The Most Dangerous Game

[Mistress Jorja]

This thread is a take on the events that transpired after the original short story. If you haven’t already, I highly suggest reading Richard Connell’s The Most Dangerous Game for the background and ideas behind this prose. The characters currently include Darrenfate, Jack Steed, and myself. If you’re interested in writing an additional character into the storyline, please PM me.

The sun shimmered in agony as the crisp, biting horizon of the Caribbean swallowed it alive. Blood red stained the silky white clouds where the glowing orb had lain only moments ago, wounded and dying. Night - not a gentle, soft night - impeded on the fading light with its lengthening shadows. This was one of those nights that slink in like a tomcat, silent and crouching, awaiting the hunt with its eyes of stars gleaming in malicious anticipation.

A clump of bushes by the shore swayed, and a young man staggered out. His left leg was blooming into a rose of blood around a ragged bullet wound. Panting, his heavy breathing was dwarfed only by the battering of the waves on the outward cropping of rocks a hundred or so feet off shore.

His naked body was patterned with a lattice of scratches from the thorn bushes that overpopulated the island. Half running, half sliding, he made it down the sandy cliff to the flat expanse of sugar-white beach.

Atop of the rise, the broad emerald leaves parted with a slight rustle, and out stepped the vision of a huntress. The toned, sun-baked skin of her torso was wrapped in strips of tanned leather, a shade darker then her bare shoulders and legs. Her long, straight hair was plaited back into two braids reaching her trim waist. They were an almost unnatural shade of burgundy, and a few escaped wisps were plastered to her forehead and the nape of her neck from the heat of the sultry Caribbean night.

She stepped onto the brink of the precipice, scanning the lay of the land until her gaze came to rest upon the still-standing form, black against the contrasting pale earth. Swiftly holstering the revolver at her side, only one of it's chambers empty, she braced her bare feet in a shooter's stance, sideways to her target.

"Do you fear me…?" she called out to the lone figure. Her voice hung in the murky dusk with it's smoky low notes caught on the dense molecules of the humid air. His silent denial was enough of a confirmation for her as she drew the arrow from the quiver slung low over one shoulder. Rolling the perfectly smooth shaft between her fingers, she notched it, drawing the slender bowstring back with the graceful ease telltale of a practiced archer.

"Cupid's arrow always flies straight…" she murmured under her breath, closing her right eye. Pursing her lips and sighting with her left eye, she released the arrow. The thwack of the tensed string against her leather arm brace and the high-pitched whine of the arrow making it's target reached her ears simultaneously.

Trotting down the slope with the uncanny ease of someone who not only knows the land well but fancies themselves part of it, she swung her bow behind her to and fro. She reached the stretch of beach where the man lay. He brandished his hunting knife with weak gusto, and the predator's haughty laugh sounded as she kicked the blade from his shaky grasp.

At the sight of her, silhouetted by the dusky sky, a change came over him. His breaths shortened, not merely at the physical pain she had dealt mercilessly, but at his undeniable lust for this creature of the night.

And in the moist oppression of the impeding darkness, she pounced on her prey, making slow love to the dying figure as the stars glared down from the heavens voyeuristically, intent upon watching this macabre romance with a morbid fascination.

 

[Jack Steed]

Rainsford

Waiting. . . .

It was the hardest part of the game and the most difficult to master.

Speed, strength, agility, endurance, marksmanship—these were important skills, too, of course. But what separated predator from pray, hunter from hunted, in many cases was the ability to control one’s instinctual fear, anxiety, and impatience.

The truly gifted hunter learns to wait.

Since his pyrrhic victory over General Zaroff, Rainsford had been waiting in this place, waiting for . . . the next move in the game. His impatience and overconfidence had been his undoing the last time, and he was not about to make the same mistakes twice. Believing he had dispatched both the General and that brute, Ivan, Rainsford had been wholly unprepared the next morning to see the two of them waiting for him when he came down to breakfast.

There had been no point in trying to resist or flee. After an interminable morning repast, during which Rainsford had endured Zaroff’s obsequious commentary on how thrilling an opponent he had been, Rainsford retired quietly to the cell that had been prepared for him.

There had been no sign of the General in several days, and Rainsford had grown agitated at such a ridiculous ploy. Other men were being held in the camp, as he could tell from the moans and cries each night, but he had been unable to make contact with anyone. Although the cell was quite comfortable, as prison cells go, the solitary confinement was its own special torture. At least for most men.

But Rainsford was not most men. He was a hunter.

And so he waited….

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

"Farewell, my love."

Her rich, cultured voice was mingled with a low, throaty giggle. Looking down upon his still form, the ravenous ocean tide licking hungrily at his ankles, she saw there was no humanity left in those cold eyes. It had been swept away by the force of sheer terror.

It was a pity, really. She wished that he had been aware of who had finally gotten the best of him. Six nights ago, it had been him hunting her. But, unlike his former multitudes of masculine prey, she had not only won his game - defeating a man, who had, until that point, only known victory - but turned the tables on his as well.

The triumph of sweet revenge boiled through her veins. She turned away from the fallen, broken body of General Zaroff, to take in the vast expanse of island and the lavish mansion. These landmarks would surely serve as his only tribute…his only headstone.

Jorja returned to the fiery lights of the chateau, walking with royal dignity into what was now rightfully hers. New blood in the never-ending line of succession.

The heavy oaken front doors swung open at her approach, and Ivan bowed deeply to her as she brushed past him. The two of them had shared a mutual hate for Zaroff, and their silent alliance had been his final undoing. Following Ivan's lead, Jorja disappeared into the master bedroom.

The mantle clock had ticked away the seconds to itself a thousand times over before Jorja graced the room it watched over with her presence. She knew her surroundings well – the General had kept her as a trophy piece for so long that the exact time of her capture had long faded away. A dark chuckle rose in her throat as she again thought of the revenge she had dealt out so aptly. Revenge for his cruelty, for his indulgence of her to his every sadistic whim, and for the way he had kept her as no more than a showpiece like the heads that peppered the walls. No more than a showpiece, until in a fit of rage, he decided she was to become his next prey. A fatal decision on his part.

The Jorja who walked to the wide picture window, surveying her newly acquired estate, was an entirely transformed woman. From wild-eyed huntress, she had been tamed into a lady of culture and sophistication, more suited for the surroundings of this palatial residence. Everything about her – from her knee high hunting boots to her camel colored velour pants and ruffled peasants blouse to the ebony combs that adorned her hair – screamed cosmopolitan.

Jorja seated herself in the varnished cherry and leather armchair, snapping her fingers for Ivan’s attention.

“I assume Rainsford has had enough time to comfortably situate himself in his new quarters.” She smiled broadly at Ivan’s subtle nod. “Good. Then go fetch the man. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced properly…”

 

[darrenfate]

PARKER JACKSON

Parker pored over the USGS maps once more. The answer lay before him, he knew that he could find it if he tried hard enough. Jackson took off his bush hat and ran his fingers through his close cropped jet black hair. At 37, he was still whippet thin and wiry strong. His best friend Rainsford had disappeared 9 weeks ago now, and the authorities had long since called off the air and sea search. Everyone thought Rainsford dead, everyone except Parker Jackson.

He had to admit that if it was literally anyone else Parker would have given up as well. But they had come through too much together, Rainsford had gotten himself out of scrapes that would have killed the average man a dozen times over and survived to slap Parker on the back later on. They had hunted side by side, Grizzlies in the Northwest Territory, jaguars in Brazil, even the ferocious feral boars in Fiji. Parker wrote of their exploits and his publications in National Geographic had funded many of their assorted adventures.

No, Rainsford was not dead. He would never go quietly, ignominiously in the night a victim of a stupid accident. Parker was sure of that. He had an inspiration then. Forget trying all the long tracts of open water, if indeed Rainsford were there, he was surely gone. Focus intstead on where he would be if he was still alive. Painstakingly, he began to reconstruct the route of the yacht trying to discover where Rainsford may have made land when he pitched overboard....

 

[Jack Steed]

Rainsford

The heavy footsteps echoing down the corridor could belong to no one but Ivan. Rainsford's eyes darted around the room instinctively in search of some object, something, that could serve as a weapon, even though he knew it was pointless. He had scoured every inch of his cell so many times already, as the General knew he would, but nothing he had found would give him the slightest advantage over a 300 pound behemoth with a revolver.

The footsteps halted outside the heavy oaken door, and Rainsford pulled himself up off the bed. The small panel slid back, and Ivan looked into the room, blinked his heay-lidded eyes, and the panel closed again. Rainsford stood and straightened his clothing, brushing out the wrinkles in his trousers and tucking in his shirttail. Stiff upper lip, he told himself wryly, hoping to impress the brute that his imprisonment was no more than a minor inconvenience.

The key turned in the lock and the heavy door swung open. Ivan stepped warily into the room and pointed the long-barreled revolver at Rainsford’s chest. He breathed in heavily, and Rainsford thought he saw Ivan’s thick lips tighten. But the brute stepped aside and motioned for Rainsford to exit.

Silently, they trudged down the path, through the elegant formal gardens to the veranda overlooking the sea. The large French doors were thrown open to let in the warm evening breeze, and Rainsford stepped throught them into the General's private den.

The splendidly appointed room was much as he had remembered it from the previoius week, and the first thing Rainsford noticed was the silver platter of fruits and cheeses set out on the sideboard and the bottle of vintage Veuve-Clicquot chilling in a silver bucket.

Rainsford looked back at Ivan, but the man had disappeared, pulling the French doors closed behind him. He stepped toward the sideboard, and then he saw her.

Rainsford's first impression was that she was singularly attractive; his second was that there was an original, almost haunted quality about the young woman's face, like the photographs of children from the Warsaw Ghetto, a face that had seen too much too early in life. She was a tall woman. with long, straight auburn hair, and the dark copper skin of her face and neck were framed nicely by the pale blouse she was wearing. Her eyes were black and very bright as they flashed at him mischievously. The corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile--partly amused and partly disdainful of his rather disheveled appearance, he supposed.

Rainsford pulled himself to attention and gave her a self-deprecating little half-bow. "Good evening," he said. "I don't believe we've met. My name is Rainsford--Sanger Rainsford."

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

Jorja stood when Ivan entered with Rainsford in tow, ignoring his introduction as she strolled to the window. The ocean tangoed with the jagged toothed rocks, dragging the eerie silver moonlight to the bottom of each rift.

Reaching into an alcove, she forcefully pulled down a lever, decorated with tarnished brass designs. Tilting her head to the side, she listened carefully for the bass rumble and the high-pitched whine of the generator. Slowly, lights flickered on; a path of iridescent breadcrumbs leading Hansel and Gretel to the edge of the horizon.

“Beautiful night for the hunt, eh Rainsford?” It was not a question, but a statement, the cold edge to her declaration mirrored in her exotic countenance. The channel lights winked in silent, conspiratorial agreement. Turning on her heel, the hunting boots wrapping tight to her skin to keep her legs straight and her stride long and graceful, Jorja crossed her arms and nodded in his direction.

“I am General Zaroff,” she said matter-of-factly. Her voice held a held the lilt of a Russian accent, picked up from months of listening to the chateau’s former proprietor. Yet there was a tentative richness to her speech, that of someone who learned English as their second language.

Jorja reached across the chilled wine, plucking a perfect purple grape from the gilded tray. Pressing it between her lips, she looked up at Rainsford.

“Victory can be lasting and sweet…” She licked her slender finger, dropping her hands to her sides.

“…or as fleeting as a mere illusion.” Gesturing grandly to the broad expanse of Mediterranean and the gleam of the channel lights off midnight blue waters, she looked at Rainsford for the first time.

Her dangerously dark eyes sought out his, but only after admiring his strong jaw line and broad shoulders.

“Tell me, Sanger. Tell me how it feels to grasp victory, only to have it torn from you. Is it like tasting blood? The intoxicating willingness to do anything to get a second taste…?”

 

[darrenfate]

PARKER

The green grey seas were choppy as Parker stood at the bow of the boat. He had become accustomed to the swells, and now stood like an experienced seaman on the pitching deck. Parker had been searching for Rainsford for a month now, and he still had nothing to show for it. Parker had fallen into a regimented pattern with the chartered boat and crew.

On the larger, inhabited islands they stayed in port as Parker checked all the local hospitals and bars for clues to Rainsford's whereabouts. On the uninhabited or sparsely populated ones, like the crescent shaped isle they approached now, they had a different plan. The crew would drop him off and he would meet them back at a prearranged time. Parker would search the island on foot starting with the potable water supplies.

It had worked, after a fashion. The concept of time was not an exact thing down here in the islands, once he was to stay two days and ended up waiting five for them to show back up. For a large island like this, Parker told them he needed two weeks to search. Parker knew he was running out of options. He was bone weary, yet he knew he couldn't give up. More than 200 square kilometers to cover, starting with the one dwelling close to an ancient lighthouse. He had heard vague tales of dread from the natives of this place, they avoided this island yet none could articulate why.

The boat anchored in a sheltered bay, and a small craft soon had Parker deposited on the shore. He watched them start up then fade into the distance disappearing over the horizon. The rocky beach was interspersed by wide areas of sand. A well worn path led up to the imposing house. Parker his shouldered pack and began the climb up ...

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

General Jorja Zaroff kept her back to Rainsford for a reasonable amount of time. Staring out past the horizon, she waited for his answer. And if not an answer, at least a chivalrous stab at her lack of hunting prowess. Rainsford, however, could play the waiting game far better than she, and when her patience snapped; she turned, snarling, upon him.

"I am lonely and crave the human contact that has been denied me. I thought you would serve my purpose well, but I see now I was sorely mistaken."

Jorja's nostrils flared as she glowered at him, her change in temperament unnerving. Taking the tall, ornate peppershaker from the table, she banged it harshly down to emphasize each syllable of every word.

"If you weren't such a fine specimen of masculinity, Rainsford, I'll have you know that I wouldn't think twice about letting Ivan…have his way…with you." She chuckled condescendingly, shifting the peppermill back and forth restlessly between her hands, "But for now we'll keep that pretty face of yours sullen, pouting, and unscarred."

Waving a hand dismissively at Ivan, Jorja clicked her tongue, "Take him back where he belongs. He is obviously not my equal, and must be treated as another barbarian until he is willing to admit to his status as a gentleman. And keep up his end of a civil conversation, an art in which he seems to be severely lacking. Barest rations…just enough to keep him from actually chewing his own arm off – that last fellow stained my hardwood floors - not to say he won't consider it as a viable option now and again."

 

[darrenfate]

PARKER

It was getting late, an easy tropical darkness had decended as Parker arrived at the chateau. He sighed, well he had made camp in the dark before, and should no one be about he would do it again. Built into the cliff, it was one of those places that dominated rather than blended in with the landscape around it. Lights were on inside, perhaps he was in luck. He reached the large double oak doors and let heavy brass ring drop on its companion plate, a sharp, loud rap announcing his presence.

After a few minutes a man child answered the door. Wide shoulders and fully twice Parker's girth he said nothing as the door swung open, the heavy pistol in his meaty hand spoke for him. Immediately, Parker began to speak.

"I am sorry to arrive unannounced. I wanted to let you know that I am here on this island. I shan't keep you long. My name is Parker Jackson and I am an explorer and journalist that is looking for my friend Sanger Rainsford in this territory. Have you seen or heard of him? "

After a second's hesitation, the man holstered the gun.

"General Zoroff will want to meet you. "

Oddly terse sort of greeting, Parker mused. The man then motioned for him to follow. He was ushered into a room where wine waited, and fresh fruit was in abundance on polished silver trays. He saw suddenly that he was alone. He wondered about General Zaroff, a name that seemed to have its origins in Russia or at the very least the Balkans. He must be retired, Parker thought and living here in his golden years in peace. How wrong he was. He didn't have long to wait.

A woman strode into the room, her eyes drinking him in, missing nothing as she patiently but methodically looked him over. It was the kind of look that Parker had seen before, of those who had been deprived of human companionship. Perhaps for too long. Zaroff's daughter or niece most likely. Parker straightened squaring his shoulders unconsciously at the appraisal. She moved with grace, obviously this was a woman of refinement. He advanced brashly in bold American style holding out his right hand and saying -

"Pardon the intrusion. My name is Parker. Parker Jackson. "

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

“Parker Jackson, is it?” Jorja replied with an uninterested, almost bored, tone. “I’ve heard of you – from him.”

She glared momentarily at the gilt-framed oil painting of the General that hung grandly over the fireplace. For the months that she had belonged solely to him, she was forced to bow down to that painting and kiss it reverently before she was allowed to sleep each night. Zaroff had thought himself a god; the painting no more than an idol to be worshipped by his followers. The near future would find that painting slashed, his coldly handsome face torn to shreds by her own teeth and nails. And with it, any emotional ties to him that still lingered would be severed as well.

“He wrote about you in his journal. You’re a fascinating man, Parker. But he thought you would have arrived sooner. Perhaps your hunting skills are starting to fail you already,” Jorja said cryptically.

Zaroff had, in fact, kept careful note of any threats that might ruin his closely guarded secrets of ShipTrap Island. Parker was high on that list, although she knew not why. Every instinct told her Parker was a threat to her newfound stability and complete dominance. She tensed visibly in response to his withheld hand.

Ivan looked on with steely, uncomprehending eyes as Jorja made no move to return Jackson’s gesture of polite greeting and good will. Never make a promise you can’t keep.

“What brings you to my Island?” She asked, taking Zaroff’s ebony-knobbed cane from its nook by the fireplace and twirling it experimentally. All the while, she listened whilst he explained his reasons.

“And I’ll suppose you will want to see the General? The Man of the House, if you will…” Jorja queried.

“Yes, very much,” came Parker’s reply.

“Pity. There isn’t one.” Her smile was as foreboding as it was alluring.

“I am General Zaroff,” she banged the cane down by her side, commanding complete attention, “ General Jorja Zaroff.”

 

[darrenfate]

PARKER

His hand hung in the air, clearly his former thoughts of this woman being refined and cultured were premature.

Parker's eyes followed hers to gaze upon the painting. He saw a portrait, although conventional it was not. The artist had captured a look of unvarnished malevolence in the eyes of the General. Parker, old boy, what have you gotten yourself into this time? Ivan stood off to one side, ever vigilant. Too vigilant for Parker's taste. Things are not always as they seem to be.

He explained his quest, then froze as she went off.

Imagine, this wisp of a woman claiming to be a general! She had an edge to her voice, an edge of a person too long alone, perhaps insane. Her eyes blazed in a fury, then it was over. She had that unnatural ability to be perfectly calm and collected within seconds.

If ever Parker had seen a woman of contrasts he did right now. Darkly beautiful, she had that evil streak that appealed to Parker's own devils. He looked at her with unabashed lust in his heart and mind.

Trying to shake off his inner demons, Parker looked aside then back to her riveting stare. For long seconds he was tempted, then reason took hold. He knew that she had seen that animal look in his eyes.

I apologize, General . May I impose on your hospitality and spend the night here? I shall depart to explore the uninhabited places of this island in the morning and shall not bother you again.

He saw the peculiar look in her face. A look that for all the world looked like deep satisfaction. Somehow, Jorja thinks she has won. He knew that he would find out what happened to Sanger on this island. The real question for Parker was, what game was really being played out here?

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

Jorja eyed the stranger suspiciously as he described his unobtrusive intentions. She had yet to meet a man she trusted. Zaroff had only used her for his own pleasure and the men down below in the 'training camp' had harassed her daily.

"Have a seat, please, forgive my manners. A lack of civilized companionship tends to lower one to a vicious level, bordering barbaric." Although her voice seemed sincere enough, her facade was distant and the humanity in her eyes, faint.

Parker’s features were chiseled and he seemed completely at home in any situation, a creature that survived through adaptation. Her prospects for hunt-ees were certainly growing daily. It was true she had gotten a kick from Zaroff’s death…but he was getting on in his years and wasn’t sufficiently challenging. Although he hawked hunting to be the most difficult sport, he had always taken to it with piston in hand.

The new General, however, was an archer. The coordination and animalistic keen it required for the hunt were on a level Zaroff had never achieved.

Clicking her tongue harshly for Ivan’s attention, she bid him to set a table for two. He strode off, his heavy footsteps causing the floor to creak in agony. She could hear Evangeline, a wisp of a brunette, and Zaroff’s one-time pet that he had acquired in the Greek Isles, scurrying around in the kitchen.

Parker was lounging in a plush armchair to the side of the fire, relaxed in the relatively odd surroundings. Jorja joined him, sinking into the larger worn leather chair that sat directly in front of the hearth. Zaroff’s glowering countenance towered over the two of him, his eyes shimmering faintly with vengeful lust.

Her visitor began to loose more and more of his cool every moment she sat there, stock still, staring him down. Finally, when she felt she had gained a sufficient edge, she stood and gestured for him to follow her.

“I hope your trip hasn’t been too exerting. There’s quite a lavish spread which my sweet Evangeline has prepared…it would be such a shame to waste her talent. And that, sir, is only the beginning…”

 

[darrenfate]

PARKER

Parker knew instinctively that this was a woman like no other. He tended to consciously seek out the good in people, yet his instincts screamed at him to beware. He settled into the armchair and cast his eyes around.

Evangeline came out of the kitchen, and scurried with downcast eyes to set the table for dinner. A wayward fork clattered to the hard wood floor, causing her to jump as if she were hit by a blow. Hmm. the only time Parker had seen that behavior was in that unforunate case of physical abuse by Lord Greystoke. Most unfortunate that is for the female members of his household. Parker had sworn never to return. He looked up at Jorja, just in time to catch that look of pure anger directed at Evangeline. It seems as though all the denizens of this particular jungle were edgy, just like their mistress.

He glanced around the room, then became aware of an uneasy silence. He looked at Jorja to find himself squarely in the path of her unerving stare. Parker locked eyes with her, and remained like that for some minutes. Never before had he encountered such a creature. Lovely, desireable, and utterly cold. He shivered involuntarily and broke the eye contact off. It was said, Parker had once read, that American Indians could stare down any white man. Well, any man perhaps. But his money would be on this woman.

"There’s quite a lavish spread which my sweet Evangeline has prepared…it would be such a shame to waste her talent. And that, sir, is only the beginning…”

He lingered on her words. Did she mean to imply that Evangeline had other, hidden, talents? Or was it a broader statement to suggest that his stay here was to be memorable. He already knew it would be that! He replied hoping he would convey the right amount of both resolve and desire -

"My journey has been long, yet I too have lacked civilized companionship. I am most eager to dine with you and enjoy all that your company has to offer. My quest for Rainsford can begin in the morning... "

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

Jorja strode across the large room, catching the girl roughly by the arm before she could dart around the corner. Parker took a step forward, his chivalry enflamed, but she whirled on him before he could speak.

Pressing her lips to the young woman’s forehead, Jorja dragged her back into the room. “Curtsy to the gentleman, Evangeline. Don’t tell me all of Zaroff’s training was for naught!” she hissed.

Evangeline took a tentative step forward, and curtsied clumsily, her hair spilling over her downcast eyes. Stumbling over her feet in her haste to get away, she ended back up in the taller woman’s grasp.

Jorja roughly pulled up the sleeve of Evangeline’s cotton frock, four white scratch marks angrily pale against the rich brown of her skin where she had scraped her arm when catching her. Lowering her lips, the huntress experimentally flicked her tongue over the newly inflicted scratch.

She could feel Parker looking on with something between morbid fascination and lustful envy as her pink tongue flicked cat-quick over the serving maid’s skin.

Satisfied that any wrong had been righted by her touch, Jorja tugged the sleeve back into place, slowly letting Evangeline go. “Forgive and forget, my sweet, I meant to harm,” she purred sulkily, in the tone of a child being forced to apologize.

Turning back to Parker with nothing but a “You are dismissed,” to the petite servant, Jorja seemed a different person. Offering him a seat at her far right, she took the General’s chair, dwarfed by royalty never meant to be graced with slender limbs and fine-boned features.

“Please, begin…” she smiled indulgingly at her guest. Steam wafted up from the covered dishes, exotic spices mixed with crisp fruit flavors to cleanse the palate. At the opposite end of the fashionably long banquet table sat a single bowl of borsch, ladled into an ornate gold bowl.

Wisps of steam clung to the heavily scented air, eerily surrounding the silent tribute to the erstwhile Zaroff. Seeing Parker’s attention wander curiously to the odd spectacle at the other end, Jorja stabbed the impressive carving knife moodily into the table, watching it quiver there momentarily.

When Parker offered her the dish he was serving himself from, she sniffed haughtily. Eying him constantly, she cocked her head in distaste at the proffered culinary gift.

“I dine alone.”

 

[darrenfate]

Parker

Parker ate in silence, but it was an easy silence. He thought of how poor Evangeline had cowered in Jorja's presence. That waif was used to abuse, he thought, physical and mental. The long white lines from Jorja's fingers upon her skin somehow excited him. What a tigress this unpredictable feline would be in bed! Parker knew that given half a chance he'd leap at the chance to find out for himself. He'd always been attracted to wild women. It was a fault. Luckily for him, they were very hard to find amongst the gentile crowd that he normally mixed with. The dark side of his personality could so easily overwhelm the good.

Borsch

Jorja preferred her beet soup cold. How fitting. Matched her personality to a T. Yet her eyes were living things. Alive and calculating. Noticing everything, missing nothing. The eyes of a Huntress. Her fluid dexterity with the knife spoke volumes in and of itself. Parker had hunted for too long to miss the tell tale signs. There was more, much more to the erstwhile General Jorja Zaroff than met the eye. Exactly he was sure, how she wanted it.

" General , so what does one hunt on the island? The usual fare of wild boar and birds? Though herds of boar can be viscious and dangerous, I'm afraid that this quarry have long ago lapsed into the pedestrian for me. Rainsford and I were planning on stalking the elusive Jaguar for the second time in South America. A most cunning beast, smart, elusive and of course very very fast. Rainsford insisted on going out each armed with a single rifle bullet. He said that it evened the odds. I have never felt so alive.

Tell me, what is it that thrills you most?"

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

“The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made: in the net which they lay his own foot is taken.” Jorja recited, pulling the knife idly from the table. Eyes narrowed, she studied Parker, clinically observing his reactions.

Over the past few days, she had watched the primitive differences between the barbarians that truly belonged in the dungeons, and the self-impressed Rainsford who was only a temporary resident there. And now she had a chance to sate her intellect with this new character that had wandered into her story.

Still smiling encouragingly, Jorja saw how he struggled to conceal his emotions. From this fundamental truth, she gathered honesty must be a truly barbaric trait. Cultured gentleman and ladies must then keep a poker face at all times. Poker Face; a strange expression Zaroff had been fond of, although the word was foreign to her, and she couldn’t grasp the reference.

“I’m neither a philosopher or a religious zealot, Parker, but I understand the intricacies of humanity. To think…once our race was the hunted, struggling to survive against ruthless predators and impossible odds. And when we triumphed, became the dominant species, many people thought we had come full circle. But really, that was only half the equation.”

Winking, she leaned in closer to Parker, as if divulging the world’s darkest secret.

“But the truth is, most have never even considered the flip side, and that is why humanity is lacking perfection. Survival of the fittest does not apply to us. We nurture our weak, and someday that will be our downfall. Human compassion is the soft spot where we will be stabbed. Dare to stretch your imagination and I could show you the pleasures that lie far beyond conventional conception…”

 

[darrenfate]

Parker

The elitist in Parker heard her words and was secretly thrilled. All men are created equal. To be precise an average of 7 pounds, 8 ounces birth weight. If you elected cremation – to Parker’s mind the only ecologically responsible choice – in death ashes weighed an average of 7 pounds, 8 ounces. There was a “Circle of Life” quality to these facts that appealed to Parker. The liberals had it part right, but only that part. It was ~in between~ in the actual living of life that inequalities not only existed but thrived.

It was also the in between parts that galled Parker. To think that goat herders, druggies and the homeless carried an equally weighted vote in democratic elections to Parker’s own was particularly difficult for him. He thought of the crew that had brought him here to this island. Not a single one was worthy of him or ~Jorja~ for that matter.

We nurture our weak, and someday that will be our downfall … Dare to stretch your imagination and I could show you the pleasures that lie far beyond conventional conception…”

He eyed her with an appraising look. She was darkly beautiful. More than that. Her very being made Parker lust for her, in sinister ways that he had never before known were in the depths of his soul. She appealed to his basest instincts. The animal part of Parker wanted to ravage her.

Jorja’s words made a lot of sense, and in a moment of weakness he spoke –

“Show me what you mean. I have often been troubled by the tyranny of the majority that exists in our society. I am ready to stretch my mind – and body – to understand the pleasures that you speak of “

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

Piling her hair into a messy bun on the top of her head, Jorja took her unused dinner fork and pinned her feral tresses in place. Jerking Park away from his dinner, spoon halfway to his parted lips, she pointed him towards a closed folding door in the corner.

Following him through it, she let him absorb the atmosphere a moment. This was Zaroff’s trophy room, a collection of perfection, as he liked to call it. A collection that would only be truly perfected if her head was added to it, he would remark occasionally, only half joking.

“We are measured by our material possessions. You see the heads of these ferocious animals; thus, you assume that he who killed them was a great man. Warlords slaughtered thousands with one decisive wave of the hand, yet were they considered great? It’s all in the perspective…”

Pointing him to a large desk in one corner, Jorja threw a hand bound coffee table book down in front of him. A sequence of matted black and white photos covered the pages, all showing Zaroff with his hunting boot placed dominantly on the dead animal’s head, pushing its lifeless carcass down into the gritty sand.

She saw Parker getting bored as the pages slipped by, mountain lions blending into grizzlies blurring into the elusive Amazon jaguar. He looked questioningly up at her, but she bade him to continue.

“The ending’s a real kicker. You’re not the kind of person who reads the last page of a novel first, are you?”

Parker finally flipped to the last page. Zaroff stood smugly in the same pose, hunting knife drawn and held above his head. Beneath his boot was a dark, lean body, muscled and gleaming of sweat and sun. Pale hair tumbled to his shoulders, blank eyes mimicking the soulless stares of the mounted animal heads.

A picture is worth a thousand words…

 

[darrenfate]

Parker

Parker felt the blood drain out of his face. He felt weak in the knees, and had a sudden urge to get sick. For there foot resting upon his dead victim's neck was General Zaroff with his latest human prize.

Parker's visceral reaction to the photo was entirely unexpected. He and Rainsford prided themselves on meticulous planning and preparation. In the wild, nothing phased them. Here in this god forsaken fortress in the middle of nowhere Parker's life changed forever.

He staggered as though hit with a physical blow, his right hand clutching the table barely stopped him from falling to the ground. Jorja's words took on a sinister meaning, she had been hinting at this all evening, only Parker had failed to see her truly evil spirit until now. This was no simple intellectual discussion about the superiority of the races, that Parker had almost bought in to. No, this was about the physical extermination of less capable human beings for sport.

Parker took long minutes to steady himself. If Rainsford was here, he was surely still alive. No man could hunt Rainsford down. He was simply the best woodsman Parker had ever seen. He looked up at Jorja, she had a mocking look on her face, as she saw his weakness. Parker was sure that he slipped in her eyes. Play that out. Don't let her see the steel that gathers now behind the fascade. Parker's will was strong. The reporter in him knew this was the story of a career. He knew he would be rich and famous once he wrote of this.

"Abominable! General Zaroff was a wild dog. Any civilized country would jail him for the rest of his life. He has met his just reward. I am quite beside myself, General. Tell me how it was that you came to this island, and the circumstances of the man's demise ..."

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

Jorja stood there, silently mocking Parker with the look in her eyes. As if coerced into action by his astonished, chiding tone, she uncrossed her arms and walked around behind him.

“There was far more to Zaroff then meets the eye and I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t speak of him with such idle contempt in my presence.

Snapping the book closed with a loud, emphatic bang that resonated from the polished wood, the General swept the photo album out of him hands.

“Surely you must be tired after such a day,” Jorja pressed in a rhetoric question to which there was only one right answer. Only one answer, that is, he would dare to give.

“Ivan will show you to your room. I trust you’re wise enough to keep to your chambers and not go wandering around a strange abode in the dark of night.”

Standing at the large wooden door, Jorja draped herself over the doorframe. Parker stood and obligingly returned the chair to where it belonged. As he moved to walk past her out the door, Jorja caught him by the sleeve, roughly jerking him back to face her by his arm.

“One more thing, Parker,” she murmured as she reached behind her neck to unclasp the slender silver chair around her neck. Taking his hand, she folded the key on its necklace into his outstretched palm. That will unlock the realm of your wildest imaginings. My hospitality of such proportions is seldom offered and, may I add, never refused.”

Licking her lips secretively, Jorja let the key to Evangeline’s handcuffs slip through her fingers. Oh what a decadent surprise Parker was in for when he saw that pale, china doll bound and waiting in his freshly prepared quarters. Such a succulent treat he would not be able to resist.

And yet, it was merely a prelude to what joining with Jorja as a member of civilized culture would bring.

 

[Clare Caxton]

bump

 

[darrenfate]

OOC : Anxious, eh? LOL. Patience is usually a virtue , darlin, but then again in this particular thread, virtue is a trait that is not familiar to the characters ...

Parker

Parker bid General Jorja a good night, wondering just what this key may be to. He felt it radiate an unnatural warmth in his hand as he walked down the hallway following a hulking but stone silent Ivan. Her words haunted him, he tried to discern their hidden meaning. Jorja he had come to realize, rarely answered the question asked. Instead, she answered as she saw fit, her innate flair for the dramatic her only motivation.

"...will unlock the realm of your wildest imaginings. My hospitality of such proportions is seldom offered and, may I add, never refused.”

The door swung open, and Parker entered hearing the door close solidly behind him. The room was vast, a large canopied bed stood in one end opposite the fireplace. The cottony lace was drawn, yet Parker could make out a shadowy figure hunched in the middle. Parting the curtain, Parker gasped.

For the second time that evening. Parker was stunned speechless at what he saw. Evangeline was naked, and tightly handcuffed. Parker felt a surge of lust, he was instantly hard. Followed by that surge, he felt a wave of shame. He had sunk low, after but a few hours here. Reaching for the lock, he heard Evangeline whisper -

Please do not free me until you have had your way with me. You do not know General Jorja. I will killed and you also if her gift is refused. So, please, please fuck me, abuse me. The very walls have eyes. She watches, she knows ...

In horror Parker stopped. He was unable to resist the urge to look around as if to see the unseen watcher. The only thing he saw was the flickering of the flames, and the sputter of hot sap popping in the fireplace.

Turning back to Evangeline, he moved her to face the foot of the bed. He whispered back -

If it's a show she wants, it's a show she will get.

Parker stripped, his cock long and hard. Kneeling on the bed in front of Evangeline he pulled her roughly forward forcing her mouth down on him. Loudly he said -

"Suck my cock slave."

Parker fucked her face, at first with some reserve then with abandon as he gave in fully to his basest instincts. He came quickly, shooting his seed down her throat.

"Swallow it all"

After she was done, he withdrew. Spinning her around, Parker spread her butt cheeks and began to lick her pussy. In no time at all he was hard again. He drove hard into the manacled wench pounding her doggy style. Somehow right then Parker lost all touch with his sensibilities and totally gave in to the power Jorja had bestowed upon him that night. He became what she wanted him to be.

Hours later Evangeline was released. Sobbing she fled from the room. General Jorja had won round one ...

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

After Jorja had Parker escorted to his room, she sat down for a leisurely dinner. The real fun wouldn’t start for a while and besides, she was hungry from an entire day on the prowl. Night suited her better, as it only strengthened her keen feline vision.

Retiring to her bedroom, the General settled herself lightly on a couch along the wall bordering the room where Parker was being kept. Sliding her bare feet along the smoothly carved wood, she eagerly pulled out a section of stone. Peepholes were one of the many useful amenities Zaroff had outfitted his chateau with.

Parker’s heavy breathing filled the still room, a ladylike squeak issuing from Evangeline just to let him know his efforts were appreciated. She licked her lips predatorily at this sight, the eroticism of his gleaming tawny body burned into her vision.

Jorja jumped as she felt a heavy hand on her shoulder, turning to look up into the broad face of Ivan. With his limited repertoire of hand gestures and grunts, he drew her reluctantly away from the show. Escorting her down the winding stairs, he opened the front door, signaling wildly to the clump of trees at the base of the jutting cliff where the house resided.

He was useful for many things, yes, but she did not particularly want him around when she was on the hunt. His wounds were just now healing, and if it was an animal out there, they would easily scent the fresh blood. Not to mention be frightened by his clumsy footsteps a hundred meters away.

“Return to the lovers now, Ivan. When the newcomer is properly sated, lock the door and put my key in the usual place. And do what you can to convince Rainsford to be more amiable…scare him, but do not hurt him.”

Taking one of Zaroff’s freshly oiled pistols from their resting place on the mantle, Jorja stepped out into the night, back flat against the high rock wall. Surreptitiously walking to the edge of the precipice, she cocked her head. Above the rumble of the sea breaking far below, a slight rustling could be heard.

It was not animal…the sound was far to tentative and cautious to be of nature. A whisper of breath could be heard if one strained there ears, but she wouldn’t have staked her life on it. The wind made similar murmurings through the tightly crowded rocks.

Crouching, she advanced towards the clump of shrubbery Ivan had fervently indicated. Wetting her lips, she raised slightingly onto her toes, sighting down her gun and following the aim with her eyes.

“Come out, come out wherever you are,” she purred in a honey sweet voice.

A fleeting glimpse of motion caught her gaze and she swiftly turned to her right, stalking closer to the edge. The fading echo of padding footsteps caught her ear and she inhaled sharply, back pressed to a bristly tree.

“So you want to play games…” the maniacal laughter that edged her voice was tangible as she bit off her words with an almost careless note of confidence, “so be it.”

 

[Roland Gilliad]

Shawn Williams

*IT was dark when he had awakened...the Full moon shone overhead as he pushed himself off the sandy Beachead of Ship Trap island...and shook the last vestiges of his unconciousness from himself...He took stock of His surroundings..the beach extended ten feet up to a point where it met trees, and presumably led to a forest. It was the nightmare of any hunter who was wearing dark, stick out clothing. All that open space was a deathtrap, So he got himself out of it, running low and hard till he got to a tree and quickly took stock of himself..memories rushing back of that long awaited storm just as he found the island...Thrown in, His ship now destroyed, his provisons Gone..He checked himself over...The Four rolls of emergency Rations tucked into a tight vest..His Favorite, Arabian Style Curved dagger thankfully still there. A few other amenities. Lockpicks, a spyglass, and a mirror, unbroken, thank the gods. He checked his form for the familiar feel of The weapons that should, but werent there..he found only two Throwing Daggers...and A Hefty Bladed Machete, And of course, his private invention, A Special miniblade that was specially woven into his hair, and hidden by it. A last resort, but one that had saved his life numerous times. It was a sad state of weapondry, But he'd survived in worse conditions....He checked his immediate area, sniffing the air..Yes..Humans. Not too far, but far enough to require running to find them..he climbed up the tree..best to stay up here, less possiblities for hidden traps, and it kept one hidden..for a time. He Made his way across the island...until he had seen the Huge, Burly guard, swiftly hiding in the brush..too swiftly for stealth. He cursed and waited it out..expecting dogs, or at the least more than one..but it was a woman...albiet a woman with an extremely predetory look to her.....She glanced and aimed her pistol, but he was already moving..as she aimed on a target that was no longer there...*

<I>Come out, come out, Wherever you are..</i>

*Came the tone, too sweet to be human, he saw his opening, Going to another part of the brush, pulling out one of the smooth throwing daggers...painted black,TO prevent the shining of it in the moonlight..it didnt look as impressive, but it got the job Done, He lifted it up and let it fly with absolute accuracy, it struck the gun with such force that it embedded itself in the side of the Barrel, The gun, Unless she had another or some means of instantly repairing it, was now useless, The dagged was blackened in the purest sense, as if by some fire. ANd was flat, no real hilt to it, it was for throwing ONLY. And that was that...A Voice trick, Shawn remembered, using the cliff walls and the trees to echo it about her so she could not find his exact position, he moved quickly before she had out another weapon, only a very gentle swish of leaves in his wake, and he found another bush, and spoke softly, letting the echo take care of volume*

Why yes...I would enjoy a game or two....though I prefer to know my opponents name..

 

[Mistress Jorja]

General Jorja Zaroff

Jorja was unfazed by the silent attack from her midnight visitor. She dropped the useless piece of metal, still held tightly in her hand, from her grasp. It clattered noisily onto the cobblestone walk as she slung it across to the half open door.

Whistling softly, the familiar light tread responded instantly. A gleaming German Shepard stood by her side, his neck arched as he searched every shadowy corner. She had a feeling her opponent wouldn’t consider this fair play, but it wasn’t the first time she had been accused of overkill.

Whoever it was had a knack for hiding. The General knew every inch of the Island, except for perhaps the quicksand, and still she couldn’t spot him with her eyes. His voice was taunting and her lips formed into an unconscious snarl as she crouched, deciding not to reply until she had him under her terms.

Moving quickly and keeping the chateau’s wall at her back, she circled around behind him, leaving the Shepard as a distraction. Narrowing her eyes, Jorja stopped halfway up a flight of steps that led to the back kitchen. Unsheathing the small knife she kept with her at all times, she breathed shallowly through her mouth.

“Teufel,” she called the dog’s name emphatically when she had laid eyes upon her prey. Growling deep in its throat, he bounded through the underbrush, slowly backing the dark masculine silhouette into the corner formed by the kitchens and the stone stairs.

Jorja wondered who dared roam ShipTrap Island at night. Her ShipTrap Island.

Slinking from behind the barrier, she snapped her fingers to quiet the tensed Teufel. The attacker had his fingers wrapped around something, but she could tell it wasn’t a gun. Staying a few strides back, she spoke a command to the dog in rapid German.

“Is it false bravado? Bravery? Courage? Or just stupidity?” she asked rhetorically, gesturing to her companion.

“It makes you wonder if human emotion means anything at all in the scheme of things. Instinct is the only thing that keeps you alive.” Jorja smiled and licked her lips, “And the occasional dose of good luck.”