The Drow Queen of Glaley [Very NSFW]

[Jassinth]

"Instructed to--" Jass stared at his love, expression complex and shifting. "Did-- did they say that, specifically?" he asked warily.

[Shiori]

She nods, then hesitates. "Well, survive intact, he said."

[Jassinth]

"We need to research the Rite, to figure out-- hellsbreath. Did he tell you which Rite is being done?"

[Shiori]

"The Rite of Submission."

[Jassinth]

"Submission?" Jass worried at his lip for a moment. "That... might not be too bad? I think? I'm not familiar with it but I'm pretty sure that the I-Bitch is, uh, blunt, I guess? About the names of Her rites. And it's not Punishment or Correction or... something like those. Maybe it's mostly verbal? They could have meant that if you fuck up the Ritual, it... Well. Her Own take disrespect to their owner very seriously."

[Shiori]

"M-maybe," Shiori stammers, not seeming to notice the slip. "But we should go to the big family library and see if we can't find out."

[Jassinth]

"That sounds like a plan," Jass agreed, then hosts Shiori up into his arms. "But first, you need a back rub and a nap."

[GamesMaster]

They cuddle, for a long time. Then they go to the front room, where some men from the main branch are just leaving, having re-arranged the room somewhat. The rug is gone, replaced by a new one: a fox-skin rug, too large to belong to a real fox, too long to even belong to one such as Dreamy. A fox with hands, a fox with a face -- Miyamoto's face. 

Shiori doesn't look at the fox skin. But she stutters, when she talks, for the rest of the day. 


There are six trials in the Rite of Submission, and three of them will be performed on any given instance. The only information on the trials themselves in the library are their names:

• The Trial of Strength
• The Trial of Athletics
• The Trial of the Body
• The Trial of the Mind
• The Trial of the Senses
• The Trial of the Soul

So all Shiori has to do is prepare every aspect of her being to be tested, to be submissive. Easy. 

[GamesMaster]

Shiori doesn't eat for 12 hours prior to the rite. She takes medicine to allow her to sleep, knowing she won't otherwise. She drinks lots and lots of water. She scrubs herself clean, removes as much hair as she can from her body, including (after some deliberation) her private area. She braids her hair back, out of her face. She wears plain robes, rich purple with gold trim, Sirena's colors. Her purple eyes help here, matching the robes well. She looks like she was born to worship Sirena.

When she gets there, they strip her, of course. They dunk her in a tub of water that burns slightly -- unholy water. And then they scrub her, roughly, with a pomice stone that grinds like sandpaper, taking off a layer of her skin and exposing the softer, fresher skin underneath to the unholy water. They dunk her, holding her under until she has to expel her breath and let the water into her lungs, and then they pull her out, forcing her to expel the water again so she doesn't die.

Then they drag her to a second tub, full of salt water. They go over her skin again, this time with an even rougher stone, until she's bleeding in small bits all over, and then dunk her into the freezing-cold salt water. The cold helps -- as much as it hurts to be that cold, it helps numb out some of the terrible burning of the salt in her wounds. They hold her under again, and this time she doesn't resist as long, knowing what they want.

She vomits pure salt-water, every soft tissue in her nose and throat and mouth irritated.

[NPCs]

"I suppose she's as ready as possible," one of the attendants murmured to the other with a smirk as they looked her over. "After we spray her down once more," she added in an 'of course' tone.

"Shame she's not part of this year's Tithe," another commented, her accent a strange sort of slurring that somehow makes her words prettier instead of harder to understand. That makes her the undine, Shiori thought distantly. The one that had taken repeated and determined efforts to ensuring her legs and ass were clean. The trickle of blood from the undine's nails on tender membrane was hidden by the blood from scrapes on her skin, of course, but the pain managed to standout. Louder, she added, "alright, rinse her down, then dry her off. Dirty slut took longer than expected to purify and we must not be late."

[Shiori]

Sputtering and gasping, already feeling violated in new and unusual ways, Shiori follows them to the drying room, where she is rubbed down vigorously. She's not allowed her clothes back, however. 

[NPCs]

She's sent into the room alone, the heavy oak and iron door closing behind her with a resounding clank. The ceiling soars above Shiori's head, vaulted arches lifting the mosaic depiction of a massive black and gold tiger wearing a crown at least double the height typical of Toukami rooms. The walls were covered by purple drapery from top to bottom, making it a impossible to tell if they would match the obsidian stone of the floor. Gold and iron wires are embroidered into the drapes, making intricate designs in the shapes of powerful beasts bound by chains and collars. 

There were no pews for worshippers, just a long purple carpet made from some kind of leather leading to an iron cage. It's big enough to fit most merikosi, though not comfortably even for those of small stature due to the many inwardly reaching protrusions. The cage itself was embedded into a stone altar made of some kind of red-tinted stone that stung to look at overlong. Heavy manacles were fastened to the altar, empty and waiting eagerly for fresh captives to hold. 

All of that combined to make such a distraction that it's not until one of them speaks that Shiori spotted the trio of figures watching her from the far corner. All three are cloaked in purple robes a shade darker than the wall coverings, but just as heavily decorated. The tallest and slimmest of the three was the speaker, and as Shiori focused on them, she noticed that the black metal on their robes was darker and more solid than iron could hope to be and the gold had a subtle radiance. 

"Humble yourself, and approach, tarnished toy."

Humble, in this setting, meant to grovel and abase herself. So they wanted her to crawl on her belly, naked and raw. Being named 'toy' was... a mixed bag, but 'tarnished' was far better than 'broken' or 'worthless' at least. 

[Shiori]

She drops to her skinned knees, then leans forward to bow, head down, arms out. "Forgive this tarnished one," she pleads, and then begins to crawl on her belly. It's only gonna get worse from here. 

[NPCs]

The trip from door to altar was painful, both physically and mentally. Her skin ached and stung, of course, but Shiori felt the heavy weight of the priests' regard the entire time. Judging. Prying. Weighing. The proverbial salt in the wound to match the actual salt in her wounds is the heavy scent of camphor and sweet mist grass coming from the leather. Who oils a rug with healing herbs?

"Declare yourself."

[Shiori]

"Towa Shiori," she whispers. "Repentant Sinner."