Closed In The Company of Chaos

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A city floating in the center of a lake, Ravok is a place of dark beauty, romance and culture. Behind it all though is the presence of Rhysol, God of Evil and Betrayal. The city is controlled by The Black Sun, a religious organization devoted to Rhysol. [Lore]

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In The Company of Chaos

Postby Elias Caldera on June 1st, 2015, 12:21 am

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The First Day of Spring, 515 AV


The sound of the blade as it struck the floor, that scraping, pounding clatter of steel on stone on steel again. It was all he realized he could hear anymore, like thunder in his ears. He’s saying something… the boy realized as wild and static eyes fell upon the still shuddering lips of his father. All the sound in the world had died in that moment save for the echoing ring of the dagger he hadn't even realized had fallen from his grasp. He’s saying something, but I can’t hear him. He didn't need to hear the man’s final words, not when he knew them by heart already.

“Elias, what have you done?”

The nightmare fell away as the waking world rushed forward to greet him. With a start, Elias reeled from his pained slumber, the chains that bound his hands and feet set to their peculiar metallic laughter as he struggled against them in vain desperation. A reflex in its entirety, one that faded from the forefront of his thoughts as his mad, startled eyes flew across his surroundings and the truth of his reality once again took hold of his senses. He was trapped. Imprisoned within four stark walls he could barely see. Walls he wasn't sure if he was ever going to escape anymore. Rhysol help him, He wasn't even sure he even wanted to. The Black Hole was a dark and decrepit place, unbearable in the just insinuations alone behind every skittering shadow and distant, drowned scream purveyed to those unlucky enough to ever know its dank halls. He couldn't recall how long he had been down here, trapped in the blackness of this forlorn myth that few even knew the truth of. He knew he certainly hadn't known the truth, not until they dragged his broken body down into its clawing depths and shackled him to the blood soaked walls did he truly understand this place was no fairy tale used to scare disobedient slaves and slacking apprentices. No, this place was his fate now. This place was his tomb.

It wasn't meant to be like this at all, not in the way he had painstakingly planned it for nearly a two seasons. But plans have a way of falling apart, especially when you try and plunge a dagger into the heart of a man you've hated and dreamt of killing for so long, and you realize all in one instant what a horrible, horrible mistake you've made. Not once, but twice now. He mused dryly through the throbbing in his head. The realization of the pain in between his ears was enough to signal everything else to begin hurting in agonizing tandem.

He couldn't remember what he had done specifically to make them suspicious, but clearly the Stryfe had known, likely from the very beginning now that he considered it, which he had...extensively. It wasn't as if Elias hadn't constantly been enshrouded in an cloud of quiet panic and hushed terror since the day of the fire. Walking out, carrying his father as he had, the mage had fully expected to die then and there, and perhaps it was the guilt, or the regret or the light-headedness from all the smoke, but part of him had been ready. After Torian, what was left for him anymore? Killing the man had been the only reason he had returned to Ravok, some days it felt as if it was the only reason he had survived the storm. Death would have been welcome then and there, like a period at the end of this tragic story's final chapter, but instead they flung him into a chair and interrogated him for days. Questions upon questions as they interrogated him, prying open his history and weeding through the lies he spewed to save himself out of instinct, not will.

He had told them what he felt he needed to, that it was the mercenaries that had been behind it all, and that he was just a victim in all this, just like his dear father had been. 'Those bastards' had kidnapped him like the cruel and monstrous men that they were, but he had escaped by the virtue of Rhysol, alive but near death. Part of that was true at least. He had been taken and thrown in a dark room much like his current accommodations, but not by the Rum Hound mercenary company, but instead by butchers who he had originally believed were hired by Torian to deal with his good for nothing son. It had been that belief that had sparked the entire debacle that had landed him where he was now and his father's body interred at the bottom of lake Ravok. Now, the mage doubted their affiliation entirely, which frustratingly meant he still had no name to blame for the nightmares that terrible experience still gave him. He wish it had been Torian, that way at least it would mean there was one less mistake to add to his already lengthy and growing list.

More lies followed, like webs being spun, they fell from his treacherous lips as easily as the truth did. After a night of... tedious celebrating in a tavern to commemorate getting better from all his woes and wounds, he had met a man who, as it turned out, worked for those very same mercenaries who had been the reason behind said woes and wounds. Befriended, tricked, and then kidnapped once more, the sell swords obviously had a vendetta they were desperately trying to enact, and for some reason that involved Elias. What he hadn't learned the first became evident the second, as the mercenary captain himself explained that they sought revenge for their fallen comrade, a man who Torian had slain. None of that bullshyke had happened of course, but Elias spoke it like it was gospel, and once he had found his flow during the interrogation, there had been no stopping him.

Using him to get to Torian, they had tried to lure the paladin to his death in an ambush, but instead the plan had gone tits up and it had all devolved into a mad melee somewhere in the merchant district. A fire broke out, his father had been slain by the mercenaries, and Elias had barely escaped, only to wind up safe and sound in the arms of his ebonstryfe saviors...

They didn't buy that tale then, nor did they buy it now.

Upon realizing as much, Elias had made the mistake of resisting, and for the briefest of moments, he actually believed he could have escaped... Just one more for the list.

They had beat him, and they had beat him badly. Kicking and punching and clawing until the young mage, lost in the stupor of the assault, once again that summer was brought to the edge of Dira's door. He was sure they were going to kill him right then and there, like they should have done countless times before. Elias knew he would have, if it had been him in their place instead of his own damnable one. They didn't however, and now that he felt it across every inch of skin, he understood why. This was much worse than death. There wasn't a single part of him that didn't hurt. No doubt bruises and welts covered his face and body, and he was certain something had to be broken inside. He was having an excruciating time trying to just open his eyes, in particular his right, which had apparently swollen completely shut. The other one wasn't too far behind from doing the same, and the darkness his wounds imposed upon him only served to make the veil of dread and dreariness that blanketed the chamber even more unbearable.

How long? The broken young man began to wonder, cracked and bloody lips slowly working in concert with his thoughts as they came to him. That was a mistake, moving his mouth to talk only reminded him of the teeth he had lost and the last vestiges of pain he was meant to be suffering. Talking wouldn't serve him any purpose now regardless. The dead didn't have much use for words. He slumped against his shackles helplessly, the cold, rusted metal biting deeper into the gnawing wounds they had left against his wrists. It must have been days, Elias realized after he finally managed to bite back the yowl that one small movement alone had elicited from him. Days of dipping in and out of consciousness, of threading the line between this world and whatever was next. He was thirsty beyond belief, and his stomach, when not just an undefinable source of some lancing jolt of fresh misery, felt terribly hollow.

The Ravokian had known better days, that was for sure, and it was hard to think clearly for longer than a tick when his head felt like it had been replaced with the rock used to bash it in. One thing had become immediately clear however, clouded thoughts or no; he was going to die down here...

And they were going to kill him for as long as they could.
Last edited by Elias Caldera on September 1st, 2016, 3:42 am, edited 2 times in total.
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In The Company of Chaos

Postby Nemesis on June 1st, 2015, 1:13 am

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The hot rays of Syna above Ravok beat down upon the city of Chaos; only the most cantankerous of individuals were finding fault in the beautiful weather that Rhysol had blessed his people with. Even the light breeze that flew through the canals meant that none in the city were perspiring. These days… they were not even seen for most of the summer season, and Ravok could boast some of the most pleasurable weather out of all cities. It was the perfect day, infallible, as they barely entered the Spring season. As expected, the canals and plazas were bustling with life. Even some of the taverns had tried to move their service outside, for none wanted to be stuck inside on a day as rare as this one.

In stark contrast to the bright, beautiful façade that Ravok offered to visitors and citizens like was the dark, filthy depths of The Black Hole. Any warmth that heated the surface of the lake was lost in such a decrepit hole as the Ravokian prison. The small shafts which allowed air from above to enter and circulate through the prison cells themselves were far too narrow for any real light to enter - their simple purpose was keeping the prisoners alive with fresh air, but it would give them no pleasure. Their positioning was awkward too, for they would allow for slivers of light to reach the prisoners, but said prisoners would never have the opportunity to gaze up through one of the hollowed columns and glimpse the cerulean skies that teased them.

Though some fresh air entered through the narrow shafts, it would be rare for any prisoner down there to feel the cool winds; the air was stagnant, for the most part. And rank. Musky and warm, it clung to the body… the smell of decay was ever present, for that was the curse that all prisoners, no matter their sentence, would suffer. They were literally rotting in their cells. It was one of the reasons that most prisoners were executed or released quickly, for the lack of sunlight caused the decomposition of the flesh, which left behind a putrid stench. Leprosy was the Warden and guards in the Black Hole were keen to avoid. Where grime coated the walls, the stone floor was caked in blood and flakes of flesh and other bodily excrement of all forms. Rarely cleaned, all prisoners knew that they lay in the filth of many before them. And even the most selfish of prisoners had to wonder what happened to them.

The darkness, eventually, would become the friend of all longer residents, for the only source that was bright enough to be considered substantial in giving off light were the torches of the guards walking along the row of cells. Torch light very rarely heralded something good, for people were not often released. Re-education was the next best option, but still some prayed to avoid that. Most suffered unmasked torture… quite easily given by the worst that the Ebonstryfe could boast. For the luckiest, perhaps, the light would signal a swift execution. Either way, torchlight was met with fear.

Fear strived among the prisoners, of which there was a small population, but a high turnover. For most, the guards relished in the knowledge that the fear had morphed into full on hallucinations. The smallest touch of Chaon in their minds and they would be lost for days. There was something truly delightful about watching the complete atrophy of the mind. For those directed to care for Elias Caldera, it was no different. It was the unknown… the knowledge that there was no control over what the mind saw… the knowledge that not everything was real, but being incapable of distinguishing reality from the rest. That was what drove some from sanity, far better than any torture could.

Get him out.” A cold, but otherwise unemotional, voice would be heard by the chained prisoner, followed by the harsh sound of metal on metal as a rusty key entered a just-as-weathered lock and it sprung open. Bars were wrenched from each other, creaking in protest as if they had not been used in years. Most prisoners would flinch at the sensation of another’s flesh on his own after so long, for two guards were reaching down to remove the shackles and manacles from his limbs, before dragging him up unceremoniously onto his feet.

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In The Company of Chaos

Postby Elias Caldera on June 4th, 2015, 10:44 pm

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An eternity in darkness.

Alone.

That had been his punishment.

It was the waiting in between ‘sessions’ that was the real torture. The sitting in his own filth for days and days with nothing but a mind adrift with muddled thoughts and gripping night terrors to doggedly remind him he was actually still alive. Eventually, mercifully, rough hands would arrive from the ghastly blackness to drag him from his dank and rancid coffin. They never failed to hurt him badly every time, and never once was he shown an ounce of clemency or lenience from his cruel wardens. The beatings, the drownings, and even the other deplorable things he couldn’t bring himself to think about lest the weeping overtake him… all of it was but a welcome reprieve from the damned waiting.

At first the rats had kept him company. Disgusting, not so little clumps of fur and disease skittering about in the darkest corners, constantly taunting him with their incessant squeaking and clawing whenever they were certain the guards weren’t nearby. Funny, how even the rodents had feared the guards down in a place like this. That hilarious comradery had been enough for the young man to have welcomed them all into his humble abode with open arms. Finally someone to talk to in the long night that had become his life. For a time, Elias was almost content in his prison simply knowing that he wasn’t completely forsaken and abandoned anymore. He had friends now, even if learning to understand and speak their whining chatter would obviously take some time. He thought he could make it work, regardless.

That was, of course, until he awoke one day to find his beloved friends eating him.

He had screamed and flailed, begging and cursing at them to stop. They merely laughed at his feebleness, their little, wretched teeth gnawing deep into his festering wounds as they did so. They were particularly delighted by taste of his fingers for some reason, and every time Elias awoke from his nightmares in the dream world to his nightmare in the waking one, he would always make sure to keep a running tally of how many he had left.

It hadn’t been until the mage had managed to finally catch one of the little bastards in his grip and smash its head into paste upon the cell wall that the others finally began to show wariness of their prey. From then on Elias caught and killed one every now and again to make sure the others realized they would be better off dining elsewhere that night. It total, the ravokian had collected quite the accumulation of rat sized trophies for himself. Much to his chagrin, his collection was not to be.

Yet they cleaned absolutely nothing else, the guards, whenever they came to claim him for their sick games, always returned him to his cage afterwards, devoid of his proud assortment of kills. That always bothered him immensely, and most of the curses and screams he hurled at them when the madness took over were accusations of thievery, among other things. Elias had only himself to blame however. Like the daft, stupid fool that he was, he had allowed them to stumble upon his finely crafted stash of sharpened rat bones one day, and now they no longer trusted him anymore to simply sit happy and complacent in their dungeon while they ripped away everything that he was, one endless, agonizing tick at a time.

Well they were right to be nervous. He had learned his lesson then. Next time, they wouldn’t discover his secret until it was too late.

A moan cut through his disgusting beard as he dispassionately bit down on his finger once more to draw forth the blood anew and resumed his work. He hated this. He hated that he was alive. The audacity of his keepers to have not killed him by now was infuriating beyond comprehension. He deserved better than to be left to rot, both his mind and his flesh withering away in the putrid shadows like some sweltering corpse. It was horrible, and undignified and not at all what Elias Caldera had earned! He had killed Torian! Paladin Torian! His crimes were monumental before, but for that alone he should have been cut down months ago! Or was it years now? Whatever the case, he was a man, not a slave nor an animal. His fate shouldn’t be shackled to a wall, or hang from the jangling key ring of his torturers.

He would fine his release, one way or another.

It had been a curious road to get to this point, he mused dryly as his fingers diligently went to work upon his abdomen after finishing with his chest. He hadn’t always been so wracked with rage like he was now. At first, in the beginning, Elias had shrouded himself in quiet, miserable sorrow. Almost as blinding as the decrepit darkness he was destined to after the ebonstryfe had captured him, the fallen apprentice had allowed the cloud to overwhelm him in despair and depression. That wasn't to say the young man was no stranger to guilt and regret. In fact, he and they were quite old friends in actuality. They were such good friends in fact, that after wallowing in the same despairing gloom that had conquered his thoughts for nearly a year after his mother had died, the Caldera had once arrogantly believed he had overcome them both. Learning the art of voiding had helped immensely with that installing that self absorbed charade. The understanding of nothingness was the perfect dumping ground for all his seemingly inescapable remorse, and after the djed storm had decimated his body, he had had little else to do from his hospital bed.

Killing Torian had torn open wounds that weren’t as old and buried as the naive boy once believed.

While without a doubt tragic and all that, such pity and the sadness quickly grew dull and exhausting after so much time with literally nothing else to keep him company. Now the wretched woe he once felt had long since putrefied into hate and rage and purpose, just as it had done after Raina’s bloody passing. It had been that hardening of conviction that had drawn him back to Ravok in the end, his mind set solely on murdering his 'father.' The ember inside him was ignited again, its rekindled flame burning him alive as he worked, yet keeping his tortured mind focused and prepared. The release of death would be the reward for his diligence, he knew it. All Elias had to do was just complete his bloody work and then reap what he had sown.

He put the last touches of his masterpiece in place just as the light of the torches came into view down the winding hallway. Panicked the unnatural sight, his hastily rushed to put his grime encrusted shirt back on before they noticed what he had done. He was still rubbing his bloody fingers clean when the harsh firelight rounded the corner and came into full view. He shut his eyes and scurried into the corner of his cage out of a well-honed instinct that he had picked from the rats. The bastards would find none to steal from him today though. Go away. Just go away. I’m busy! he fumed angrily within the shattered recesses of his mind, yet despite his defiance, Elias still groaned in pitiful dismay when he finally managed to open his eyes against the assaulting glow of the flame and realized it had stopped just outside of his cell.

No!” he croaked pathetically, his dry and deteriorated throat pained in a terrible manner by its unexpected use after so long without muttering so much as a whisper. It had been so very long since last they came, hadn't it... Bitterly, he had actually begun to believe they had just simply forgotten him down here, but now that the creaking, rusted howls of his cell door being opened filled his ears, he wished they had.

No!” he uttered once more, but this time in less a pleading tone and more sudden realization as he noticed the folly in his own thoughts. “I mean yes. Yes. Yes. I want to go. I’m ready to go.” They grabbed him with annoyed grunts and he forced himself to smile despite the sting of uncaring hands upon his pale and decaying flesh. He was thinking about this all wrong, and that was their fault for making him so afraid, the bastards! Well not today. Not anymore. He’d show them! He’d make them do what they were supposed to have done so many days, months, seasons, and years ago. Elias would give them no more choice after this. All he needed to do was simply wait for the opportune moment.

They ripped him from his cell –his home- but the mage did not resist as he usually did. He merely clenched his fists as tightly as he could, hiding the markings strewn upon his dirty palms as they hauled his boney body away and into the unforgiving depths that awaited.
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In The Company of Chaos

Postby Nemesis on June 17th, 2015, 3:41 am

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Of the five men stood outside the rusted bars of the cell in which Elias Caldera was held, three were soldiers, and one was a Commander. All four were permanently stationed within the Black Hole, and all were curious about this particular detainee - it was rare that one was kept for so long in the depths below the city. The fifth official present was a Marshall, who had been ordered down by his seniors for the sake of seeing this though. Tall and overbearing, the apparent blindness of one of his eyes gave the man an even more frightening appearance.

As two of the soldiers entered the cell and worked to release the prisoner of his current shackles, the Marshall examined the man whom he had been sent down to evaluate, and he was both impressed and disappointed by what he saw. He knew of the background, of course. A protege son, scion of one of the Ebonstryfe’s finest, trained by a mercenary and apprenticed to Rhysol’s army when ready. There, Caldera’s stubborn overconfidence and pride had gotten the better of him many times, but he had slowly improved and showed potential, and a rare willingness to learn what others might not. Then, he had fled the city. The ‘why’ was not common knowledge; if his father had known the reason for his wife and son’s disappearance, it was not something he let on to.

When the boy returned, he appeared to be unremarkable in his existence within the city, save the curious registration at the Institute of Higher Learning and a few minor incidents. The betrayal and murder of a Paladin in the Ebonstryfe was not something which could be ignored, however. To an extent, the Marshall had to show an immense amount of respect for the young Caldera; he embodied everything the Defiler stood for. But murder of a citizen, especially one of Rhysol’s most loyal, was a capital offence.

Why, then, was this boy being kept alive?

As the two guards hauled the prisoner up, they reached to re-shackle him with mobile bonds, but the Marshall spoke, stopping them. Hesitating at the break from normal protocol, the soldiers glanced over to their Commander, who also nodded. The man was to walk freely and willingly. Days… nay, seasons of slowly leeching the prisoner had left him weak. The influence of Chaon would also be ravaging the man’s mind. The Marshall, who had not removed his gaze from Caldera, knew that his prisoner was not going anywhere.

The boy’s ramblings were by far the most obvious insight into his mental state, for he was interested in the work of the Black Hole, from an academic perspective. He wondered at what techniques they employed, and to what end. With Elias Caldera, his scrutiny showed a shell of a man, one broken enough that he craved the company of those who caused him the worst kinds of torment and suffering. To say he was impressed would be an understatement. But their work was not finished, and the Marshall found himself immensely glad when his Chaon ability detected a sliver of resilience flickering with in the boy.

Once directed out of his cell, the group of six left the corridors, with the three soldiers and the Commander flanking the prisoner back and front and the ranking officer following behind, still watching his prisoner. The four permanent guards were clearly on edge, concerned that the convict was not restrained in shackles as he walked, but the Marshall was not remotely concerned, and his calmness was justified when the prisoner was marched into one of the filthy interrogation cells in the lowest depths of Ravok’s infamous prison.

Here, the soldiers glanced nervously over to the Marshall, who inclined his head, indicating his permission for protocol to continue as usual in this room. Metal clinked in the otherwise silent room as they wasted no time in grabbing the fetters, which were embedded in the ground, and attaching them to his ankles. The manacles, which were also attached to the ground and wound up the chair, were then locked into place, securing the prisoner on the chair upon which he had been sat.

Elias Caldera, you are being held in the Black Hole under a number of counts,” the Marshall spoke quietly, calmly, as a doctor might, when telling his patient that she was suffering from a terminal illness. “Arson and murder, to name just two, are capital crimes in Ravok. And you are guilty of both. Do you deny these accusations?

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In The Company of Chaos

Postby Elias Caldera on June 30th, 2015, 4:10 am

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Ripped from the blackness of his wretched void, the prisoner was cast back into the light for the first time in a very, very long time. With it came an unmasking of sorts, and when Elias managed finally managed to open his eyes, the prisoner didn’t like what he saw.

His body, if it could be called ‘his’ anymore, was… not what he remembered. He barely recognized the sight of his own legs under him, spindly and weak as they were, and even his arms were like twigs wrapped in the blanket his disgusting shirt had become. He could have wailed for what he had so somberly lost down in these dungeons had he not already spent every last tear on that exact grief long ago already. The pain didn’t help matters. Being forced upright as he had only served to remind the Caldera what horrible aches and wounds wracked his back and shoulders, remnants of his past excursions into the torture pits accompanied by the same rough, angry men who were manhandling him at present.

The mage awaited the chains and shackles that always followed whenever he was brought out of his cage, his jailors and their ways well known to him at this point. Despite the seemingly indistinguishable levels of contempt and hate they all had for their guest, he knew all five men like they were his best of friends. With so many choices, the ravokian wasn’t sure which one was his favorite though; there was the bald one who enjoyed kicking Elias when the young man didn’t move fast enough for his liking, Or the young one who liked to tease the mage with his meals, flinging food and gruel into the muck of his cell and laughing as Elias scrambled to get it before the rats did. Some of the others just ignored him all together, barely even looking at the mangled soul in their custody as they marched him about or beat him bloody. No doubt the kind who had been doing this for so long they couldn’t even be bothered to take their pleasures from dark delights this wicked place had to offer anymore. The scariest kind of man was he who saw the things being done down here as boring and mundane.

Perhaps scarier still however, was the one who led such villainous men; Commander Lokin, the man in charge. A tall, wiry man who had been gracious enough to give his name and rank to Elias right before also graciously giving the order to toss his newest charge into his sullen cell.

With so many distinctly unmistakable faces surrounding him, it was easy to understand the shock then at the sight of a new one amidst the dark company. Elias’s eyes widened to behold the milky white orb staring dimly back at him. In response, something broken and wrong in the foolish apprentice actually thought the first thing he had to do was bow to his superior. Your torturer! Your executioner! He had to scream the words in his head to remind himself where he was and who he had almost bent the knee to. It didn’t matter how much the conduct and manners had been drilled into him, curtsying with all the flourish of a proper little grunt wasn’t going to see him liberated from this hell, no matter how hard he prayed.

He had a plan for that already anyway, now was not the time to deviate or falter.

The blessed one -likely a paladin or a marshal, Elias couldn’t make out the insignia in the dull dancing of the firelight- gave a curt and commanding gesture to the others, belaying their hands from locking the chains around the Caldera’s. Naturally confusion and fear flooded into him at the realization that something, yet again, was thrown off its normal course. First there had been the stranger’s arrival, now this! What was going on?

Much to his surprise, his torturers eventually obeyed, throwing aside the binds that would have left him helpless and at their mercy… The fools. Little could they understand what he had in store for them. They would suffer for their arrogance, the blessed one in particular, he would make a fine first target. Hurting him, or at least trying to would certainly be his ticket to dying today. How could it not be? No officer of the sacred order could suffer such an insult as being attacked by a lesser like Caldera. It was perfect!

The ravokian stopped abruptly, his limping coming to an unexpected end halfway through their forced march. The guards, already tense in the midst of a collarless prisoner, practically jumped out of their boots when they realized he hadn't just given up because of the fatigue. Hands fell to hilts next as Elias rose his outstretched hands towards the flame of one of their torches. It burned brightly in his faded brown eyes, the poignant crackling of the embers letting the mage know it would serve him well if only given the chance.

Deep down inside himself, Elias reached for his beloved magic.

They had been leeching him since before he had even arrived in the Black Hole. He could feel the effects renewed again every new day he managed to wake up. It was, terrible, unexplainable agony, having one's very soul sundered and taken from him by another like that. The first time had been the worst, and was so disastrously destructive Elias could barely remember what had happened anymore. Perhaps that was for the best. He had never met the thief who had rent him so badly, but he knew the bastard had enjoyed his meal, lest he never would have returned for all the others. Such constant feeding had left Elias devoid of his ability to draw upon the arcane in any form, but neither that faceless parasite nor any other goon could stop him from drawing. More specifically; they couldn’t stop him from glyphing.

Using his own blood, the vile prisoner had been toiling away in the shadows of his cell for weeks now -desperately, carefully- detailing every last inch of his own emaciated body with a plethora of foul smelling texts and symbols made up of the ancient language. Now was his chance to put them to use. Now was his time to show them all that this nightmare had to be brought to an end.

Elias activated his glyphs with a hushed murmur, the tapestry of seals and magical pathways upon his skin stirred to life in a flurry of arcane glory as they were brought to life. The mage reached for the flames with renewed vigor, his palms tightening around the fluttering firelight, wholly intent on bending it to his will. He was determined to burn away his enemies, to gain his freedom, to embrace Dira with open arms. This is it! Finally…

Nothing happened.

The guards around him shared looks of annoyed apprehension among themselves, but Elias ignored their ignorance and tried once more. Res. I just need a little… res

Nothing.

Terror took hold of his heart, and in his panic Elias scrambled to remove his shirt, tearing and clawing at the thing when it refused to adhere to his carelessly fumbling fingers. The fabric was old and weak, its already torn and tattered threads giving way almost instantly.

No!

"No..."

He felt a gloved hand shove him from behind, angry mutterings from the guards filling his ears as they herded him into the abyss. Meekly, dumbly, he did not resist. He could not. Before he knew what was happening, Elias found himself strapped to a chair, the cold, familiar sting of steel wrapped around his wrists and ankles again. His eyes were blank and his mouth was struck dumb by what he had seen, even as the marshal began to speak. It took a monumental amount of effort just to crane his neck and look down at the markings on his tortured carcass. Where there should have been a masterpiece of interlocking foci and pathways and barriers to help serve him, all the Caldera had found were words… Gibberish, inked in his own blood. Insults and accusations, pleading cries and pointless declarations. On his stomach the motely assemblage of letters read ‘No escape.’ Another right next to that echoed the despair. ‘Nothing but the dark.’

There were countless others all over his chest, ribs and elsewhere, each and every one of them mocking him with their revolting truths and filthy lies. The scribbled madness scrawled across his bony form unraveled him and his thoughts, like a canvas of his psyche laid bare for the world to see. Seeing it all had shattered Elias’s resolve, but it was one line in particular that had broken him. The letters on the underside of his forearm were a particularly darker shade of blood, and the boldness of the words were hard not to look at. They just said one thing, and one thing only.

‘What have you done?’

No.” Elias muttered to his accuser after a while, muddy eyes still barren and utterly devoid of hope. “I can not.
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Elias Caldera
The Edgiest of Edge Lords
 
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In The Company of Chaos

Postby Crow on September 7th, 2016, 8:38 pm

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Very long awaited placeholder. This is to serve as a reminder for now. Upon return to my usual schedule expect a reply. I will pm you when it is up.

“We ate the birds. We ate them. We wanted their songs to flow up through our throats and burst out of our mouths, and so we ate them. We wanted their feathers to bud from our flesh. We wanted their wings, we wanted to fly as they did, soar freely among the treetops and the clouds, and so we ate them. We speared them, we clubbed them, we tangled their feet in glue, we netted them, we spitted them, we threw them onto hot coals, and all for love, because we loved them. We wanted to be one with them. We wanted to hatch out of clean, smooth, beautiful eggs, as they did, back when we were young and agile and innocent of cause and effect, we did not want the mess of being born, and so we crammed the birds into our gullets, feathers and all, but it was no use, we couldn’t sing, not effortlessly as they do, we can’t fly, not without smoke and metal, and as for the eggs we don’t stand a chance. We’re mired in gravity, we’re earthbound. We’re ankle-deep in blood, and all because we ate the birds, we ate them a long time ago, when we still had the power to say no.”
― Margaret Atwood

~Thanks to Aladari Coolwater for the template
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Crow
Just a murder.
 
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