[Flashback] Who Needs Teenage Angst? (Murmur)

[Chantilas Trevayne]

Spring, 36th, 500 A.V. Perhaps it was his mother’s and father’s drunken bellows that drove him out of the spacious home in the Merchant quarter. Or it could have been the disgusting, and incessant, kissing sounds coming from his room; currently occupied by his two sisters and a business contact of his fathers. Whatever the cause Chantilas changed into his favorite and not so consequently most expensive attire, feeling that a brisk walk would help quell the malice stemming towards his sin mongering family members. Waiting until the verbal warring had receded into the second floor study Chantilas nipped into his parents room, lifting a single silver from both. It was his due for having to put up with the ego centric twits. His thoughts already turning towards the hand sized blueberry pies at the local bakery, and the trinkets he might be able to find down at the docks. Currency safely tucked away in his left sock the boy of 12 stormed out of the house, kicking open the door to his room on the way and exposing the lecherous goings on inside to a family servant passing by. He wasn’t quite sure how his parents had already become so inebriated they found fighting over the proper amount of skin his wife was to show in public worthy of slapping each other senseless. It was only noon, and they had woken up just a bell ago. The world of grownups seemed angry and driven by lust, and if that was all he had to look forward to growing up then he’d prefer to stay his current age. How any of them would make it to temple today was another mystery he tried to solve while winding his way through city streets. Proudly sticking out his chest for all to see Chantilas took a moment to pride himself, he’d already been to praise Rhysol and The Voice. The servants had taken him early in the morning at his request, but he never understood why they were so happy to go with him; or his sisters for that matter. He laughed, they probably knew he’d give a good report to his father. His chest swelled further positively causing him to strut down the center of the streets. His feet carried him to the outer ring of the city, where the most interesting objects turned up. When his father came down to see the merchandise unloaded off his boat Chantilas always came with him to scoop up any oddities that fell to the way side. Several weeks ago he’d found a tiger eye marble, and the week before that a whole ball of string from the Eyktol region. Once he even stumbled across a dog skull. Today though, without the protection of his father he stayed in the safety of the crate piles and ship's ropes that sat at the foot of some docks waiting to be loaded or carted away. Nothing good turned up for a while, and he’d become oblivious to the green stains left on his shirt as he crawled over moldy wood and through rope alike. Then something caught his eye at the very bottom of a stack of crates, laying in a salty pool of water on the ground. Wriggling his way to it Chantilas picked up the curious object. It had a wooden handle and a long metal rod, tapered at the end, protruding from one side of the handle. Not entirely sure what to do with his new found treasure, and afraid someone would demand he hand it over, the boy skittered from the boxes and into an alley across the way. He studied the object most curiously, tapping a finger against the metal point. It wasn’t exactly sharp so it didn’t cut anything. When he picked his teeth with it he almost tossed it away; the metal scraping on his teeth was horrendous. What to do with it? Natrually, being a boy, he threw it at a wooden wall trying to make it stick. Failing he walked over to it, frustrated he glared at the thing. It was useless! He picked it up intending to break it somehow when a cat jumped out of a trash pile next to him. He jumped back with a squeak of surprise. “You shouldn’t be in there!” Embarrassed of being scared by a cat Chantilas snatched the animal up by its tail, bouncing it up and down despite the shrieking and hissing protests. Scare him would it? He’d teach it a lesson, show it who was stronger.

[Murmur]

Children were never scarce in large cities. Whether they were urchins or spoiled brats ready for a slap on the mouth, they came in all shapes and sizes, all manner of hygienic, and ready to kick and scream their way to what they wanted. Deven may not have been that way, however, given the circumstances of his arrival at Ravok. The boy had already long forgotten the events that transpired nearly 7 years ago, having chosen to forget and embrace the god that clearly held a place for him here, in this dark, romantic city. Jartu Rosier, the Ebonstryfe officer in charge with the raising of Deven Baroth had been a man of punctuality, harsh words and even harsher discipline. He was also a magician, a morpher, who often found himself instructing the young 12 year old on manipulating his body just as the man himself could. Occasionally these sessions would take hours upon hours, with Deven sitting on his pathetically simple pallet with only squeaky floorboards for company studying dead cats and prodding at the remains of decomposing ones. This was his lesson; knowing the ins and outs of the creature’s body: muscle structure, bone placements, the skin, the claws, the fangs. And although he failed countless times in the structure of the creature, he was prevailing in the end. He only needed to practice. On rare occasions, Jartu would send Deven out on errands throughout the city. Purchasing food at the local market, or delivering items to certain shadier individuals. Today was one such day, garbed in a black tunic, equally black pants and boots that were the same hue, the boy held a note in his hand with a list of items to purchase at the market once more. He had gone some time earlier, often bartering with the various merchants over the price of this fruit or that fish, and on occasion, filching what he could. He was just taking a generous bite out of stale bread, having half the mind to savor a meal that tasted far better than what Jartu managed to whip together and call “dinner” when he heard the shriek of a cat in between two looming buildings. Swallowing the remainder of his bread, Deven ventured. What the boy found made him pause, and he watched the other child harassing the poor cat for a moment, before abruptly speaking, “It’d do some good to break its legs so it wouldn’t squirm as much. I find it’s easier to study it that way.” He stepped forward, crouching with his sack full of stolen and bought goods, staring at Chantilas with unnerving gray eyes. “Sometimes I tie their mouths shut so they’d shut up. It’s really annoying after a while don’t you think? I’m Deven. You wandering away from your parents, or are you an orphan?”

[Chantilas Trevayne]

The animal made such pitiful and horrendous sounds that Chantilas was looking at the closest wall and wondering if he could dash the cat against it and be rid of the wailing in one fell swoop. When another voice broke through the shrieking he stumbled back a few feet in surprise, half expecting whoever owned the voice to bear down on top of him for being a bad child. Rusty brown eyes found those grey irises easily amidst the dark and dank alley, and they latched onto the interlopers face. He didn't say anything in response for he wasn't about to be tricked into doing something the taller boy could run off and tell on him for. But the noise from the cat was intolerable, forcing him to do something about it. Quickly scanning the ground Chantilas found and plucked up a large, walnut sized rock, tossing it up in his hand once or twice. He surveyed the spotted tabby venomously. Though his free hand suffered several scratches during the process the rock had indeed been crammed into the animals mouth far enough to prevent it from opening farther, and never possibly getting it out without assistance. The wailing didn't stop completely but it diminished enough to allow civilized conversation. Chantilas considered Deven's appearance in silence. "I'm on my own for today." The cat still gyrated and bounced from it's tail in the boy's grasp though it seemed it had become secondary in his attention span. "Why would you want to study a cat?" His lat word might have been a little over condescending, though woefully unaware of his tone, Chantilas was generally interested in the answer. Maybe Deven knew something amazing about cats he didn't! He might have a chance to learn something to hold over his sisters heads and gloat about. Or maybe, just maybe, given the advice he'd recently dispensed they would be able to have fun with the cat together. When his mind had finished running it's full course of thoughts, and with attention turned back to the frantic animal, Chantilas held the cat forward slightly; offering it up to Deven. "Do you break the front or back legs first?" It was a sick and twisted invitation to an equally vile bit of fun, but considering current company, it was fun all the same.

[Murmur]

“On your own, huh,” Deven chewed thoughtfully on his lump of stale bread, clearly nonchalant about the whole blatant torture of a harmless cat. He eyed the boy from head to toe. Far too well-dressed to be just anyone’s child. Most likely one of the wealthy folk who often seem to find themselves out alone on the water-tight streets of Ravok. “You don’t look poor. Do you have any coins on you?” Then almost immediately, his attention was trained on the cat. Chantilas’ question was a well-deserved one, but Deven wasn’t sure how exactly to explain. At least the stupid animal wasn’t making as much as a racket anymore, and he was grateful. Some thought-processes were in order for a good answer. “It’s magic. I do magic, I guess you could call it.” He said finally, settling his bag down near the grimey, damp wall, “I have to study the body of the cat to get it’s shape right, or it doesn’t come out like it’s supposed to. I think Jartu called it morphing. Something like that. I get the cats, or he sometimes gets them for me. We kill it, then I study it until it starts to rot. The bones, skin, fur, claws, eyes, pretty much everything.” When Chantilas held out the cat for him, Deven didn’t hesitate to grab it by it’s back leg, and held it up. “I break it’s back legs first.” He said and in a span of a chime, he did just that, snapping the limb in half with a force over his knee. The cat wailed and shrieked but the rock was lodged roughly in its throat. Soon blood spilled onto the floor in a macabre puddle. Deven did the same to the other leg, and completely disregarded the hollering and painful cries of the tortured animal. “Then you break the front legs.” And as he demonstrated he placed the trembling cat on the ground, lifted the front paw and snapped it in two. “Usually I take a knife at this point and start cutting it open to study it. I like to take the heart out while it’s beating.” He glanced up at Chantilas, to see if he was still listening.