Noctavya's Geisha Chamber

[Noctavya]

October 13, 1307 – the dawn that broke the Temple.



Lady Aliénor de Saint-Clair, Grand Master’s Marshal and the highest-ranking woman ever to wear the red cross, had ridden to the royal palace at dawn on what she believed was urgent summons from King Philip IV himself. She came alone, in full mantle, trusting the royal seal.



She never saw the sun rise twice.



At the palace gates the gates slammed shut behind her. A hundred royal sergeants poured from the shadows; halberds lowered, crossbows leveled. The king’s decree—sealed the night before—was read aloud: heresy, sodomy, idolatry. The Order was dissolved by papal bull before the ink was dry.

Aliénor fought until a mace cracked against her temple. When she woke, the white mantle was gone, replaced by filthy rags. Iron bit into her wrists and throat. They dragged her barefoot through the Paris mud, past silent crowds who once knelt for her blessing.



By torchlight she was marched beneath Notre-Dame into the labyrinthinevitable black arch of the Inquisition’s lower cells. The chain around her neck clinked with every forced step, the sound echoing like a death knell through the vaulted dark.



The last Templar lady vanished into the stone, proud violet eyes unbowed, white hair trailing like a fallen banner. The purge had begun, and the most dangerous heretic of all was the one who had never once knelt.

[jny008]

Great art ! Amazing!

[Praetor3d]

The art is good but the captions are even better. The writing is lush with captivating immersive details without being too wordy. That is the true art in all of this.

[doe.1971]

Yeah, yeah, like the guy above.

[Noctavya]

The Wooden Horse Torture at the Court

[Noctavya]

In the rugged northern frontiers, Queen Lyria, a striking red-haired warrior of extraordinary strength and commanding presence, her physique a blend of powerful muscle and graceful curves, leads her barbarian tribes in fierce resistance against the expanding Roman Empire. United under her iron will, her people strike boldly, but betrayal strikes first: ambitious chieftains, tempted by Roman gold, sell her out, leading to her ambush and capture on the battlefield.



Outnumbered and bound in chains, the proud queen is stripped of her armor and dragged in humiliation through Roman lands to the grand city of Aquileia. Brought before Imperator Gaius Marcellus, she meets his demand for her tribe’s strategic secrets with bold defiance, spitting at his feet in contempt.



Infuriated yet intrigued by her unyielding spirit, the Imperator crafts a merciless challenge: he consigns Lyria to the shadowy ludus beneath the arena, tasking six condemned gladiators—doomed men facing execution, with extracting the information within twelve hours. Success promises them freedom and reward; failure, certain death.



In the torch-lit depths, the gladiators subject the resilient queen to prolonged and grueling trials of body and will, relentless pressure, searing tests of endurance, and escalating hardships as the deadline looms and their own panic rises. Lyria endures unimaginable strain, her screams echoing in the final hours, yet her courage remains a beacon.



In one ending, exhaustion finally claims her resolve, and the secrets spill forth, securing the gladiators’ liberty while dooming her people and reducing the once-mighty queen to broken captivity. In the other, she holds firm to the end, dying defiant with her tribe’s plans safe, condemning her tormentors to the cross and ensuring her legend endures eternally.

[Noctavya]

In the moonless shadow of enemy castle, five elite kunoichi of the Iga clan, once ghosts in the night are dragged in chains to the samurai lord’s subterranean dungeon. Stripped of black silk and hidden blades, their lithe bodies are bound to iron frames beneath flickering torches.


The interrogation begins with calculated cruelty: water drips endlessly onto foreheads until sanity frays; bamboo slivers slide beneath fingernails that once threw shuriken; heated irons kiss the pale skin of thighs and breasts, branding the chrysanthemum crest of their captors. Salt is rubbed into lacerations while mocking courtiers watch.



One by one, pride cracks, whispers of secret routes, hidden scrolls, the name of their jonin masters, spilled between clenched teeth and sobbing gasps.



Yet even as blood pools on cold stone and screams echo through the corridors, a final spark of defiance remains. Beneath the pain, plans form in fractured minds: a loosened shackle, a stolen hairpin, the promise of midnight vengeance when the samurai sleep.



For a kunoichi, torture is merely another shadow to endure before the blade finds its throat.

[Noctavya]

Her Oyabun left her alone to fend the enemy gang, while he cowardly first through the back door.



Shortly after they barreicaded the bar from the outside with chains. She's now trapped inside, alone with only her short katana with her, as they rush her with pipes, chains, bats.

It was a losing battle... a bat struck her back and before she knew it they're all over here. From here on, it's only a matter of raining blows until she's too weak to fight.

Back in their base, she's being questioned "Where's your Oyabun! SPEAK!" as they stub their cigarettes on her thighs, and breast. The pain of being left behind by the boss she fought to protect was more painful than all the cruelty they did to her