I do not own Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I loved most of it, except Season 6 and the way Dawn was made a whiner. She’s a Summers, for Pete’s sake!Crossover:
None whatsoever. This is a pure, unadulterated BuffyVerse story.Timeline:
From Buffy’s death at the end of Season 5. From there on, it lasts five days or almost four and a half years, depending on how you look at it.Words:
One prologue, about 1000 words, and nine chapters, hopefully 2000+ words.Warnings:
I’m going for FR18. Dawn is indeed mostly naked and she is tortured, and there are descriptions. Another character is also tortured, again with descriptions. Dawn is underage. She was born on October 11, 1986, which is, to the best of my knowledge, consistent with the canon. So, depending on how you look at it, she is either 14 and a half or 19 at the end of this first part, but she starts at 14 and a half. There is no sex at all for her. No pairing in sight (except for the Willow/Tara thing, but implied only.)Summary:
Buffy is dead. Faith is in jail. Who’s gonna protect Sunnydale, the Buffybot?
Kirahala, Age of Sardal, Year 4092, 14th month
The sun hit hard on the red sands of the hell world. For as far as they could see, that's all there was: red sands under a red sky. No winds, but that meant nothing, as the windstorms in that area were known to appear without warning in a most unforgiving fashion. Not a cloud in the sky, but there again that meant nothing if a windstorm appeared, because the wind would bring the sands, and the visibility would be worse than at night.
The temperature was mild today, about 130 degrees Fahrenheit. Although both travelers were now used to the climate, they were quite happy that the scorching 150-165 degrees they had endured for the last ten days were a thing of the past. The Kirahala Dimension heat waves were no joke, even for the few who dwelled in it.
The male traveler was a Kleynach demon, countless hundreds of thousand years old but not looking more than say, 375. He towered at 8 feet high, all wrapped up in an ample red hooded cloak. When he took it off at night, it revealed a huge reptilian creature with clawed hands, a lipless mouth, fangs and red eyes peering at the horizon. He definitely did not look friendly.
Kleynach demons were powerful and feared in most dimensions, particularly due to the fact that they did not have to rely on being conjured or brought forth to enter a dimension: they could teleport across dimensions at will as long as they wore the ring known as the Band of Blacknill. Moreover, Kleynachs were practically invulnerable to physical harm, and they were known and feared as mighty fighters.
Walking behind him was a ruk, a creature best described as a shaggy buffalo on steroids, a little less than 7 feet high, and bearing teeth similar to those of a saber tooth tiger, only bigger. It was quite docile with its master and its master's slave, but could become a vicious, bloodthirsty, merciless killer without warning.
The slave showed very little of that fierceness. She looked like a lithe teenage human girl, probably not even 15 years old, about 5 feet 10 inches high, short brown hair, blue eyes, still walking but tired. She clearly was not used to the kind of climate that Kirahala was famous for. But there were other reasons for her fatigue; they were hard to miss, considering that the girl was stripped to the waist.
She was sporting quite a number of marks of violence, among which several whip marks, mostly in the back, but a couple on her breasts and a vicious one in the face. There were also some bruises, mostly on the abdomen, the lower abdomen and the face, the apparent result of having been violently punched quite a few times; There were also a couple of cuts on her stomach. All those wounds appeared to be two or three days old. Right under her leather loincloth, but over her leather boots, more bruises and a couple more whip marks were clearly visible, mostly on her thighs. Although the girl was limping, it wasn’t enough to slow her down by much.
However, that was not the first thing most observers would notice when they looked at the young slave.
It was not the first time that humans had visited Kirahala. All of them were in some kind of captivity or servitude, because it was the law. Humans had no rights except to serve or die. But on this particularly harsh world, human slaves usually served inside the house of their master. The heat and dryness of this particular demon dimension were too much for any human. And yet the slave was enduring the dry, scorching heat and the burning sun of the worst part of this world: its desert. That was not possible. Her torso should have been covered with blisters after a few hours, burnt red at the end of the first day. The girl should have died long before that. And yet her skin was the skin of a teenage human girl, unblemished, barely sun-kissed. She had been traveling for weeks now, in that very same spared outfit, following her sinister master and his terrifying beast of burden in the hottest part of the Kirahala world, for the only reason that going around would have taken years instead of months. The inescapable conclusion was that she was not a human girl. At best she was some kind of unholy hybrid.
However, that was not the first thing most observers noticed when they looked at the young slave.
No, the first thing they noticed was the way she was moving her shoulders, her back. It was as if something was scratching her back, and she was trying to get rid of it. Then they noticed her tensed muscles, her clenched jaws, her scowling expression. Clearly the girl was in pain, an excruciating pain that should make her scream at the top of her lungs. But she resisted the impulse. It seemed that the girl was being tortured by her own body, from the inside. Still, she found in herself the strength to remain perfectly aware of her surroundings, like a feline on the prowl.
The red-cloaked demon stopped. He seemed to be trying to decide something. The shaggy beast stopped too, always very attentive to his master's movements. The girl kept going, stopping only when at the side of her master, facing him, her hands behind her back, waiting for orders.
In front of them was what the nomadic dwellers of the desert called, in the local tongue, the Frying Pan. It was right at the center of the desert and easy to make out from afar: the red sands were slowly turning to pink, and eventually to white, just like a poker heating in the fire would if left there long enough. At the center of the Frying Pan, the temperature could almost reach 200 degrees, sometimes even more. Even demons did not go through the Frying Pan. They could survive it, but it was not their cup of tea.
The master was now facing his young slave. Then, after pointing with one of his claws to show her what was waiting for them, he looked at her in the eyes and simply said: “Jaral.”
The slave nodded. The demon nodded back and started walking again. The beast followed the master. The slave followed the beast, trying to remind herself exactly why she had chosen to endure this torment.
Only those thoughts kept her courageous and strong enough to go forward…