Race:  Human
Sex:  Female (true)
Age:  Mid-20's
Hair:  Coal Black
Eyes:  Amber Brown
Skin:  Olive Tan




In her adolescence, Doloria was a peasant girl tending her family?s barley farm at the fringes of an outland hamlet.  There she had lived in placid contentment since her birth.

And then Khumash Kull and his raiders descended on the settlement in a wicked and unprovoked attack.  Almost all of the commonfolk in that ransacked hamlet were put to the sword?ALMOST all.  But whether it was the quality of her olive-skinned beauty or the lilting timbre of her voice, something about young Doloria caught the fascination of the savage brigands, though she would soon wish that she hadn?t.  She was brought before Khumash Kull and his lieutenants, who decided that she would make a lovely plaything for the while.

At Khumash Kull?s bidding, strong and callused hands brutally ripped the clothing from Doloria?s taut body, leaving her naked as the hour of her birth before a hundred-odd leering, salacious eyes as firelight from her burning home danced across the sweat-dribbled, glistening contours of her olive nakedness.

The warlord himself was the first to exact his pleasures from Doloria?s flesh, taking delight in her struggling, her pleas for mercy and her pained gasps and wails as he squeezed and crushed her pert, round breasts in his rough hands, biting her amber nipples until they bled and hooking his grimy, blood-flecked fingers into her soft womanhood, a pink vagina dry with panic and contracting around his fingers in protest.  With lust seething in his eyes, Khumash Kull carried Doloria into her family?s grain shed, pinning her slight body beneath his bulk and cackling with sadistic glee as he robbed her of her virginity, thrusting his large, veined phallus into her reluctant canal deeply and fiercely enough to ram her small, doughty cervix with enough force to spur a scream from her lungs, exciting her violator further.  Her bites, buffets and kicks proved ineffective at driving him out of her and off of her, and after many more painful thrusts through the bloodied, tattered remnants of her hymen, he growled in the throes of orgasm and spurted his semen into the velvetine passage to her womb, gladdened with one more conquest.

Ever generous to his lackeys, the conqueror handed her over to them, brimming with sinister delight at hearing her sobbing pleas for mercy interspersed with desperate prayers to any god who would listen.  They took their turns pinning her to the earth with rough, forceful hands and brutally raping her without pause as day yielded to night and then returned with the dawn.

Wearied from the days of sacking and contest but not wanting to leave their toy free as they slept, the raiders seized her bruised and defiled body by her wrists and her ankles, to lug Doloria outside and tie her to a waiting horse.  Dragging her by her tethered wrists and tearing the stone-scoured soles of her broad bare feet, they flogged her nakedness with whips and knotted ropes to drive her forth, welting
her back, buttocks and thighs into a scored and blood-flecked scarlet until they arrived atop a bluff overlooking her home.
There, Khumash Kull bid his brigands to lash her to a roughly hewn cross overlooking the burning remnants of her razed hamlet.  For five more days ? and very long days they were ? the savage raiders brutally raped her again and again as she hung limply from that cross, its coarse cuts and splinters chafing and tearing at her torn and bloodied skin with every unbidden embrace, every pawing, every lustful clutch on her weeping, skyclad frame and every phallic thrust into her core.

And while they kept their camp in her ravaged hamlet, they kept her alive and suffering through her lengthy ordeal, forcing scraps of food and bitter beer down her throat, filling her stomach with piss and semen mixed with enough meager sustenance to keep her alive, though never quite granting respite from her pangs. And all through the days and the nights, the brutes brutally slapped, flogged and battered her naked body and raped her savagely and often, denying her every hour of sleep that she needed.

Each thrust of their stone-hard penises rubbed and tore at the soft, fragrant walls of her young, slight slip of a vagina, the most endowed among them hammering the door to her womb with their deepest thrusts and pushing the collecting fluids from her womanhood in visceral spits, leaving her nectar, piss and blood dribbling and pooling in the pink, wrinkled petals of her vulva.

In the unveiled light of day, the welted skin of her legs shone streaked with her own dried blood, shit and urine, rolling from her heels and dribbling from her toes to collect in a filthy pile at the foot of the beam on which Khumash Kull had crucified her, and the semen dripped and poured from her overfilled womanhood to mingle with those leavings and with the piss where the brutes had relieved their bladders on her cross and on her person.

And all the while, for that half a tenday, Doloria?s sobs, moans, wails and cries to the God of Respite and Mercy weakened, croaked and faltered at times, but they never ceased.

But then, when her many violators were ordered to break camp and they came to decide whether to murder their human plaything, to take her with them or to leave her crucified atop the crest, a sudden and inexplicable animosity swept through their ranks.  Insinuations turned to accusations, harsh words gave way to harsher blows, blades were drawn in fiery wrath and Khumash Kull?s commands for his men to calm themselves went unheeded as the multitude hurled themselves at each other around Doloria and her cross, suddenly finding themselves at the eye of the storm around them.

Even the conqueror himself was not spared, cut down by three lieutenants striking together in answer to their long-unvoiced grievances with him.  When the chaos ebbs, only one badly wounded thug remained standing, though barely; too injured and weary to do anything but clasp at his punctured belly, limp away from the fallen village and the throngs of felled brigands to hide in the woodland and heal, he did just that.

With her beaten and broken feet still wet with blood, urine and worse, Doloria strained against the ropes binding her ankles to feebly grasp the hilt and pommel of a shortsword with her toes, tugging it from its wound in the corpse of a brigand who had collapsed at her feet.  With no small difficulty, she manipulated the blade between the toes and the balls of her two callused bare feet, pinking and cutting the ropes around her ankles until they yielded.  A surge of hope and vitality washed through her, and with sudden strength she lifted her legs high and over herself, the shortsword still clasped between her ten toes, which twisted the blade and angled it at her left wrist in turn?.

After the prolonged trial of patiently cutting herself free, Doloria fell from the cross and doubled over in prayer, grateful for her deliverance and sorely relieved to be alive to speak of her ordeal.  Feeding herself from the brigands? rations and finding a salvageable bed in the half-burned house which was once home to a family of her neighbors, she slept near to two days and two nights, then slowly made her way to the coast, to a city that was host to a temple to the god whom she credited with her salvation.

Having ascended from her state of acolyte to become now a priestess to Ilmater the Broken God, Doloria includes in her prayers and devotions the periodic invitation for her faithful and her fellow clergyfolk to crucify her again on whatever cross, tree or beam she has prepared in remembrance of the tortures which led her to Ilmater, hanging there in prayer and confession, singing hymns and calling out out to the god whom she trusts with her deliverance, until her parish sees fit to release her from the cross come the next day and ask that she return to her duties.

Her people may often be concerned for her well-being and her state of mind, yet Ilmater has always rewarded her faith with enough lent health and fortitude to endure her self-imposed castigations.  And so her periodic ritual of devotion continues.