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| Akalu; A Slave Unchained | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Aug 4 2016, 11:51 AM (32 Views) | |
| Leuna | Aug 4 2016, 11:51 AM Post #1 |
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General Information![]() Name: Akalu. It should mean moon if they remember right. Age: Looks to be around thirty. Gender: Male. Race: Wood Elf. Faith: None. Height: 5'8'' Weight: ? Occupation: None Residence: ? History and Advanced Info Appearance: Akalu is a somewhat short wood elf, his build suggesting a life of constant work and hardship, wiry and hard to the touch. His hair is kept long with one or two decorative pieces of carved wood sticking out of the back, and his beard is braided into a fine goatee. He has eyes that are always half-closed, like he's thinking of life in general, or perhaps is just tired. Akalu tend to go shirtless when he can, with a pair of loose pants worn on the lower half of his body. If he needs to don a shirt he has a fur jacket he can easily wear. Personality: Akalu is somewhat reserved, a bit uncomfortable with trusting people, seeming like he's always waiting for something to go wrong. Despite this though he has almost childlike curiosity, eagerly wanting to learn and experience new things. Combat/Magic Skills: Is known to use void magic. Relationships: No so far. History: CHAPTER ONE: A CHILD NAMED IRO No matter the time or place, it seems that life will always take a specific path. Girl meets boy, girl falls in love with boy, girl fucks boy, and girl gets knocked up. For Iro’s parents it certainly wasn’t any different, and they soon found themselves blessed with a rather excitable little bundle of joy. The child grew well and was the center of their parent’s world. They basked in the undivided attention that was given to them, enjoying the way that they were pampered at every turn. At around five years of age they were given a pet horse, a brown creature that they adored even more so than their parents adored them, and as they continued in their growth the horse was there to keep them company. However most good things tend to come to an end, and for Iro it was no different. Several years after their birth their parents had more children, two sets of twins in addition to another child, five younger ones that Iro was now expected to look after and nurture. Soon enough their parents attention had shifted from them to their new siblings. Now there were a number of ways that the child could have responded to the sudden shift in attention they were experiencing, and there were certainly more reasonable ways that it could have been resolved in, but the child was not used to being ignored and in a fit of misdirected hurt sought to run away from the only home they knew. One night after tucking in their siblings the child packed their possessions, mounted their horse and fled, set on finding somewhere where they would be appreciated. A few hours later however their resolve was fading, weakened by an empty stomach and the darkness that had quickly set in, they had only meant to prove a point after all, they couldn’t actually fathom leaving their family behind. Unfortunately for them times were just as unfriendly back then as they are now, if not more so. It only took a wrong turn for their journey to be ended by a rock to their head, and an arrow to their horse’s. The child’s parents awoke the next day to an emptier house and no horse, they searched for some time and eventually found a trail, but when they came to where the child was knocked out they found nothing there. As time passed the memory of their lost child, along with any chance of them returning, grew faint. The parents learned to live with their loss and in future paid more attention to their remaining children, becoming rather protective and paranoid of them. CHAPTER TWO: A SLAVE NAMED PISS The life of a slave is not an easy one. One must get used to coming when called, to getting beatings for no apparent reason, to having one’s body pawed over by the master if he or she wishes, to being violated in unimaginable ways. There are ways to cope however, no matter how much they hurt you when awake they couldn’t hurt your dreams. Thus dreaming was a form of universal escape for the down-trodden and the oppressed, but what happens when even your dreams cannot keep the darkness away. This was the unfortunate lot of one particularly abused slave whom had been “affectionately” named Piss, their owner said it made them feel closer to the slave. Piss’s lot was exceptionally poor for their dreams only served to make them curse their luck, to make them wonder why they ever thought of fleeing the safety of their home. Piss would fall asleep silently swearing and wake mumbling profanities, anything above a whispered curse usually got them a backhand for their troubles. Their owner was especially vindictive, an upper class beauty that liked to take out her stress on her slaves, for someone so elegant her temper was ugly and Piss would often bear the brunt of her rage. Escaping and overpowering her would have been easy, but all slaves were fitted with collars that chocked on command, Piss had borne witness to fellow slaves enduring slow deaths for some conceived fault. So such was the life of Piss and soon the life that they once knew faded away, forgotten even in their dreams. As the months passed Piss grew to fit their role rather well, learning to avoid the Mistress and predict her moods, but as time went on the Mistress began to exhibit rather troubling behavior, even by the standards of slave traders. She took an interest in the more magical aspects of life, and began to purchase trinkets, spell books and talismans. She would play host to various gatherings, muttering spells under her breath among cloaked associates. Piss for the whole part was rather undisturbed by the gatherings, they served to distract the Mistress from the usual beatings she dealt out. Then slaves started disappearing. It wasn’t noticeable at first. Slaves that were unruly always tended to be killed and the Mistress was known for being picky, but even some well-behaved slaves had gone missing. The Mistress had also taken to having her meetings in the cellar, and would often remerge tired and smelling strongly of blood, her clothes stained at the edges. While the life of a slave wasn’t comfortable, it was still life, and Piss had grown rather attached to their life in particular. So Piss bided their time and waited, fading into the background, staying out of the way, mercifully being ignored by the Mistress. They agreed with all the Mistress said and did, no matter what she suggested or did to the other slaves, it was the only to survive. Time passed and the Mistress grew to tolerate, even trust Piss, eventually raising them to the rank of a high slave and relinquishing the slave collar. They were still a slave however, and the Mistress continued to treat them like such. It was sometime when Piss entered their early twenties that the Mistress began to introduce them to her way of life. She would take Piss down to the cellar to watch, as she and her cohorts would dismember and carve up various subjects. Piss would often watch fellow slaves beg as they were experimented on while still living, or be subdued and merely weep silently as they awaited their own end. Soon enough Piss was made to take part in the rituals, learning how to torture and subdue fellow slaves, muttering secret words under their breath and watching flesh warp itself as the parodied loyalty to the cause. They once made the mistake of resisting an order to torture a fellow slave, early into their initiation. The Mistress killed the slave anyway, then repeatedly broke and healed Piss over the course of several days. After the incident Piss killed and tortured whenever they were ordered, it was far easier than hoping to incur the Mistresses wrath once more. Ten years and innumerable slaves passed until Piss was deemed a true child of the cause. They were raised from their prior rank of slave to second-in-command of the budding cult, they were reborn Watcher. CHAPTER THREE: A CULTIST NAMED WATCHER Over time Watcher had begun digging into the cult’s history, using their position as a trusted second-in-command to acquire information. They soon found out that theirs was relatively new group, formed to pursue the change of immortality. It wasn’t exactly clear what the cult worshipped, only that it was as old and manipulative as it was powerful, in Watchers opinion the cult was playing with around with powers they didn’t understand. Still for all their reservations they stayed with the cult and rose in magical power and aptitude, save for the Mistress there was no one who could measure up with them in terms of power. For all their power Watcher never changed much, always in the background, never questioning the orders of their Mistress. They were the ideal cultist, a subdued loyal beast. Unfortunately the years had not been as kind to the Mistress as they had been to Watcher, and while she still ruled their little cabal she was growing frail. She had tampered with volatile forces during her youth, striking bargains with various powers and carrying out their wills. Now after years of have great power at her beck and call, her body was finally paying the price. She was a wizened old woman barely able to walk without the aid of a strong cane, requiring aid to eat and bathe herself. The Mistress was beginning to fall, while Watcher continued to rise in reputation. As the Mistress grew more unsuitable to lead the cabal, Watcher began taking a more active role in the proceedings of the cult. Watcher began actually leading the rituals, talking to the various cultists and gaining their trust, performing favors where they were needed without question. Soon enough majority of the cult was behind Watcher and against the wishes of the Mistress, Watcher was allowed to take part in rituals that were usually prior only to the Mistress. Watcher while still technically second-in-command, was widely regarded to share dual leadership with the Mistress, a fact that annoyed the woman greatly. However the cult was behind Watcher, and she couldn’t do much to prevent them from ruling alongside her. Watcher had risen above the rank of her subordinate and become her equal, a fact that scared the Mistress greatly. One month after their rise to co-leadership Watcher called for a commune with their god, inviting the entire cult to spend the next few days in the Mistresses cellar performing rituals to become closer to the deity. The Mistress opposed the plan. Watcher had not come to seek her guidance before announcing the proposed commune and the timing for the commune was too early, their god usually gave them signs when it required sacrifices. However the Mistresses reach had been stunted over the years, transferred seemingly to Watcher instead, and the majority of the cult rallied behind Watcher in their decision. The Mistress was overruled. In an attempt to save face she offered slaves up for the sacrifice, but could not be persuaded to take part in the commune. The Mistress stayed above ground while the rest of the cult descended into the depths of the cellar. The commune went rather smoothly for the cultists. Slaves provided were strong enough to withstand torture needed to lead up to the rituals, there was an abundance of refreshments, and the tools they were given were in almost pristine conditions. When it came time for their acting leader to perform the final sacrifice however, Watcher was nowhere to be found. The interrupted ritual woke their vengeful god and it lashed out at them, slaying them in great numbers and capturing the survivors to torment. Their screams echoed all over the underground room, reaching the surface in eerie discord. The Mistress was in her bedchambers sleeping when she heard the cries of her cultists. She hobbled towards the doors of her room and with difficulty drew it open, her people were in danger and she intended to help them. Before she could cross the doorway a chair slammed into her face, she fell to the ground and spat out some bloody teeth but her attacker continued, kicking her cruelly in her stomach and sending the withered old woman flying to the foot of her bed. She lay there in a small puddle of her own blood and sick for some minutes before she gathered the strength to look at her attacker. When she did finally raise her feeble head, she saw two eyes gazing at her out of the darkness, and she knew. She knew that Watcher had come for her. The Mistress died shortly after dawn, and Watcher died with her. The person that stepped out of that room was not Watcher, not Piss, not Iro. With the Mistresses death had gone their identity, and now they were lost, unable to reconcile and find their past selves. They walked slowly, out of the house, out of the town and into the world. |
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8:32 PM Jul 10