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[Alea Davenport]

9th Winter, 514
NHC

Chores. It always came down to chores.

For the past several seasons, Alea had been slave to the Nitrozian family. It had not been an easy relationship, to say the least. She had...trouble...with the concept of obedience, having had long practice shirking chores in her parents home in Denval...before it had been destroyed.

Now, it seemed, fate was determined to play a joke on her. Having tried living independently, she discovered how hard it actually was to keep herself fed and clothed and generally well-taken care of. She had never figured out how to save money, or keep a steady job, so when she ran out of money on a ship bound for Mura, the captain collected the debt by selling her to Ravok. Where, it seemed, she would be forced to do chores for the rest of her life, with no parental love to soften the consequences of rebellion.

Until recently she had been doing basic work in the NItrozian Estate, but...certain events led her masters to move her to a different work place. The Nitrozians sometimes allowed their slaves to work in one of their businesses for a reduced wage, and even as a skill-less laborer, she could be of some use maintaining the good reputation of the NHC apartments. Perhaps it was luck, or perhaps the Nitrozians were truly shrewd businessmen, but the income motivated Alea to at least try to do a decent job. She had dreams of what that money could buy (though not much understand of how very little money it was), and she convinced herself that through hard work and perseverance, she could make enough to buy her freedom and continue travelling the world.

It was a nice sentiment, but the reality was that she still hated chores. She had been given a broom and put at one end of a long hallway, told to sweep it until the floor sparkled (which she was pretty sure was impossible for wood to do). The hall way long and boring, and she got a few strokes of the broom in at a time before she'd get unbearably bored, lean on the broom stick in the middle of the hallway, and start chewing on her hair, daydreaming of far off places she'd never been, and trying not to remember too hard the places and friends she'd left behind.

Every so often a resident would open their door and leave, or come through the hallway behind her, and she had to go back to pretending to work. She learned to train her ears for the sound of footsteps or motion, so she would not be caught loitering by a superior who could have her punished. Not that anyone had come to check on her--if they had, their keep eyes would have picked up the haphazard, uneven layers of dust left behind by Alea's erratic, non-methodical sweeping. Alea's own eye had not been trained to discern the subtle marks dust left upon the floor, which could only be seen when the light hit it at certain angles. It looked good enough to her, so she did not imagine anyone else had cause to complain.

Several bells into the morning, she had made it about a quarter of the way down the hallway, and she was starting to get hungry. She had no expectation of breaking to eat, however. One of the favorite Nitrozian punishments was the skipping of meals, and the outline of Alea's ribcage visible through her dress was a testament to exactly how much they valued feeding their slaves...especially the virtually useless ones like her.

Feeling a moment of weakness, which was more inspired by boredom than hunger, Alea took a moment to lean against one of the doors. She had been doing it all morning; so rarely did anyone pass through them. And if they did, she'd be able to see them coming down the hallway, or hear the doorknob moving behind her. What she didn't account for was the door not being fully latched. As her back met the door, rather than stopping, she kept going. Slowly backwards, then faster as momentum pushed the door open. Barely suppressing a yelp of surprise, she hit the ground with a soft thud, and then was almost instantly back on her feet. In her panic, old instincts took over. The room was dark, and she was definitely not where she was supposed to be. She ducked into the shadows just beside the doorway, holding the broom close to her to keep it out of the light, ready to use it as a weapon if need be. She held her breath, and waited to see if she'd been noticed.

[Daegron]

Darkness.
It had become a friend by now. The absence of light was pleasantly soothing, like a soft pat on his tired shoulders or a warm blanket that covered the awful truth. The lack of vision, the absence of shapes, that hopeful uncertainty made it easier to forget. Yet he knew, from the faint glimmers on the floor and the numerous cuts that now covered his feet that the nightmare wasn't over. It was no dream, nor a terrible illusion. It was as real as his flesh and blood, as deep as his soul. The mirrors laid there, shattered; their shards kept piercing him like a dreadful reminder of the day that his sanity had fled. His own self was torn asunder in the most violent of ways and the wounds caused would never heal; for they were wounds of his tortured soul. But that's the price for staring straight into the abyss. That's the price one pays for delving so deep into one's tainted essence, using a discipline so ancient and horrible as the one he called Art.

The sense of time was long lost. It must have been a couple of weeks or more but he couldn't be sure. His self-imposed imprisonment had started a while ago. And in that black windowless cell, the four walls that surrounded him were sometimes moving closer to crush him; other times they embraced him and kept him safe. For fear came in waves it came and went, as did the memories of what he'd witnessed upon those mirrors, upon his own reflection, laced with confusion. There was no mask to hide behind, no point of reference, no trail to guide him out of this madness. So he stayed there, cowering in that corner, barely moving. Once per day, a small meal was left outside his door and sometimes he could find the strength to reach and grab whatever the NHC had to offer. Starvation's grip was steady by now, it thankfully pulled the Morpher's leash hard enough to make him move, even if it was for just a stinking piece of stale bread and those petching lillypads.

Silence was better. The occasional distant sounds of footsteps and doors opening or closing. The muffled voices discussing, speaking and greeting were only fleeting. Silence was beautiful. No voices telling him what to do, no suggestions, no pleads or threats. They had fallen silent, their entless banter, their arguments, the way they found common cause and ground, the way they forced their will upon his weaknesses, they were all gone. He treasured that numbing lack of sound, he revelled at the gentle hum of his own breath. It reminded him that he was still alive, and that he'd find a way. He was too proud to let despair win.

But all these came to an abrupt halt. As he laid there, half-dreaming in a state that was just a step away from torpor, the door creaked, and that distraction was followed by a curious thud. The shuffling of feet almost startled him. Someone was there, but was it real or just an echo of his nightmare ? Who preyed upon his tattered self ? Who chose to play games with the frayed strings that were his nerves ? Who would visit him ? Did they mean harm ? His breath was uneven and his heart raced at all these thoughts. He trembled at what would come next, but it was just silence.

He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and mustered all the courage he'd left. No, he wasn't meant to perish in this shyke-hole those petching Nitrozians called house. Even bastards like himself deserved better. His voice finaly came out of his dry mouth. It sounded like a death-rattle or a croak.

"Who are you ? What do you want of me ?"

He pushed himself to rise after spending what seemed like an eternity crawling around the room. Shirtless, dirty, unkempt, barefooted. His whole figure was painted with the red trails the broken shards had left upon him.

Everything was dark still and though he was certain that someone was there, he was unable to discern any figures. He realized that he was so tired, exhausted. He realized he was all alone.

"Show yourself !" he growled angrily.

[Alea Davenport]

Alea considered it a positive sign that the resident of the room she'd intruded into was not threatening to call the Ebonstryfe. Her eyes had not yet adjusted to the dimness, so when the man stood up, all she could make out was a looming figure. She wasn't immediately concerned however; if he's been dangerous he probably would have attacked her by now, and even if he decided to attack her later, she figured she could probably take him. He did not seem abnormally large, and unlike in her home, the citizens of Ravok did not regularly train in the martial disciplines.

She was strongly tempted to play games with him when he demanded her to leave the safety of her shadows, but something in his voice made her take a kind of pity on him. Mostly. Casually, she set her broom into the beam of light and leaned against it, so that the shape of her head with its long tumbling hair and one of her arms were backlit by the light coming from the hall.

His question actually managed to surprise her, even though it shouldn't have, so long had it been since anyone had shown concern for the desires of a mere slave. "I wouldn't say no to some food right now," she said in a plucky voice. "I don't suppose you have any fish? Can't remember the last time I had fish, which is petching stupid seeing as we live right on top of a lake." Her tone was informal, and completely oblivious to any sign that this man might be anything less than friendly.

Getting bored of leaning on the broom, she stepped more fully into the light, which incidentally brought her closer to the man. "I'm Alea, since you asked." She peered at his figure in the darkness trying to make out a clearer image of who she was talking to.