Having successfully brought about the downfall of Arthur and all good he’d wrought, Morgana and her vast army of Norsemen
laid siege to Merlin’s fortress on the shores of the Irish Sea. The siege lasted well into the winter, the wizard’s powerful
magic easily repulsing every attempt to breach the fortress walls before the wizard sent a messenger under the protection of
both magic and a white flag of truce, Merlin’s message simple, join him for dinner to discuss the terms of surrender. In what
she now realized had been the worst decision of her life, Morgana had naively assumed that Merlin meant the terms of his surrender,
not hers. She’d planned carefully. Her magical spells cast to protect her for any poisons Merlin might use to take her life. She'd
never imagined that rather than her life, he merely planned to enslave her mind. As it fate destined, it wasn’t the wine, it was the
lamb, or more importantly the sauce the lamb was served with, that became her downfall. One moment, she had it all, the next all her
desires turned to dust. In an instant, she’d gone from being a victorious warrior queen to little more than a wizard’s plaything, the
magical spices in the sauce, while not fatal, briefly robbing of her of her ability to resist Merlin’s evil desires. Helpless to resist,
she watched powerless as Merlin placed that darkly cursed raven’s skull pendant around her throat, forever condemning her to eternal
slavery, her magnificent army of Norsemen, poised at the precipice of victory, reduced in seconds to nothing more than a vast field of
bleached bones.
Over the long centuries that followed, Morgana spent her days within Merlin’s dungeon, suffering exquisitely unimaginable torture and
mutilation for his amusement. Then, at sunset, to find she’s magically made whole, fated to spend her nights in the wizard’s bed chamber,
helplessly fulfilling all his darkly twisted sexual desires. Her only respite from her unending degradation, the few brief hours each night
when Merlin slept, and yet, even when her cruel demanding master slept, she was never free, the cursed pendant around her throat forever
making her his submissive plaything. His diabolical warning, that high in the north tower of his fortress awaited an unspeakable fate should
he ever tired of using her for his amusement.
Once again, visiting that cursed chamber, high in the fortress’s north tower, where her cruel master Merlin promised she’d spend all of
eternity once her tired of her, Morgana stared in horror at the instrument of her eternal damnation, a massive phallic shaped steel Impaler. Staring
at that ominously diabolical instrument of unspeakable torture, Morgana slowly smiled with darkly masochistic anticipation as she fantasized about
her agonizingly torturous fate. To know, when that fateful day arrives, she’ll be naked, helplessly impaled upon that cold, hideously terrifying,
steel shaft, with her wrists bound behind her back, unable to die and magically consigned to suffer in unrelenting agony for all eternity.
When it comes to torturously barbaric retribution, especially with wizards, it’s the simple pleasures that are best...