole body trembled, so very close to release and wracked with aches and pains. Though you relished in submitting to him, you were unused to this level of violence in this scenario and your body was absolutely spent. Your eyes brimmed with fearful, conflicted tears as you impaled yourself upon him again and again, crying in muffled ecstasy as those talented butcher’s hands choked you hungrily, mercilessly.

Just as you thought you couldn’t hold on any longer, bracing yourself to fall unconscious, he removed one of his hands and you gasped in lungfuls of musty air, heaving breaths as your head spun violently. All of a sudden, Varre’s blade was at your throat again. The sheer ecstatic relief of drawing breath combined with a rush of violent images: Varre slitting your throat, bleeding you dry like a sacrificial lamb, cradling you close as he lapped harshly at the spurting wound… You came with a scream, your walls clenching him tightly as you spasmed and shuddered atop him. As though he had envisioned the same intense visuals, he followed you into oblivion, his hand spasming slightly as he did. The blade cut you slightly as it fell from his grasp, but you barely felt it. You could barely feel anything.

Breathing deeply, absolutely wrecked, you lay in his arms. Blood oozed from your wounds and you were absolutely exhausted. You felt as though your whole body was a bruise, tender to the touch and evidence of violent activity. Gingerly, you reached a tentative hand up to your head and began unwinding the makeshift blindfold. Hoping to catch a glimpse of Varre’s face, you tried to control the disappointed look on your face when you finally lifted the material from your eyes only to find the blank white visage gazing back at you. As your eyes got used to the dim light of the mausoleum, they widened at the volume of bloodshed. Varre’s sleeves were heavily stained, and his mask was smeared with scarlet. Looking down at your bared body, you gasped. Across your chest was a trident-like symbol, red and weeping. Noting the artistry compared with other lacerations, you supposed this was carved with fondness. Unthinking, you reached a shaking hand down to touch it. Hissing in pain as you did, you pulled away crimson fingertips. As you looked back up at Varre, he spoke. “Never forget the feelings of agony you experienced tonight. For they are what bind you to Luminary Mohg… and to me.” Bringing his masked face to your ear, he whispered, low and lustful.

“You have the sweetest scream, my lambkin.”