Open Let The Word Go Forth (Wikus)

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This lazy agricultural settlement rests on the swampy shores of the Middle Suvan at the delta of The Kenash River. The River's slow moving bayou waters have bred a different sort of people - rugged, cultured, and somewhat violent. Sprawling plantations of tobacco and cotton grow on the outskirts of the swamp in the rich Cyphrus soils, while the city itself curls around the bayou and spawns decadence and sins of all sorts. Life is slower in Kenash, but the lack of pace is made up for in the excesses of food and flesh in a city where drinking, debauchery, gambling, slavery, and overbearing plantation families dominate the landscape.

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Let The Word Go Forth (Wikus)

Postby Konrad Venger on April 3rd, 2016, 4:21 am

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45th Day of Spring, 516AV || The Traveler's Complex


"When you work for me, your role is most often in the darkness... but for the Magistrate, sometimes it needs to be in the light."

Konrad blinked a few times and watched Janus swallow a few more mouthfuls of some wine that was rare and expensive. He needed the time to mentally break down what his contact was saying and thus commanding of him. Around him the hum of the tavern went on a good few yards from their own. Probably something to do with the two barrel-chested guards flanking their table, but Konrad was guessing The Man himself had more to do with it.

Lasher probably didn't own the tavern. Janus certainly didn't. But Lasher didn't need to. They were in the Midnight Market, and that, he most certainly did own.

"Y'need me t'do something in public, then? Something for his bro-" He caught his words as Janus' dark eyes spun to him, snake-fast and just as mean. "The Magistrate."

"That was whom you were intending to have employ you when you walked into his office, correct?"


Konrad just nodded and supped at his own ale, not wanting to answer an obvious question with anything else. Janus liked to dance around like that; it was just his way.

"Good. Then we have something for you. From the Magistrate. A slave, a runaway. Not just that, which could be handled on the plantation, but on his way out, he stole from his master and struck his mistress." The next swallow went down with a grimace. The audacity. The sheer petching gall of it all! "That requires more than just a flogging outside the manse, Mister Venger. That requires a message to be sent, and the word to go forth."

Again, Konrad stayed silent and listened. He grasped the concept, of course. The fumes in the air weren't addling his mind, no more than the raucous noise of a night-time tavern in full revelry. His eyes wandered over the drunks, toughs, whores and hustlers packed inside, if only to distract him for the moment.

They wanted him to punish this slave. All he needed to know was How and When.

"You remember the stake in the square, outside the Traveler's Complex?" He nodded. "That's where it will take place. At midday, when Syna is at his peak and the crowd will be large enough to cary the word within a bell. Dynasts, Freeborn, slaves, visitors, all that Kenash encompasses will see what you'll do."

"Y'want me to kill him?"


Janus finished his cup and didn't even need to make a gesture before it was refilled. The owner was far too sharp - and intimidated - not to keep the Lord of the Midnight Market fully satisfied at all times. He took another sip and his words were as casual as ever.

"Eventually. But not immediately. Remember-"

"Aye,"
Konrad said as he sipped his ale, drawing Janus' gaze as he drew out the pause. "Let the word go forth, right?"

"Exactly, Mister Venger."


++++++++++


It was the next morning and a bell before midday and Konrad was standing in front of an unfamiliar door. But the man behind it was less so. They'd only met twice. The first, he'd watched him murder a man with his bare hands, and he'd been impressed. The second, he'd weaved enough bullshyke around his impressionable head that he'd realized the man was so desperate to belong, to be directed, that with the right push in the right places, he could be Konrad's dog sure as Three Eyes was.

Speaking of which, he made a note to roust the little bastard from his hole after the business outside. But for now, all he needed was Wikus.

He rapped on the door and listened for a while... then concluded the wild-eyed and wilder-minded beast of a man was in his cups and pounded on the bastard instead. Konrad had pondered a use for Wikus. Something that could aid him, enhance his own tasks, but also bind the man further to him. It was a strange thought process. Konrad did not often guide his plotting in such a way, but with Wikus, he felt the need.

There's something about him, he mused as he waited. Something I saw in the road, that was bigger and grander... and useful. Very useful.

Especially today.


His hand tightened around the thing he'd brought with him. Wikus had a whip with him, and he'd seen the man use it. Quite well, in fact. Konrad was eager to see what Wikus could do against the bare, staked flesh of a defiant slave. How long it would take, how many lashes he would need to batter the attitude and spirit out of him.

But it'll look better without his pants around his ankle.

Hence the belt he was holding, which was, technically, a gift. He was not expecting anything back from it, save service already promised. Konrad was not in the habit of accepting those as currency, but Wikus was a special case. Everything in his eyes, his expression, the fission of his body in that diner... it all spoke of a man begging to be led.

To be unleashed.

He'd picked up the belt on the way, and spent a little longer than usual getting such a simple accessory. He'd looked for something... unique. A handful of chimes extra, and you could find something that fit, that would be remembered.

"Presentation an' reputation", he murmured to himself, shooting a quick, hot glare at a passing traveler who gave him a curious look as he passed. Slow footsteps became much quicker after that. "Taz was right about that, the piece a' shyke."

His thumb rubbed the leather of the belt as he waited, and rubbed across the knobbly, shiny metal buckle at the end of it.

In the shape of a snarling bear.

Receipt-1gm for a belt with a bear buckle
Last edited by Konrad Venger on April 18th, 2016, 3:41 am, edited 2 times in total.

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Let The Word Go Forth (Wikus)

Postby Wikus on April 4th, 2016, 2:46 pm

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45th Spring 516 AV
11th Bell




Locked in his room as if afraid of the world, Wikus focused on his carving. Malediction was a magic he liked and enjoyed, despite the dangers Kiva had described him. It allowed him to focus his efforts in carving a bone instead of worrying, and it was similar to meditation without wasting one’s time. The woodcarver’s kit was mostly unused, as Wikus didn’t know what most of the tools were for. Instead, he only used one of the finest chisels, repeating the pattern over and over again to deepen it and immortalize it into the bone. In a way, it was the closest he could consider to leaving something behind. Nobody would take the time to bury him or toss him in a pyre otherwise. He was probably going to wither into the earth without nobody nothing but the maggots that were to claim the remains of his flesh. It was okay, he thought. Wikus had assumed his fate long ago, and it didn’t bother him to think about it. Just like everyone else in this world, a woman shat him out into this void of existence and let him alone to try and survive. It still surprised him how someone could smile and laugh after the ultimate curse that was life.


Running the chisel again and again through the circle, slowly he was including more strength to deepen the circle. After all, if it faded away it lost its power. He had been working on the same bone for a while now, and thus the pattern was almost complete. The bone he was using had an unknown origin, having found it on one of the roads that went around the swamp. It seemed to belong to some sort of large animal, as the bone itself was quite large and thus easy to work with. Within the circle he had drawn a bull’s head with its horns, quite badly as his skill with drawing was… disturbingly low. However it may be, it was just a test for him. Blowing into the bone to remove the bone dust that could obstruct the final result, he moved by the window and used the light to inspect the result. Squinting, he ran his gaze through the pattern to see how it looked. It seemed complete, indeed, despite the lack of talents and the messy pattern carved into the bone. Shrugging, Wikus moved to retrieve a small knife that was included with the room. Making a cut in his finger, enough to draw blood, he’d press around the wound to cause a few droplets to fall down, placing the malediction circles below it and make sure the droplets bathed in blood said circles.


Just like that, it was complete. As Kiva said, there was no flash nor explosion when it all happened. In fact, there was no reaction whatsoever. Inspecting the maledicted item, Wikus waved it around to see if there was something different. He jumped in place, threw a kick into the air, and even threw a head butt into the air to see if there was something different about him. Nothing felt different. Sighing, he tossed the bone into the bed, just as someone knocked on the door. Wikus wasn’t expecting anyone, salve perhaps an angry mob coming to hang him and burn him alive just as they tried to do up north a few winters back. However, he would’ve heard the yells and seen the torches through the windows, which somewhat calmed him down. Heading to the door, he’d open it harshly to reveal his usual and certainly unwanted nudity. Konrad, the man whom needed a foot soldier, was there. His usual hat, his disgusting features and those eyes proper of a snake greeted him immediately, somewhat shocking Wikus’ weak mind with only his presence. Of course, his presence here meant business, and thus Wikus was immediately drawn to the idea of getting some clothes on and following him. After all, not all people enjoyed his nudity as much as he did.


Glancing down at the belt, he rose an eyebrow. Not retrieving it just yet, he instead let the door wide open, turning around and moving deep into the room to retrieve his clothing. Dressing up with the usual haste of his, without putting on any undergarments as expected, the pants was all he needed before he took his whip, his tobacco pouch and his pipe. Moving back to the door, he stood tall and firm before Konrad, like a soldier ready to obey the orders of his commander. Holding his pants up with a hand, he’d nod towards the belt. “For me? Give.” Just like that, he reached out and shamelessly attempted to take the belt from Konrad’s hand. Perhaps Konrad felt violence whenever he stared into Wikus’ attractive body, which was very likely, and thus the reason for the belt. He would’ve preferred a simple rope rather than an annoying piece of leather, yet he wouldn’t complain. If Konrad had allowed him to take the belt, Wikus would struggle to put it on and allocate each item on said belt, something that was clearly a struggle for him as he was used to the comfort of the whip around his waist. Now that the whip’s place was occupied, he wrapped the leather weapon in a circle and carried it with a hand.


“Go now.”
He’d say, eager to follow Konrad. He didn’t ask any questions, for he didn’t need to know anything unless Konrad wanted to share. That was the way he was educated, at least. Remain silent until you’re spoken to, don’t ask questions until you’re allowed to. Maybe the harsh discipline was what had alienated him from a social life, yet that was something Wikus didn’t realize. “I follow.” He’d add, in case Konrad needed more reassurance that Wikus was completely at his mercy. Certainly Wikus was desperate for leadership, proving to Konrad with his meek obedience that Konrad’s words were deeply wedged into Wikus’ mind.


Belt :
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I guess that's the end of the 'falling pants in combat' gag, haha!


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Let The Word Go Forth (Wikus)

Postby Konrad Venger on April 5th, 2016, 3:29 am

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He couldn't help it. One of those things that you just do when confronted with the site of someone, anyone, wearing nothing but a beard like a dead beaver and enough ink to fill a Penita Scroll. Konrad blinked at Wikus' bare chest and looked down-

Shyke on a-

"-petchin' 'ells, man?!" He ground out, neck snapping back up and eyes rolling with it until they'd swiveled up and away and facing back down the corridor. "Jus'... breeches, aye? Petchin' breeches?!"

Monosyllabic bastard though he was - and a few horses short of a herd, to boot - Wikus didn't take long to get dressed and try on his new gift. While he did, Konrad cast his eyes about the room... frowned at the bones with glyphs and runes carved into them, splattered with... was that-

Don't think about it. Ain't your business, not yet. Here to do a job, so do the job.

Soon the hairy lunatic was in his face again, grunting out his words with dog-eyed eagerness. Konrad favored him with a smile not entirely artificial (he was going to put him to good use, after all), and briefly squeezed his shoulder.

"Today," he said slowly, making sure the man absorbed every word, the weight of every syllable. "We give you back your purpose, my friend."

++++++++++


Garro knew he was going to die. He supposed everyone did, but he knew that it was going to be soon. As in, within the time it took for a boiling pot to cool. He fixated on that mad image as it popped into his brain, as if the absurdity could detract from the cold steel around his wrists and ankles, the baking heat on his nearly-naked body, and the smell-

It was the smell that did it. Acres of horse shit and miles of foul, sweating, rotting humanity pouring down the road and all around him. No fantasy could blot that out.

Which was a shame, because Garro would have dearly loved to die in a dream.

"Nikali," he murmured through cracked lips that had not tasted water in a day. "Watch over me. Please... watch over my wife..."

Even she could not dislodge him from this place, his wife not deity both. When Garro opened his eyes, he was still chained to the stake in the square outside the Traveler's Complex. That squat, long amalgamation of brick, wood and stone was constantly vomiting out of swallowing up travelers and transport of all kinds, wheeled and hoofed. Now it seemed the traffic slowed, and a crowd was beginning to develop, like a scab over a fresh wound, the more urgent traffic passing around it.

The slave staked out in Syna was quite a draw. Especially when the men around him looked so... intent.

Janus patted his face with a handkerchief he iced every night; by morning it was cold as glacier water, and within a few bells, sweaty and clammy as a baby's messed diaper. Gods, this endless heat. He make an impatient gesture and a slave topped up his cup with iced water while another adjusted his parasol over him so the glare would not make him squint again.

Again. It happened before. The red welt on her cheek was proof of it, and she did not wish for a matching pair.

"There you are!"

Konrad liked the look of Janus puffy, sweating and uncomfortable. The slick little sod was too smooth most of the time, too enamored with being associated with a Dynasty that he'd convinced himself he was of them. Whenever Konrad saw him now, the smile of greeting was half-real, just like the one he gave to Wikus.

Only with Janus, it was tinged and brightened with scorn, contempt, even disgust.

You're not them. You'll never be them. Not of the blood, nor the name, and try as you might, they'll never accept you. Pathetic little shyke.

"Better later n' never, aye?"

"So you... ah, who is this, Mister Venger?"


Janus studied the hulking creature trailing after Konrad like he was at a zoo and the bars had been removed without his say so. He was actually a touch shorter than Venger, but his shirtless bulk and wide shoulders made him look much larger. A beard both flowing, tangled and matted all at once hung from his face and his eyes... Janus had seen those eyes before.

Too many beatings. Too many hits of Slammer. Too many years at the bottom of a bottle. Too many, too much, too late, toodle-loo...

"This is Wikus," Konrad said, doing his best at the whole concept of polite introductions. It sounded more like a growl with less teeth. "Associate a' mine."

"You're friend, ah, Three Eyes, is he not-"

"Sleepin' in. Not really 'is thing, y'know? So Wikus 'ere's helpin' me out."


Janus blinked. Frowned. This wasn't the plan, and it wasn't on the script. "I don't see how you-"

"Trust me,"
Konrad said, and his smile was brilliant in it's sheer, bloody amusement at those two words. He took a step to his side and lifted up the coils of Wikus' whip with one hand. Janus' eyes brightened with understanding and Konrad's smile only grew. "Yer gonna."

"I... see. You remember what we discussed, I take it?"

"Course."

"Good."
Janus considered adding something more but it seemed... unnecessary. Between the two of them, he recognized the Voice and the Action ready and coiled. "Come!"

That was directed to his two slaves, along with the two jerkin-clad, sword-carrying guards from the Magistrate's Office that had escorted the slave to that place. Once this was over, they would return with his chains to be used again.

The body would stay there, for a day. So the message sent would be remembered... but then it would be gone by the morning, taken down and rendered into fats, mulch and pulp for the fields.

They weren't savages, after all. To let Zulrav and Syna and Caiyha's crawling legions eat away at a corpse over a period of days.

Perish the thought.

Konrad and Wikus waited as the Radacke stooge, his slaves and the guards were away to one side of the square, leaving them there, with the trembling, whispering man chained to the stake. Konrad savored this... calmness. This internal silence that all the questioning and worrying in the world could not touch. His footsteps were the slow, patient padding of a cat and he circled the stake a handful of times, gauging the meat awaiting him and his partner.

The slave's hands were shackled high, and so his forearms obscured part of his face... but when his praying stopped and he opened his eyes-

Green eyes. Just like Konrad's. But wet. Turgid. Soaked with tears a breath away from falling, all the softness of a life spent loving and working begging him, them, Janus, Wikus, anyone to take mercy and, if nothing else, make it quick.

Konrad smiled at him and adjusted his hat. And cleared his throat. And gave the signal to Wikus.

"Let the word... go forth... from this place... and this time!"

His voice was unused to speaking to a crowd. The first three words cracked and caught in his throat. But the pause allowed him to gulp down more air, hammer out the next two like nails into a board. People stopped and looked, more than just the waiting, already-interested crowd.

By the end of his first, booming sentence, half of the square was watching, and Konrad had no time or space to be nervous about public speaking anymore. He was already doing it-

-and on cue, Wikus' whip unfolded with a whap-whap-whap and spread out across the dust and dirt like a long, angry, hungry serpent.

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Let The Word Go Forth (Wikus)

Postby Wikus on April 7th, 2016, 8:42 pm

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Crack.


The first one always had to be the harshest. It was the first hit from the whip what broke the mind of the attacked, what shattered any remain of hope with the overwhelming pain. It was the first crack what tore the flesh in two, what opened a gash so deep and disgusting words failed to explain it. Garro chose to cower, and he received the hit with his back. It mattered none, for his spirit was to be broken wherever the fall of the whip landed. There was no need to land a precise hit with the cracker of the whip. In fact, there was no need for precision at all. The length of the whip, approximately 9 feet in total length, plus all the strength Wikus could transfer onto this first hit was enough to send Garro into the road of despair. Garros’ screams immediately came forth, as loud as he could release them, for his efforts were split between trying to numb the pain with his insufficient willpower and trying to crawl away from the post that held him prisoner. The whip laid on the ground, as if resting after lending all its power to Garro in the form of pain. It was a transaction after all, and now that Garro slowly recovered part of his senses, the whip was slowly dragged back.


Crack.


The second crack, although lighter than the first one, still tore the flesh of the target. Garro’s bubble broke, just like as his tears broke free from his eyes. His feet lost their strength and his feet danged momentarily, before once again they tried to crawl their way somewhere away from the post, away from the pain and away from the numbness in his mind. His cries regained strength, yet they lost intensity quickly as the man struggled to combine crying, panting, yelling and trying to escape. Despite the torn flesh, the blood didn’t sprout as abundantly as expected, instead the strains being thick and dense. It looked as if the substance that sprouted from his body was hidden until this moment, as if this type of blood hid deep inside him and only now saw the light in the open for the crowd to witness. Garros’ eyes could barely open, and even then they couldn’t see for they shook desperately. The pain shook them, numbing his vision as he tried to lay eyes on something that may give him some kind of hope or relief, something that in this part of the world did not exist. The wounds were slowly taking him away, lifting his spirit away from his body, stripping him from his own body as if body and soul were wedged apart.


Crack.


This once, Wikus aimed for the sole of Garro’s feet as they were exposed. The hit landed, and they too opened a gap in them. The soles were very sensitive areas, reason why they were usually covered with shoes. Wikus didn’t give him any mercy, even if the man deserved some. However, it was the peer pressure what got the best of him. Konrad’s words to the crowd, although mostly unheard by Wikus, were slowly fueling Wikus’ sadism. Janus watched, head leaned back and eyes wide open as he stared at the punished, perhaps sexually aroused over the sweet and addictive cries of Garro. The crowd was also hooked onto the feeling. Wikus could sense it, taste it despite their attempts of hiding their enjoyment below their fake expressions. They tried to hide it, they really did, some even capable of tearing up and jostling their heads away from the happening. However, their eyes never moved from the tip of the whip, and they never stopped watching the blood flowing down Garros’ body. Hypocrites they were, and they would be for the remainder of their lives. They secretly wished that fate upon this man, for it was him losing his life and not them.


Crack.


Wikus aimed higher, just below the buttocks. The strike was enough to even further break Garro. He spread his legs, unable to stand on them anymore even if he wanted, thus hanging from the pole yet again. Like a fish out of the water, even his vocabulary drowned under the pain. All the cries, all the words, the curses and the yells of pain combined into a low sob-like note, as if his mind had forgotten how to speak. Each hit made him more of a retard, slowly becoming an imbecile that knew no words, unable to cope with the punishment. Wikus was certain there was no longer any thought within his mind. He could imagine, because he had felt the harshness of a whip himself. He doubted his reasons to administer this fate upon a chained man, although with each hit he felt more in touch with the reason: he was a God to him. Wikus was the God, and Garro was the mortal. Wikus held the whip and punished the mortal, striking the life out of him and able to decide if he lived or died. He deserved no mercy, for a chained man was no longer man, but an animal. Wikus’ God had unchained him, and had granted him a gift to poison the souls of those still bound by invisible chains. Wikus wouldn’t be bound by chains no more, not when that man had given him this double-edged power. Maybe one day, the pros would out weight the cons of it.


Crack.


A hit in the gash first opened, a strike in an open wound that only worsened it. The whip was bloody already, having splattered Wikus’ bare and tattooed chest with the blood of the victim, having traced a trail on the scorching hot cobblestone below the crowd’s feet. Garro shut off, his mind simply turning off to avoid feeling all the pain that had piled into his body. He didn’t struggle as intensely, and his voice simply faded away. He wasn’t dead, yet his spirit certainly wished for a release. Was this enough? Wikus looked towards Konrad and Konrad only, looking for a sign, for a gesture. What kind of man was Konrad? His disgusting grin offered no clue. Was he a good man or a bad man? The question was beyond morality, for there was no good in this torn world. Certainly, the fate of this animal didn’t matter enough to determine a man’s alignment. Would Konrad demand mercy for the animal by letting him rot in the sunlight, for the worms to eat away at him and the spasms of Garros’ body became so intense they drained his life way? Or would he signal for more cracks, which despite bringing indescribable pain, would serve to end away the misery of the lesser being that was a slave? Wikus looked and listened, somewhat aloof from it all as instead he dwelled in the moments of wickedness that were so common in this world. Despite being his hand the one that held the whip, he considered himself innocent from it all.


After all, all those gathered here, watching and snickering deep below their horrified expressions would find their end. Wikus’ presence would rinse away the fake expressions, and instead it would bring disease to them, and cleanse all of them from existence. Those who watched would fall on their knees and suffer just like the slave did. Wikus would make sure of that, even if all he had to do is remain close to them. He would end the wickedness from this world even if he had to use wickedness itself to achieve it. A sacrifice for a greater cause.




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Let The Word Go Forth (Wikus)

Postby Konrad Venger on April 8th, 2016, 5:24 am

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The words were what had worried Konrad since he'd ben given this task. He knew Wikus could be relied on, not only because he felt beholden to Konrad but because he could see a deep and untapped well of rage and rootless resentment in the man that made violence an easy step. Would-be slave or slave tied to a chain, it wouldn't matter go him. As long as he was nudged just the right way...

But Konrad had to talk. Janus insisted. So Konrad had thought all night and resisted the urge to write it down, because, well...

Appearances. This is what it's all about. Not just punishment, or pain, but how it's presented to people. How they remember it. That's the words, too... and it don't look good having some bastard reading off scraps of paper!

"This slave! Has committed a great crime against Kenash!"

He started slow and simple. More volume than fanciness. Get people's attention and don't let your voice crack, that was the best advice for the moment. As he spoke he walked back and forth before the man being whipped, making sure he was out of range of that evil, cracking serpent Wikus was wielding with relish.

"Not only did he run from his masters! He struck one of them! A lady of his house! As he fled, and thieved from them!"

He looked around and saw a flutter of hands go to mouths, a murmur of shock ripple and then evaporate in the baking glare. The Dynasts in the crowd looked scandalized, fit to faint, and Konrad's brain wondered what city this was, where talk of a woman being struck could cause such shock, but the sight of a slave being whipped to death was just street theater.

One like Sunberth, he concluded as he finished his pause. Only with a thick layer of shine over the shyke.

"So! Before the gods and the people of Kenash! The Magistrate has ordered this criminal-" He threw out his arm and pinned the slave in his glare, lash of the whip laying the man open as he screamed and writhed. "-will face the punishment he deserves!"

He paused again, gauged the crowd. Saw the multitude of slaves there, of course. Six out of ten Kenashians was owned by the other four, so in any regular crowd of the street, there were sure to be plenty of them. They accepted the sight with the same, dead-eyed detachment that Konrad has seen in slaves countless times back home. They understood the way the world really worked, when you were helpless in it. The man in front of them just confirmed their opinion... at least that was the idea.

Konrad thought he saw jaw muscles tensing. Eyes narrowing. Lips pressed into hard, white lines of outrage. Mayhap the sight today would do as the Magistrate intended. Mayhap it would only lead to fresh offences.

Regardless, he still had a speech to make.

Gods, a petching speech. For this I moved halfway across the sodding world?!

"A loyal slave is a well-kept slave! A loyal slave will be cared for! Protected! Valued!" He spoke the words and didn't believe a petching word, but that was hardly new for him. Saying them to a crowd, though... that was harder. What, you think they'd be fooled if it was someone else? "But those that go against the lawful leaders of Kenash! Those that turn against their masters..."

Garro was beyond defiance, protest, anger or pain at that point. He was a slumped sack of bleeding meat, held up only by his chains. His back was a nightmare of ripped open skin and bleeding flesh, wounds mingling with each other as easily as the blood across his back and the waste leaking from his sparse undergarments.

Konrad saw Wikus' look. That wide-eyed, fawning, silent plea for orders, for direction. He held up a hand for pause and walked over to the slave. Jerked him up by the hair and studied his bruised face. Nothing in there anymore. Green eyes that didn't focus, just looked out blindly from some place not quite sleep, but certainly not alive. Konrad sniffed and flicked a glance at Janus.

Shame. Better if he was awake the whole time. Ah, well...

"They will be punished!"

He straightened, turned back to the crowd, dragging out each crunch of his boots on the cobbles, hands on his hips. A handful of the crowd were dabbing blood from their dresses and tunics and breeches and shirts, so far had Wikus launched the blood soaking his whip with each swing.

"They will be found and dragged into the light of judgement!"

Slowly, he turned to face Wikus. He smiled, and nodded, like he'd seen proud men do before. In truth, he did feel and ember of it for the shaggy beast, in the same way a man might feel for a dog that had learned to sit on command. It could be taught, and thus had value. So did Wikus.

"And know now, and always... there will be no mercy... for this most heinous of crimes... against the very fabric of our city!"

Nice touch.

Konrad nodded at Wikus, and jerked his thumb across his throat. A universal and grisly gesture.

Until the end. Until the bones show and his insides as split. Until the cobbles are coated red and none of it sloshes within his skin anymore. Until the women turn in horror and the men swallow back their bile and the word races like pox and mumps what happens to uppity slaves.

Konrad crossed his arms and nodded again, silent punctuation to his command.

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Let The Word Go Forth (Wikus)

Postby Wikus on April 15th, 2016, 8:28 pm

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There was nothing else needed in the eyes of Wikus, now that Konrad’s order was finally relayed to him. Sighing, he turned to face the slave, a gruesome painting on a previously immaculate canvas, drawn with the brush that was the whip. He felt tired of controlling the heavy whip, whose length made it terribly tiring for his shoulder, as it was apparently what suffered most in the whipping itself. He had spent quite a while without handling his whip as much as he had today, and he almost expected pains and soreness in the next few days. Returning his attention back to reality, the image of the slave’s multiple gashes made him want to puke. However, he didn’t stop looking at them, and instead of seeing them as the terrible wounds they were, he saw them as weaknesses in the man. He visualized how easy he had managed to cut through his flesh, and how it would be the slave the one dying instead of him. That brought some comfort in him, and eased his stomach. Considering his situation, and the effects of his presence, he had to be ready to overcome these sorts of issues whenever the need arose.


Pulling his whip back, he’d take a deep breath before his arm sent the end of the whip forth, and once again it landed on the slave’s back. The cries were losing intensity, for the slave didn’t breathe as deeply as before, slowly letting his life fade away through his mouth. Dragging like a bloodied snake through the soil, the whip went back once more before it cracked loudly once more, hitting for a second time the same spot in the slave’s back. Almost no reaction once again, which was surprisingly disappointing. Although Wikus didn’t like inflicting pain as much as it was believed, it wasn’t helping his cause, and Konrad’s, due to the presence of the crowd. After all, they were performing all of this for them. Konrad’s words were dedicated towards teaching them a lesson, while Wikus’ whip was the one to give a meaning to his words. It was a beautiful example of teamwork towards a common goal, even if the beauty of it was composed of gruesomeness and blood. It didn’t seem like anyone cared about that slave, anyway. For them, it was like admiring the beauty of a butterfly while it flew past their features. Once the butterfly was gone, they didn’t care about it, even if ticks later it would end in a toad’s mouth.


However, there was someone who cared, as Wikus found out once he drew back his whip with the intent to strike Garro once again. When he intended to pull it forward, he found that the end of his whip was stuck somewhere, and when he gazed back he saw the cracker being tightly held by a naked woman. Her body bruised, her hair messy and unwashed, and her tears and snots running down her face, creating trails of cleanness in that otherwise dirty skin of hers. “No more!” She yelled. The crowd shifted its attention towards her, a slave that had slipped through the crowd, having abandoned her master’s orders and chores to instead witness how they beat on Garro. As that master was not present in the crowd, she was immune for the moment. “No more!” She yelled again, unable to pronounce anything else as her emotions were getting the best of her. Wikus was paralyzed for a moment, unsure as to what to do, and so he tried to pull the end of the whip in vain, the female having wrapped the cracker around her wrist.


Paseria knew Garro from before. They belonged to the same masters, and shared quarters in their estate. Many times they had laid together, bound together by the chains that held them prisoners. Their relationship would’ve been unthinkable if they were to be born free, yet it had been the chains on their masters what had made them crave understanding. Their Master had been too arrogant to realize they were in a relationship, and if she wasn’t left barren due to the brutal beatings she sometimes received, she would’ve gladly had Garro’s child. She knew what Garro had done, and had prayed to her Gods for his success. Now, she saw how something inside her died after witnessing Garro’s fate. They had stripped her of innocence long ago, yet now they took something far more valuable – her faith. That is why she wanted to be her own God, and instead of praying, she herself stepped up in Garro’s defense when everyone else stood and watched. “No more!” She said for the third time.


Wikus pulled harshly by his end of the whip, yet the whip jerked the female rather than the cracker. He had orders, and he had to obey them. Some of the onlookers, those slaves brave enough to step into the conflict, went behind the female and whispered to her while they tried to pull her away from the circle in which the bearded executioner stood. She still resisted. Without any other option, Wikus took a hold of the whip’s handle, and quickly headed towards the woman in question. He had to break his whip free, and he felt he held more authority than this chained animal. Taking the end of the handle and treating it like a tonfa, once he was close enough to the female she demonstrated her intentions. Wikus saw her intentions, the shift in her body as she prepared to swing widely with her free arm. The motion was so unexperienced and clumsy that even a child would’ve realized what was coming. Planting one foot forward, he’d prepare to swing in return, yet making sure his entire body weight traveled along with his own hit. And just as the female performed her motion, so did he. Her fist met the handle of the whip, which was not simply a piece of leather.


The moment the handle impacted against the fist, Wikus not only felt, but also heard the breaking of bones within the slave’s hand, the knuckles being destroyed just as her lungs, for the cried out loud with such loudness Wikus was partially taken aback. He had never done something like this, yet the knowledge was certainly very useful. The woman fell to her knees, as the slaves around her quickly freed her wrist from the whip. She held her fist as the tears fell from her face in great quantity, just like the screams of pain that deafened the situation. Garro heard them, for he knew that voice. He couldn’t see what had happened, which only made it worse. In a last effort, he regained his strength in an animalistic way, unable to simply hear his woman crying and screaming without standing by. The half of his heart she had stolen from him was begging for help, and so he pressed his feet against the pole, despite the pain, the blood and the crowd. With those strong legs of his, he pressed against the pole to which he was chained to, aware that the humidity of Kenash would’ve made the wood weaker. His eyes could barely open, yet they witnessed how the nails of his shackle anchor were slowly giving in.





WIKUS

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Let The Word Go Forth (Wikus)

Postby Konrad Venger on April 17th, 2016, 6:27 am

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This isn't supposed to happen!

Konrad could well enough mount a speech in public, if he had the words clear in his mind and his audience captive (or at least a captive the focus of his audience), but improvisation was still beyond him. When the brave, stupid slave woman dashed forward and stalled Wikus' whip, babbling her desperate pleas for mercy, the scarred man's eyes snapped to her and his mouth just... gaped.

The tawdry scene played out in front of him, and every tick Wikus and Paseria stole from him was an inch of control Konrad could feel slipping from his grasp. He'd kept the dumb beast of the crowd's attraction well-leashed and now it was falling from his grip so fast the rope was burning his hand, and he marched away from the post, advancing on the wailing woman, refusing to be moved or consoled even as a dozen hands tried to drag her away from the scene.

"You dare-" Konrad bellowed, force of the last word and his presence so close to them seeming to blast back the nearest souls to her, leaving her alone with Wikus and himself. "-interfere with the Magistrate's justice-"

His boot lashed out and knocked her back, fingers already red and purple with bruises and impossibly twisted flying back-

"No!"

The single word was a thunderclap above, throughout, around the crowd watching. Those drifting away, unwilling or uninterested in seeing a slave whipped to death, suddenly stopped and turned, irked at likely having their vantage point taken just as this was getting interesting.

Those that had stayed gaped, a hundred necks twisting as Garro strained and cried the word, one working eye wide and half-mad with hideous pain and Dira whispering in his ear, yanking, screaming, yelling the word over and over-

CH-THUNK!

Petch me running.

The crowd gasped. Dynasts froze in shock. Freeborn men and women stepped back a little and the slaves, oh, their reactions... that was what made Janus stand up sharply, carnal pleasure replaced with frantic worry as he saw dozens of them stare in wonder and awe.

At the slave who had broken his bonds. Cracked the moist beam, yanked his chains from its grasp and was running, fleeing-

No. Not fleeing. Because some things truly are stronger than the will to live. To survive and perpetuate. Konrad did not see things as such, so when he saw the slave running towards him and the woman like a madman, wounds ignored as some god or devil granted him strength for his last ticks, he simply thought the man was mad with grief and vengeance.

That's what he thought. His body, however, did not think. It didn't need to.

With his lips still curling around the first syllable of "Shyke!", Konrad's sword arm snatched his kopis from its scabbard and as it shone through the humid air the crowd parted, darted away from the weapon of death unleashed in the same atmosphere they breathed-

Garro didn't stop running. Even when he ran straight onto the blade.

Konrad's jaw clenched so hard his teeth cracked as he felt a sickening, unnatural sound caress his ears and scrape against his sword. Like a melon stabbed by a dagger or a young tree struck by an ax; that same wet, thick sound of something solid and yet fleshy, wet, living, pierced and split in two.

Garro coughed blood onto his face from inches away. The sword was in Konrad's hand, and impaling the man's chest... and yet... his shaking hands rose... and Konrad looked down into a face.

"Please... don't... don't hurt... her..."

The crowd, and Janus, and Wikus, and all Kenash became white noise and empty air to Konrad. He stared, and his face grew ashen. He beheld the torn flesh on one side of the man's face... gods, he was not so old. Broken and aged by a life of hardship, but his eyes were young.

Green eyes. So much like his one, once upon a time and a thousand years ago. Pleading and swimming in pain, but still thick with the same strength that surged through the hand gripping his tunic now.

Konrad tried to breath, and he failed. Dark and cackling things came screaming into his vision without form or respite; the bad dreams and tossing sleep he'd had for days since his initiation into Reimancy returning in his waking hours, bringing forth-

please... please, da... don't-

gedaf me, ya shyke!

a figure too large, too hug, too strong for the boy to fight threw him to the ground and he felt sawdust and dirt grind into the wound laying open half his face. the boy was panting, choking on air instead of finding it.

staring at the woman cornered at another side of the room. weeping and shouting and still too afraid to move, to intercede even as her husband forever mutilated her only child.

the figure moved and the boy reached out with a tiny hand. tried to speak with his tongue torn and air sucking through his cheek and jaw. the figure ignored him

please... please, da... ma... no...

the woman screamed and the figure roared out his hatred for her-


"Konrad?!"

Gods. Where was he? He blinked and that hut, that rude and tarnished hovel in Sunberth was gone. He wasn't a boy, he was tall, taller than his father ever was. Stronger, and he held a sword-

-with a dead slave at the end of it. Garro's pain was over. His glassy eyes and limp hand tangled in his tunic were proof, just as was his dead weight pulling down his blade, until it angled enough for him to slide off it and onto the cobbles like a bundle of wet rags.

The woman was still wailing. All sense gone from her. The slaves keened with her, some friends of hers embraced her and Konrad felt eyes on him, so many eyes, so much judgement and whispers and those things black and horrible leaped back to him but now they were his and he was angry-

"SHUT UP!"

The kopis flew like a bolt of solid silver through the air. Paseria's wailing ended with her life, high shrieking becoming a strangled gurgle as her throat was laid open. A slave woman standing too close for comfort (because she was comforting), ended up with a pair of fingers flying away from her and the crowd trembled as one like some massive, scared animal.

Remember the job!

"Wh-" Konrad licked his lips and the words were whispered through lips that barely controlled them anymore. "What-"

The job! The speech! The-

"No... No man escapes the Magistrate's justice!" He roared, cracking voice hardly the throaty roar it was before, but two dead bodies at a man's feet tend to give him gravitas. "And... And none... none shall pervert... pervert the course of the law! The law that is for us all! Slave and Freeborn and Dynast alike!"

Something clicked and whirred in Konrad's skull. Some hind part of him that powered the body and navigated it through the mundane task of surviving the next for moments. But his soul was not there. It was far away. Long ago.

He pointed his bloody blade at the dead slaves.

"Let the word... go forth... that slaves who assault their masters... and slaves who seek to stop the law... will not escape. Not be shown mercy. They will die." He raised the blade for all to see. Silver and red on a blue canvas. "So it was today. So will it ever be."

The bastard pulled it off!

Janus could have skipped across the cobbles to Konrad and his pet bear, crowd breaking up and moving on now the show was over. The crying, mutilated slave woman was taken away by her friends, and Janus made a note to prepare some sort of compensation for those fingers. But gods, it was worth it! He'd felt the slaves in the crowd simmering like a pot fit to boil, and then Konrad killed the flame and threw the pot into the sodding river. His hand clapped the man on the back, but it was like slapping wood. Still and cold and dead.

Staring at the body. Poor, stupid Garro, with half his face whipped open. Paseria next to him, dead with her throat torn out and her hand an inch away from her lover's. Konrad was staring... and then he was gone.

"Konrad? Konrad?! Wait, there's something else-"

White noise. That's all it was. Konrad marched away from it until his footsteps were temple bells in his ears. The bile was already kissing the back of his throat when he found a quiet corner behind the Complex and doubled over to void his stomach into the weeds.

Shyke... petch is happening to me...?

||Common||Thoughts||Pavi||Fratava||Myrian||Other's Speaking||
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Note: As of Fall 517AV, Konrad is known only as "Hansel" in Endrykas
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Let The Word Go Forth (Wikus)

Postby J'Ak on August 19th, 2017, 8:04 pm

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G R A D E



xp

Socialization +1
Intimidation +1
Leadership +1
Rhetoric +2
Acting +2
Weapon: Kopis +1


lores

Socialization: Buying a gift for another
Rhetoric: Public speaking without prompts
Rhetoric: Gauging your audience’s reactions
Acting: Pauses & emphasis for dramatic flair
Acting: Improvising when things don’t go right
Konrad: Suffers a flashback of his father


note

That was an unexpected ending, and a great (gruesome) show!


  
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