The Defiance Dies
The chains rattle with every movement, but Karreth has long stopped paying attention to them. She barely notices the cold metal biting into her skin, the weight of the chains that drag at her limbs, holding her still. She barely notices the gnolls that come and go, the howls, the sniffs, the eager eyes watching her like she is nothing more than a vessel for their twisted master’s designs.
The births continue, an endless parade of gnolls. Their screams echo through the chamber, but she does not flinch. The pressure builds within her again, and her body moves without her, obeying without thought. She has learned the rhythm. The pain. The process. There is no escape from it. The pain has long since become a dull throb, a hum that blends into the background noise of her existence.
Her wings, though bound, still ache beneath the metal cuffs. They are not broken, not yet. The leathery membranes stretch beneath the iron, but they are tethered, clipped, useless. She no longer dreams of flying, no longer yearns to spread them wide and feel the wind beneath her. It is too far beyond her now. She knows better than to hope for anything.
The gnolls are born, one after another, their blood staining the floor, the air heavy with the scent of them. But Karreth does not look at them. She does not even look at Yeenoghu anymore.
He comes to her, as he always does, towering behind her. His hot breath against her ear, his claws grazing the back of her neck. He is a shadow in her life, an ever-present weight pressing down on her, suffocating her, claiming her in every way he can. His voice, always, is a low growl:
“You are nothing. You will never be anything but mine.”
She doesn’t respond, cannot respond. The words, could she form them, would be useless. She has no need to say them anymore. She knows what she is. She knows what he has made her.
Yeenoghu moves closer, and Karreth’s body reacts before her mind does, the familiar agony flooding her senses as he forces himself into her again. She has learned to yield to it. She does not fight. She does not resist. Her body betrays her, but her mind is elsewhere, far away. It drifts in and out of awareness, like the fog rolling over a battlefield.
He takes her again, and again, the gnolls growling around them, watching, waiting, but she does not care. She no longer cares for anything. Her heart has grown numb, her soul withered to nothing, and all that is left is her body—his body, using hers, again and again.
Her wings twitch beneath the chains, still there, still real, still bound. They are her last reminder of the freedom she once had. The last shred of something that was once hers.
They are still there, for now.
She feels the gnoll’s weight inside her again, its claws digging at her flesh as it presses to be birthed. She knows the pain is coming, but it does not matter. Nothing matters. There is no fight left in her, no resistance. The fight is gone, burned away by years of agony, by the unrelenting cycles of births, and by the insatiable hunger of Yeenoghu.
The gnoll’s birth is nothing to her. The stretch, the tear, the blood: It’s all part of the same song she’s been trapped in for centuries. She does not scream, does not cry, does not even flinch when the gnoll tears from her, its shrill howl filling the air. She barely feels it, barely notices when the creature is yanked from her body and carried away. Her skin is slick, her muscles sore, but none of it touches her anymore. It is all just a part of her existence, a rhythm she has learned to live by, a silence she has learned to endure.
Yeenoghu is satisfied, but his satisfaction doesn’t matter. His cruel gaze falls on her, but she does not meet it. Her head hangs low, her breathing shallow. She does not react to his presence, does not acknowledge the terrible weight of his power over her. There is nothing left to acknowledge. She has learned the truth. She has learned her place.
“You are mine,” he whispers, his voice a low, guttural gasp in her ear. “You always will be. You are nothing without me.” She does not—cannot—respond. She does not care about his words. She is no longer angry, no longer defiant. Her mind has crumbled under the weight of everything she has endured. The gnolls will come. The births will continue. Her body will obey.
She is nothing more than this now: a vessel, a thing to be used, to be drained.
And she no longer fights it.
Her wings stir again, the only part of her still untamed, still restless, still yearning for something more. But the chains hold them fast. They are bound and useless, much like her mind, her soul.
The years stretch on, the births, the pain, the endless cycle.
And Karreth is no more.
Only the shell of her remains, empty and used, existing only for Yeenoghu’s will. She is his, in every way. She is nothing else.
She does not fight anymore.
The world has become a blur, a haze of endless pain and countless births. The days slip by, indistinguishable from each other. Time is a concept that has long since faded from her mind. How many years has it been? She cannot remember. How many births? Too many to count. Too many gnolls to number. She has lost track of everything, even the passing of the seasons, even the hours between the cycles.
The years blend together, like endless waves crashing on the shore, one after another, with no end, no beginning. Only the rhythmic, unceasing pull of his will, dragging her deeper and deeper into the Abyss. She does not know how long it’s been since she last felt the touch of sunlight, or tasted anything since he’d taken her tongue. She doesn’t know how many gnolls have been born from her. They come, they go, and she remains, always there, always in place.
She is 550 years old now, though she doesn’t realise it. Time has lost all meaning. The weight of the chains around her limbs, the tightness of the metal cuffs on her wings, are the only reminders she has that there was once a world outside of this—though she doesn’t remember what that world was like, or why it mattered.
There is only this: the unending cycle of pain, the births, the gnolls, Yeenoghu’s cruelty. His voice rumbles in her ears again, breaking through the haze, a sharp jagged command:
“Faster,” he snarls, his claws digging into her hips as he forces himself into her once more. “I need more. You are mine—you will give me everything.” But she does not answer, cannot answer, does not fight. The words echo somewhere in her mind, but they mean nothing. They are just noise, like the endless growls of the gnolls in the corners of the room. She has nothing left to give, to resist. Her body has been stripped of everything it once was, and her mind has followed.
She no longer remembers the taste of freedom. She no longer remembers the spark of defiance that once burned in her chest. The fire that had once filled her with rage, with purpose, is nothing but a faint ember now, buried beneath centuries of suffering. The gnolls press against her again, their clawed hands scratching at her flesh, eager to be born. They do not care. They have no purpose but to be, to exist in this twisted world she cannot escape.
The pain is familiar now. She does not even flinch as the gnoll inside her moves, stretching her, tearing at her. She feels the pressure, the weight, and it is an old, constant ache that fills her. The agony is no longer sharp, but a dull, numbing throb, a steady beat in the background of her existence. It comes and goes, but she no longer reacts. She cannot.
Her wings twitch as they always do, restless against the chains. She can feel them still, the remnants of her past self, the last part of her that still yearns for something more, but the longing is weak, a whisper in the dark. There is nothing beyond this. No escape, no freedom, only the cycle, Yeenoghu, the gnolls.
Another birth, another gnoll. She barely notices the tearing pain as it claws its way out, barely hears the shrill cry as it enters the world. The blood, the sweat, the wetness—none of it matters anymore. She is empty in a way that goes beyond just her body.
Yeenoghu watches her, his cruel gaze piercing through her like a blade. He sees her not as a creature with a soul, but as a tool. A thing. A means to an end, and still she does not react. She has no fight left in her, no will.
His claws slide down her back, tracing the scars—the marks of his ownership.
“You are mine.” He whispers it in her ear again, a harsh promise she knows to be true. And there is no defiance in her anymore, no anger, no sorrow. Only an endless, empty ache.
She cannot remember the time before her tongue’s loss, the last time she spoke. She cannot remember the last time she moved with purpose, or felt something other than the hollow weight of submission. She is a shell, a vessel. The creature she once was—who she once was—is gone.
She feels it: the gnoll, born: tearing, stretching, wetness. It is all part of the same thing now, a cycle she cannot break.
Her wings strain against the chains, but they are too weak, too broken. They have not moved freely in so long that they have forgotten how. She feels them twitch, but it is a distant sensation now, as if they belong to someone else.
How long has it been since she last fought back? Since she last resisted? It is a distant thought now, something she cannot quite reach. But she feels it, deep inside: A flicker of the rage, the defiance that once burned in her chest, but it is fleeting, dying quickly, swallowed by the void. The endless ache of the gnolls’ births and the weight of Yeenoghu’s power crushes everything in its path.
Her wings strain against their chains again, and for the briefest moment, she almost believes she can feel them stir—feel them. But the moment is gone and she is lost again, submerged in this endless cycle.
Another birth.
Another gnoll.
Another howl.
And still, she does not fight.
She is Yeenoghu’s.