For him, the intercourse was not enjoyable.


All the way through the short, staccato and dry disturbance, she struggled like a deer caught in a trap. And such that, a trap it was, for she was bound and gagged far beyond what pleased her. And what she was used to. The entire dreadful thing was that she could not even feel Veridian's presence, let alone use magic. Whatever these people were, they were prepared for the likes of her kind - the powerful magic users of Althanas. Like a constant fog Philomel felt she was drowning in a pit of despair and abandonment, knowing that her connection to Drys, her goddess, was nothing. Similar to how she had been five years ago, lost in a throes of a megalomaniac pimp and screaming in the night to the memories of her cruel father.


Whether it was the strangely bare, white-tiled room itself, or the drugs that they had placed into her when she was asleep, Philomel did not know how they had the power to stop her magic, her connection to the earth or anything out of the ordinary. For she could not even sense the rock beneath her - an ability she had always had since a young age. With time and with Drys' blessing it had grown and developed into now, an ability to relate with plants, fungi, and instill (or was it awaken?) a sense of intelligence within them. Time had passed and things had come, people had come into her life and left - Shinsou van Osiris, for instance had come, that strange man of brawn and wiles, and her mother, Lacey, had left. Yet still - still ... Philomel had grown more powerful, and what was worse, grown used to that power. Doing what she wished, sleeping with only only whom she designated even remotely worthy. Certainly not this man pounding on her front like some ill-begotten, famished dog.


Throughout the brief experience, she struggled. Squirmed to what extent the chains and manacles would allow, cursing through the gag. Of course what noise it was, came out in a muffled series of noises, but the intent was there. It was plain in the dark hatred of her eyes, and the disgust that her body felt as it recoiled endlessly from his touch. As he curled around her in that awkward fashion and fed his hunger, she felt honest horror, as she kept on trying to move back, but she couldn't, for her legs were literally bolted to the ground, her hands were stretched high above her and her head - her head.


An idea. As the bearded gristly man sighed with disatisfaction at her constant loathing, he looked up at her. His head came close to hers, within a foot. Sucking in her breath Philomel twisted her head away from him, and rubbed the belt, the thing that held the gag in her mouth, against her inner forearm - what she could reach. Innate strength, and the fact it was basically just a single piece of fabric bound around her head, the thing fell down around her neck without much difficulty. Once free, she glared, turning back to see the dismay and awe coming to the man's face. Spitefully she grinned and altogether spat the dirty cloth, and whatever else was within - a stone or some such hard object - back into his face with an almighty surge of energy. As he was temporarily blinded by the assailing newly created weapon, she did the only action that her body allowed, and that was to slam her head forwards. Right forwards, so horns met skull with a sickening noise and the man fell back, back, back, sprawling ...


"Serves you fucking right," she shrieked, with vehemence and loathing in her voice. "You fucking cockholster, dickbag, son of a harpy. You mongrel, mutt, scumbag, shitter of rocks, I hope your pee becomes acid and all who love you come to know you as the maggot, turd-eater you are. Thrice-damned cumguzzling thundercunt, twatwaffle, dooche-nozzle! I hope you get your dick stuck in the oven, and have it cooked there while you feel the pain. I hope it falls off your jizz-imbibing body, as you fall to the sorry earth, dreaming of your bum-fucking manwhore days and your reputation filled with urine, despair and sausage-slapping."


Her shrieks filled the cavernous roof, filling out the whiteness. Staring back at her, the green-eyed bearded man was silent for a long while, as he listened to her words. In his hand was the ruined fabric, with a dull round stone that fell out and clinked onto the cold tiled floor as Philomel finished her tirade. As her mouth closed, she panted, the black malice in her eyes ever increasing. True quiet fell, the endlessness of nothing, as their eyes connected, the rapist to the raped.


Then, all of a sudden, the man tipped back his head and began to howl with laughter. He chortled until his eyes began to water, and his body shook left and right and up and down. It was Philomel's turn to stare in disbelief as she watched all her efforts of cursing be reduced to mere amusement, her heart sinking as for one of the first times she felt actual, physical mockery.


Wheezing, the man continued, reducing her to absolute nothing within the context of power. Still laughing, he stood, and between absurd breaths he let out a yell.


"HA! York-Yorker!" he called.


The rattling door opened once more, coated in the same white tiles, inside and out. Philomel caught sight of a long corridor in the same bright shade, with possible more doors, and a young man with tousled hair standing there, a length of chain in his hand. He didn't look at Philomel. He only looked at the bearded man.


"Ye-hah sir?"


"We need - need the full black for - ha- this one," the one in charge said, thumbing the air directly towards Philomel. "She's - ahhh- got quite - quite the tongue!"