The sound and feeling of repeating bumps woke him to a world of pain. Everything hurt, and Hathgar whimpered from his broken nose that screamed in pain as he tried to get a good breath in.

  His body felt like it had been beaten for hours, and then beaten some more. Every inch of him was bruised through. His labored heartbeat pounded in his head, which was already filled with a splitting headache.

  He lay in a heap on top of something cold. He shivered, even though he could barely move. The air around him bit into his skin. Hadn’t he been wearing clothes?

  Where the fook are me clothes?

  His eyes were swollen shut, and he could barely see around him. Green light filtered into his vision as he tried to make out his surroundings. He was moving. Lying on something. Was someone pushing him on a trolley? All he heard was his own heartbeat pulsing in his head and the constant clunking of the floor beams beneath him.

  Where the bloody fook am I?

  He had been walking out of Shadowreach, starting his long trek back to Stonehollow. Someone…no…something had stepped into his path.

  There had been a fight. They were so strong. Hathgar had blacked out, after thinking he was going to die. His only fighting Skill, Steel Skin, handed down for generations amongst his clan, had been useless when met with such power.

  Had to be born a son of the fookin’ head a’ blacksmithing.

  The trolley jolted, and Hathgar felt the world shake around him. He moaned softly, the sound barely a whisper. The cold surface under him felt like death itself, draining what little strength he had remaining.

  Hathgar’s broken body twitched, but nothing more.

  “Ah, finally awake, are we?” A thick, greasy voice broke through the sound of the trolley. The voice was amused, almost playful. Hathgar’s head lolled to the side, but his vision remained blurred. All he could make out was a hulking figure. A fat slob of a man with small features, wearing what appeared to be a butcher’s apron stained with blood. The piggish face leaned in and Hathgar smelled his rancid breath, almost making him gag. “Good stock. You’ll last longer than most, then.”

  Hathgar moaned, trying to shift. The pain he felt over every inch held him prisoner on the trolley. The butcher snorted, straightening up and continuing to push Hathgar down the dimly lit passageway.

  “You don’t need to talk, little dwarf,” he jeered. “Not that it’ll matter, anyways.”

  The trolley came to a halt with a final clunk. Hathgar was shoved off, body hitting the ground hard. Pain seared through him as his broken body hurt from supporting its own weight. The cold stone made him shiver even more violently.

  “Pile? Or right away?” the butcher asked, stepping back. Hathgar could hear his labored breathing as he moved, but another sound made him shudder–a sickening dragging noise. Flesh being scraped across stone.

  As Hathgar’s swollen eyes opened again, he saw it. A heap of bodies. Broken and beaten people of all races, some gasping in pain, others eerily still. The stench of blood, shit, and rot filled the air.

  His heart sank as he was dragged. His battered body scraped across the jagged rock by a much thinner figure that had appeared.

  This one was tall, unnaturally so, as if his limbs had been stretched. His fingers were bony, and his face was a mask of calm, clinical detachment.

  The man hummed quietly to himself as he dragged Hathgar’s near-lifeless form towards a spot on the floor. Each pull sent waves of pain through Hathgar’s body, stone and something else digging into his wounds. The unmistakable scent of ammonia and urine filled his senses.

  Are those teeth on the floor? And a lot of piss.

  “Right away, this is a good one,” the thin man rasped, more to himself than to the butcher. “Strong. Should hold up nicely.”

  Hathgar’s vision blurred as he was left on the floor. His mind reeled from the pain. He tried to speak, but only a strained moan came out. He could barely move from the pain.

  The tall man laughed, his voice a soft, eerie chuckle. Hathgar’s vision focused just enough to see, and caught sight of the other captures.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Around him there were more people. Elves, humans, dwarves, orcs. All floating. But they were surrounded by pulsating bubbles of dark purple energy.

  They screamed silently, their mouths open in agony, but no sound reached him. They were frail, withered, and sleepless. Countless lacerations covered their bodies, slowly leaking down and pooling. Trapped at the bottom of the purple pods.

  Hathgar’s heart dropped as he saw glass jars floating next to the pods. The jars were filled with orbed light. Each prisoner’s was a different color. Some shone brilliant white, most were tainted with inky soot. A similarly colored tendril trailed out, straight through the glass, and then through the pods. Each leash was connected to the prisoner’s sternum, straight through their skin into flesh. Black sludge speckled the strings, like festering, rotting sludge.

  Fook me. Bloody soul magics.

  It appeared that Hathgar was next.

  “What…what is this?” Hathgar croaked through broken teeth, his voice barely a whisper. “What do you want with me?”

  The tall man didn’t answer, just smiled and hummed as he set a knife near a pod that held an elf. Then, he stepped back, and Hathgar saw another man, a half-orc.

  A red ring glinted in the sickly light on the man’s finger. Hathgar immediately saw it, and the notebook he carried.

  Red ring. Go fookin’ figure.

  He stood there, watching the pods with prisoners with cold, detached, terrifying calmness.

  “You won’t be heard, dwarf,” the man said, his voice measured and clinical. “There’s nothing you can do. No one is coming. You’re here,” he gestured in the cramped room filled with silently screaming prisoners, “for as long as you last.”

  Hathar tried to struggle, but his body wouldn’t budge. His mind swirled in panic, but the half-orc continued, his tone unemotional. “We don’t need you alive, not for long anyways. If you don’t last that long, well…let’s just say I’ll make a note of it here.”

  The man with the ring leaned closer, his dark eyes boring into Hathgar’s. “And when your soul is finally released into the lower depths of the Abyss, what waits for you there will make this…” he gestured to the other tortured captives, “seem merciful.”

  Hathgar’s heart raced, the fear rising in his chest.. His body remained limp and weak. “What…are you doing here? Why?” he choked out.

  The ringed man didn’t answer. He merely gestured to the thin, tall man, who grinned wickedly as he pulled out a small black knife from his robes. He leaned forward and pricked it into Hathgar’s sternum, the blade slicing easily through his skin.

  Pain exploded through Hathgar’s body as the man began to carve, but it wasn’t just physical pain. It was deeper.

  The man’s long fingers bored into the cut, and with a sickening tug, Hathgar felt something being pulled from within him. His soul.

  A glowing, brilliant white tendril of Hathgar’s soul emerged, pulsating, and the tall man’s yellow eyes gleamed with excitement. “Perfect for Grimlace,” he whispered, his voice trembling with delight.

  Hathgar screamed, but it was cut off by a choking gasp as the tall man placed his soul into a black glass jar. With a toss, the jar floated next to Hathgar.

  His vision swam, the pain unbearable, but through the haze, he saw the elf across from him. Her body was covered in cuts, her soul tendril leaking black sludge.

  With a thin knife, the man scraped the black sludge off of her soul tendril, collecting it like a prize. The woman’s screams were refreshed anew, but no sound passed through her energy cage.

  “Perfect, have fun,” the tall man attending to him said as he pulled his hand back. The man with the ring waved his hand, and the same bubble of Abyssal energy surrounded Hathgar. He was forced to a hover.

  The outside world was cut off. Hathgar only heard his labored breathing as he was forced to watch the other prisoner’s pain. The tall man walked off, onto his other subjects. The man with the ring watched him for one moment, and then opened his notebook and left, immediately taking notes.

  Then the cutting began.

  From nowhere, Hathgar felt small cuts lacerate his body. He couldn’t tell if the cuts were real, or if the pain was implanted into his mind. Fiery scratches he could feel everywhere. He screamed in his pod, but kept a fragment of his mind.

  I'm fooked.

  Hathgar’s Steel Skin, the pride of his clan, did nothing to protect him as the invisible knives carved into him again and again. The pain was unlike anything he’d ever felt. His body was on fire, and his mind was tearing at the edges. Every nerve screamed in agony.

  Hathgar grasped the shreds of sanity he felt, and focused on a single thought.

  I will not give into fooking soul magic.

  In the darkness of his pain, he felt something stir. His Steel Skin might be useless to this magic, but something began to shift. Through the torture, Hathgar was aware enough to read the notification.

  Steel Skin Modified

  Steel Skin -> Abyssal Wrought Iron Skin

  Abyssal Wrought Iron Skin

  Level 1

  Defensive Aspect

  Absorb and store blows, allowing fluid movement and control of flesh.

  Offensive Aspect

  Forge weapons out of flesh.

  A small smile creeped on his face. A plan began to develop in his mind.

  This…I can work with this.