AN: Price of Freedom was an experiment for me. Really, I was trying to see if I could take on the challenge of making a story that was more than just a few chapters. I centered it around a character that I had rolled but had little desire to play, and I figured that if I could create a reason for her to exist, maybe I would play her more.

What had started as just a small challenge for me snowballed into something that was kept alive by people prodding me, bringing me into their stories and worlds, and helping my character grow in ways that I didn't completely think would happen at the first. In the course of the year it took to write this (I started in September of 2009, and the final chapter was posted September 2010), I made many friends, and had the joy of not only watching my character grow, but myself as well.

This was my first attempt at a long story. That said, there are some inconsistencies with the lore surrounding the characters, and some things that make very little sense. I have taken the reviews from my first posting of this to heart and have applied them to my current project (By Fang and Spell), but Price of Freedom will forever remain my precious project that I poured my heart and soul into. It will be the one that I have learned the most from, and will continue to grow beyond. I am not afraid to say that I made mistakes, nor that I took liberties with how some things might work.

With all of that out of the way, I must put a warning on this particular story. This is not a story for children or those who are easily triggered. The content of this story can be, at times, incredibly brutal and graphic. I left very little to the imagination on purpose, because I wanted people to feel for the characters in a way that I couldn't do normally. This story includes sex (though I have removed most of the fanservice...), both in consent and non-consent form. There is mutilation and death. There is romance and jealousy. There is irrational behavior and sanity. There is mental, physical and emotional abuse. I really cannot stress enough that this is not a story for those looking for the bright and bubbly.

Still, it is my hope that others will enjoy this story in their own way. That's all I truly want.

~ Jessica Grammer


Silvermoon was alive even at the early hours of the morning, when the sun had not yet pulled its way over the towers and spires that the blood elves were so proud of. In darkened corners, drunken males courted chained succubi, and traders made quick with their auctions of dangerous tomes, forbidden reagents, and soft flesh. One could find anything they desired along the streets of Murder Row, provided they had what was required.

Even the catacombs beneath the city, an area unknown but to few, there was activity. Gentle snores could be heard from behind doors, the rooms inhabitants cradled in their own seperate dreams like children during Winter's Veil. In these halls resided those in the Cult, and it was there where Ashadel rested, curled up atop a chair that she had pulled into one corner of the large main room. A softly glowing blue orb hung above the female, the only light in the long empty room.

Her eyes were closed, knees hugged to her chest as she dozed, for that was clearly what she was doing. No peaceful sleep like those behind the locked doors, no soft dressing gowns or elegant robes; just hand-tooled leather that embraced a figure of average size and proportion, rich red hair cropped to just beneath her jaw falling over one eye, her pale skin looking almost sickly beneath the blue hue of the orb's light.

It was that orb that brought the woman from her doze, the light increasing as it dropped in front of her nose and bobbed there until it was snatched in a blur of motion. Ashadel waited for a moment, opening one fel-green eye before releasing the orb, which only seemed to resume it's bobbing after moving out of arms reach. Slender ears twitched, listening to the darkened halls before she unfolded herself and stretched, her back arching as she glanced towards the bed-quarters.

"S'pose it's time to go, hmm?" The orb pulsed in response, bobbing as if nodding. "Fine. I'll go then. Stay near Master's room, will you? Don't go near the tea kettle, either." The last words were more of a grumble as she stood, blinking in the sudden darkness that surrounded her as the orb blinked out of sight. She took a moment to adjust, crouching beside the chair and pulling a tunic and leggings made from grey cloth from her satchel, one hand already working the ties of the tunic she had slept in.

Neela's orb caught her attention, blinking a few times down the corridor it had disappeared. Her eyes rolled when she realized the message it was trying to send. Having found the wrong room, it was describing the tauren bull that had been initiated earlier in the evening, and was seemingly amusing itself by describing just how little his loincloth really covered.

Ashadel muttered something about perverts as she straightened, drawing her tabard and then her tunic up and over her head, fingers sliding along the silken fabric of the first before she set it on the chair and made with taking off her leggings.

The orb had been her sister's, a gift from her father at her coming of age ceremony. Where Ash had received her own elven horse, her frail younger sister had been gifted with an item that was not only brimming with magic, but would easily be able to alert her mother and father in the event something had gone wrong. Neither of them had ever bothered asking exactly what the orb was. In their childish years, it was enough for it to just be theirs.

The memories of her family brought a sad smile to her lips as she pulled the cloth tunic over her head, pausing as she heard something move in the area near her. Eye narrowed, she stared at the spot before pulling the cloth leggings up and over her shapely rear and hips, tucking the tunic in and securing it all with a black sash. Her hand reached for the tabard that had become almost a necessary staple for her attire in the last few days, but with a shake of her head she withdrew and left it folded on the chair.

"Blue." Her whispered word was answered by the orb as it blinked back into existence above her head, bobbing and swaying like a child rocking on their heels. "You're to stay out of sight, is that clear? No peeking in on anyone, and no causing trouble. In fact, forget the Master. I want you to stay right here, and guard these." She gestured a hand to the tabard, her satchel, and swords that had been propped against the wall. "Am I understood?" The orb blinked again, that happy bobbing halting as it lowered a bit, seeming almost sad. The rogue shook her head, still looking stern. Defeated, the orb disappeared, in a fit of ghostly blue light.

"Tempermental piece of magic..." Ash grumbled as she made her way out of the catacombs, sticking to the shadows as she came up level to the streets of Silvermoon. In the pre-dawn hours, the city was as dangerous to a woman walking alone as being a rabbit in front of a starving bear was. Ash sucked in her breath as a succubus strode by with a male on a leash, the demon smirking coyly at the rogue that had attempted to hide in the street corners.

"Come play with us, darling?" The succubus practically oozed with ill intent, crooking a finger towards the woman while the leashed male kept his gaze on his captor's alluring curves. Ashadel grimaced, waving a hand in dismissal. "Take your pet and begone, demon. You have nothing I lust after." The demon narrowed her eyes before turning away, brushing her hair back from her face and flouncing away, dragging the helpless male after her. Ashadel watched her go before setting out herself, making no noise as she entered the spire that held the orb that would aid her in the first part of her journey.


Westfall was... well, the same as always. Roland considered the golden-hued land with a distant gaze, his mind more on what this place meant for him than what beauty it held. His hand raised to push black hair from his eyes, scanning the horizon with but a small glance before he turned and entered the home whose doorstep he had spent the last few minutes on.

The small home was more of a shack than anything, a two room building that was almost entirely bare save for a bed in one room, and a table in the other. Regardless, it was the walls that held the most interest. Whips hung from iron hooks, varying in length, material, and thickness. Above the bed itself were secured a set of chains, iron manacles hanging from each end while the middle was designed to spin. The table was littered with other instruments, some that didn't even look like something you would find in a Scarlet Interrogation chamber, let alone out of the mind of an insane man. Various potions and bowls of curious paste were set beside the items, a few of them bubbling or writhing.

Roland's steel-colored eyes went to the chains above the bed, a wicked grin crossing his lips as he stroked his beard in thought. "Michael." He was answered by a young man in the clothes of a cleric, who peeked around the wall that divided the first room with the bedroom. "I'm going to want more rope. The roughest you can find, and be quick about it. I have a feeling she'll be here soon." The youth bowed his head and left the home, leaving Roland to gaze at a picture that was easily ignored because of its placement next to the door. "Melanie... my love." He smiled fondly at the image of a blonde-haired human woman, before his eyes fell to the two elven females at her knee.

The sound of footsteps woke him from his reverie, his eyes darting about when he realized Michael had not been the one to make the noise. No, Michael disliked leather, and these were most certainly the sound of leather on wood. The hairs bristled on the back of his neck, and yet he remained... waiting, staring at the picture intently.

What happened next was a blur, the subtle sound of cloth folding across cloth his only warning; he sidestepped, reaching out a hand and gripping the wrist that had appeared, squeezing until a grunt of pain was accompanied by the clang of a weapon being dropped to the floor. There was a pause, that grunt becoming a whimper as he squeezed that fragile wrist again before pulling, slamming Ashadel against the wall with such force that the picture dropped, glass shattering across the floor.

"Look at that, Ash... you broke them again." His words were low, laced with a dark taunt as he pushed her hand to the broken glass, relishing that whimper of pain as blood flowed over the destroyed painting. "You broke them again... and now they're bleeding." That grin formed again at the look of utter fear that had appeared in those fel-green eyes, becoming ever more malicious at the shaking of her head that she had begun. "Don't lie. They died because of you... you killed them." His hand released her wrist only to come up to her hair, gripping it tightly and raising her up only to throw her against the wall.

"Get up, bitch." He growled as she lay there, hatred showing plainly in those eyes. That would change, and it would change quickly. His gaze went to the wall, hand lifting to unhook one of the whips that had been hung. It was his favorite, this one. Blackened leather, a firm handle... and a tip of silver. He watched her eyes widen, those lips open with what would no doubt be a plead for him to stop. "Get. Up." Amazing how quickly one moves when they are faced with pain, he mused.

Roland watched her pull herself up, watched her move away and into a corner. He liked this. He loved the smell of her fear, and she was so very frightened. Her sister had been the same way... so exotic, her mewls of pleasure and pain so sweet. This one wasn't so lucky... pleasure had killed her sister, and so she was left with pain. That, at least, was something he was good at. "Strip." The female merely glared at him, that glare transforming to shock and pain as the whip lashed out, splitting the cloth of her tunic wide open and leaving a welt on the soft flesh beneath it. "I said strip."

"No." He was amused at that word. Amused at how hard it seemed for her to say it, the woman having to force it out of herself. His amusement ended as she dashed towards him. A single word, a single thought, and he was behind her. Fingers reached out to grab her hair and twist, bringing her once again to the floor. "Strip." It was a guttural command, accompanied by a jerking of her hair that brought a hiss of pain to his ears as shaking hands tore the tunic from her chest. What he saw – or in this case, didn't see – there infuriated him.

"Healed! I told you to leave those marks on your flesh, whore." He dropped to his knees beside her, roughly taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to look at him, noting the look of confusion apparent in her eyes. "My brand, my marks. They are gone," he hissed, "and I will so enjoy bringing them back." Releasing her chin, he struck her hard, watching her lay still for a moment before he reached for the wrappings that held her breasts, tearing them easily.

"That was our deal, Little Fawn. You would come to me twice a week, bearing my marks, and my brand. What happened to them? Did my little wench go crying to a healer?" His knee came down on the side of her face, pinning her beneath his weight as one large hand grabbed roughly at one of her breasts, squeezing until she cried out, and only then did he release it, sliding his hand down to her hip. "Did you think I wouldn't notice? You're almost brand new... I can't see a single mark on you." The last three words dipped into a dark whisper as he pulled the cloth leggings down, sliding a hand between her milky thighs. "I wonder..."

She began to squirm, a new sort of fear gripping her, and he grinned, reaching up to the table and dragging down a cloth that he pressed to her face, her struggles slowing, and finally stopping. Footsteps at the door drove his eyes away from her body, gazing upon Michael with a sadistic smile on his lips. "Bind her, chain her. I need to make one more preparation..."


Ashadel woke to pain, knowing without even bothering to glance up that her hands were chained above her head in the iron shackles. Her hair dropped over her eyes as she hung her head, eyes closed against the dull ache that had begun to creep into her arms.

"Neela? What do you do when the world seems dark?"

Her ears twitched at the sound of a footstep in the room, the slow shift of someone sitting on the bed rousing her. Michael looked at her, those deep blue eyes filled with a sadness that no man should ever have to know. To comfort him, she tried to smile... tried so very hard, but it was useless. Her eyes dropped again as he reached out to tuck crimson hair behind an ear, mouthing the words he couldn't speak.

"I'm sorry."

This time, she did smile. It only lasted for a few moments, but it was enough. Michael's eyes seemed to light up as he leaned forward to push scarred lips to her cheek and leave the room. She found herself drifting back to sleep, content to use the rest to keep her mind off the growing ache.

"Neela? What do you do?"

The press of something warm and hard to her lips brought her from her doze. Her wrists had been unbound, the circulation pushing the familiar feeling of pins and needles through her arms and fingers. Out of habit, she turned away, only to be struck across the face with such force that her lip split.

"We've got a long night ahead of us, Little Fawn. A very long night indeed." Roland's voice was like steel, cutting through the fogginess of her mind with ease and at last giving her something to focus on. Her eyes met his, and he grinned, mocking the hate within them. "You can look at me like that all you like." he leaned down, winding fingers in her hair and tilting her head to the side to bare her neck to him, his free hand grabbing one of her breasts in his hand and squeezing, kneading the flesh with such force that it brought a whimper from her lips. "Tell me, Little Fawn..."

"How do you get away, Neela?"

"... Will you be able to even stand when I'm done with you? Why don't we find out?" Roland practically purred into her ear as she squirmed, his fingers tightening their hold on both hair and breast until she quit moving, his lips trailing down her neck and collarbone. "Your sister loved it when I did this, did you know? I could show you..."

"Bastard!" The rogue gave him a shove, surprising him enough that he toppled back. Ash fled for the door, the sharp crack of leather on her back sapping both air and strength from her as she collapsed to her knees. Roland merely grinned, dropping the whip he had hidden at the foot of the bed and crossing his arms.

"Stand up." He growled as she ignored him, repeating the command. "Stand up, now." When she refused the second time, he strode towards her, striking the lash mark with his hand as he gripped her arm with the other, lifting her onto the bed and moving her so he could chain her wrists. Roland smirked as she glared at him, glared with all of the force of a lioness in a cage. His fingers crept from her hands and down her arms, gliding over the swell of her breasts as his mouth lowered to one nipple, tongue slowly trailing over the nub while his hands fell further south.

"I imagine I'm somewhere else, Asha. Somewhere I feel safe, or with someone who makes me feel safe."

Ashadel groaned, her chest arching up against his mouth only to be greeted by a sharp pain as he nipped the flesh as a warning, his fingers now sliding up the flesh of her thigh and lightly tickling her mons with their tips. Probing fingers slid along her, tempting and teasing, but with malicious intent in mind.

"... someone who makes me feel safe."

She could feel the mage's work happening as numbness began to flood her lower body, knowing that soon she would only feel pain, sensitive areas robbed of what made these acts feel good. Yet, even knowing this, she glanced down at Roland, for just a brief moment seeing another Master in her life. One that was quite far away at the moment, but if she could just think about him...

Roland shifted, and her thoughts were shattered as he pulled his robe from around him, gripping her hair in one hand as he guided her lips to his groin. "Bite, and you'll be begging for death from Arthas himself." He growled as she turned her head away, yanking it back into place and pressing himself against her lips again.

Ash looked up at him, every muscle in her body screaming against her as she opened her mouth, nearly choking as he pushed himself in without any ceremony. Eyes half-closed, it was easier for her to replace the two males. In her mind, human became blood elf as easily as night into day, and she found herself more willing to service Roland while she was thinking of another.

The mage noticed one of her hands moving in its shackle, as if wanting to be released. A cruel grin crossed his lips as he opened his mouth to deny her, whatever words he planned on saying absent, replaced by a throaty moan as he felt her tongue work. The clinking of the shackle became an irritant, and he snapped his fingers, the metal screws falling away so she was still cuffed, but free to do what she seemed to want to do, his eyes watching her like a hawk.

Freedom. Her weight shifted as she gripped his manhood in one hand, fingers curling in her hair while her tongue danced circles along the sensitive skin. When he moved to pull away, she fought him, gripping his thigh until he pulled her hair, bending her over and motioning for her to turn around.

She did, even going so far as to part her legs, leaning forward and reaching between her thighs to run a finger along herself. This was no longer Roland behind her, no longer the tormenter dragging his nails along her back and thrusting into her with one swift move. It was another Master, another male taking her and using her... and as long as it was him, it didn't seem so bad anymore. Even if she couldn't feel pleasure, even if all she felt was pain? She didn't care as long as it was him whispering her name in her ear, calling her foul names and praising how she felt around him.

Ashadel let her head fall forward into the sheets of the bed, biting her lip against the pain as each movement slammed against her cervix, each withdrawal hitting an unfeeling bundle of nerves as the male plowed into her, leaning forward to bite her shoulder and let out a rumbling growl that only served to spur her into action, forcing herself back against him, meeting his thrusts and letting him know it, her whimpering quickly becoming cries through which even tears had begun to fall.

"Such a dirty little girl like you should be beaten." His hands gripped her waist, slamming her back against him, forcing another cry of pain out of her. "You act like you don't want it, but you do. You love being taken like the wench you are." He struck her ass with his hand, continuing twice more until the cheek was red.

I'm so sorry, Master Sunsorrow. Please forgive me...

Roland stopped moving, digging his nails into her hips as he withdrew from her, giving her only a faint breath as he sank himself to the hilt in her ass, the shock rendering her stunned, and very nearly slipping a name that was at this time best not said. Yet in her mind, that name was ringing quite strong as she envisioned him entwining his fingers in her hair, slipping a hand along her chest to grip a breast and tease its peak, his dark voice commanding her to scream, to moan, to whimper. Under his command, not Roland's... she did so, just before a bright shock of pain pulled her fantasy, and world from her.


The streets of Silvermoon were busy, as they always were. Her tunic and leggings destroyed, she had purchased a simple dress from a kind woman in the Undercity before taking the orb back to her race's capital. Ashadel's eyes were on the floor, each step taken gingerly, doing everything she could not to jar herself too much and bring a fresh wave of pain.

She had called for him. By accident, she had called for him and paid the price. There wasn't a single part of her body that wasn't in pain, though Michael had done all he could to ease as much as possible. Her left hip once again bore that brand, her back and arms covered in welts that had been healed enough to keep from being infected. A shudder ran through her as she remembered the tears Michael had shed as he bathed her in the ocean, just as much a slave to this torment as she was.

"Looks like you had fun, sweetie." The familiar voice of the succubus from the night before filtered to her, the demon content on a ledge with a new male sliding his fingers over her snatch. Ash could only nod meekly. Someone had fun... but it certainly hadn't been her.

The catacombs were silent as she entered them, the torches still lit in the main room. She fully expected to see someone there, but there was no one. Except Blue.

The orb blinked and darted around her as she entered the room, coming close enough to brush her cheek where a tear had begun to fall. The rogue sat down, eyes on the fabric of the dress that was stretched across her knee. For a moment, her gaze went to the rooms where the rest of the Cult was no doubt sleeping... and despite the tears, she smiled.

"The price of freedom, Blue. The price of freedom."