Solo The day.

(This is a thread from Mizahar's fantasy role playing forums. Why don't you register today? This message is not shown when you are logged in. Come roleplay with us, it's fun!)

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]

The day.

Postby Maore on February 10th, 2020, 4:05 am

Image
    62nd of Winter 519 AV
One's understanding of time was wholly dependent on context clues and socialization. In a deep, dark hole far away from light and genuinely pleasant company, this context was lacking. Time meant nothing when the sun couldn't be observed, when days bled into one another in an endless stampede of shifting to and from different aspects of a pitifully mortal shell. To the undying, time was irrelevant. The day was marked only by invested self-interest; a seven day schedule could be counted fairly accurately when the keeper had the steady march of the heavens to light the way.

What did time mean to the irreverently imprisoned wight stuck under the crafted stone of man's nasty little secret in this godsforsaken city. She could count the days on the back of her hands, marking morning with pale skin the texture of smooth marble and night with tawny flesh tattooed by the long dead lovers the hand once touched. The days were easy. The bells, chimes, ticks? Significantly less so, though also significantly less meaningful. The seasons? Impossible. Once upon a time this wight could string her fingers through her hair and know instinctively at what point in the year it was by the colour of the strands tangled around her fingers. Now her hair was blonde, always blonde, and had been blonde for as long as the wight's keepers had been alive and longer still beyond them.

It had been two years. Three years?

It had been a long time since Ciraaci had seen the sky and tasted sunlight on the gilded marble of her skin. It had been longer still since she had seen her reflection, known the gentle words of a loved one, longer still since she had last looked up at that sky and loved the sun that nested itself sweetly in a cradle of windswept clouds. She missed the wind on the Sea of Grass, longed for the tall stalks to tickle her palms as she walked through them, dreamt of horses thundering over the rolling Sea, cried for the laughter of Drykas children.

Time was irrelevant.

It meant everything to her keepers, though she knew nothing of that. Ciraaci had been staying at the Kelvic Research Institute for well past long enough. She was a drain on resources now that it had been proven, time and time again, that seed wouldn't catch.

She had been exposed to Kelvic men, half-Kelvic men, men who dreamt of being Kelvic but were little more than sewer rats salvaged from the lake and returned to their watery grave when they'd served their purpose. She'd endured the conception of one child late at night when all noon activities had failed and carried to term one fragile, deformed thing that she'd hurled against the wall when her keepers handed it to her.

Time meant everything.

She couldn't stay any longer. Ciraaci endured the treatment of her captors without pride; she'd cried for food during the long winter night of a year's past when she had been left without for days and days and days. She'd begged to be washed, to have her hair brushed, to have the bite marks of an overexcited mate treated, to be spoken to just once and be reminded that she was still a person, that she still had a voice. She didn't scream and fight unless they threw a dog into her pen and it had her pinned to the floor. She didn't raise a hand when they struck her. She hardly met their eyes in acknowledgement of the simple truth of men being that they would always rise to a challenge. Humans were a blight, a pox on the land, and the sickness they carried was arrogance and ignorance. She was ethaefal, forsaken though she may be by Syna and without the guidance of her mistress Dira, but she was beyond the men that kept her in their dungeon.

Time was up.

Auction day was coming and she was being preened and fawned over by pretty little slave girls with brushes and wet rags. She sat still under their care, let them poke and prod and take experimental tugs at the jagged edge of her damaged horn, kept her tongue tied and her eyes down. She was being watched by the guards and didn't want to tickle their fancy to hit her today by expressing curiosity.
Image
x
Last edited by Maore on March 16th, 2020, 3:12 am, edited 4 times in total.
User avatar
Maore
the void behind my teeth.
 
Posts: 202
Words: 135357
Joined roleplay: January 25th, 2017, 6:11 pm
Race: Ethaefal
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Plotnotes
Medals: 2
Featured Thread (1) Donor (1)

The auction.

Postby Maore on February 12th, 2020, 7:59 pm

Image
Ciraaci's caretakers were quietly talking as they played with her hair and tugged at her horns in the occasional spiteful instance of curiosity. Their reverence for her divinely gifted form was negligible at best but even the ethaefal herself couldn't wholly deny them their contempt; she too found herself plagued by dislike for this body and all that it symbolized and credited it with her imprisonment in the pit. She couldn't claim to understand the words the women were using but a small part of her rightly assumed they were bemoaning the 'special care' the ethaefal had been receiving for her heritage.

Her appearance had left much to be wanted; her hair was a pale mass of lank and tangled blonde strands that had been ill-kept for several seasons and poorly brushed when her knotted braidwork became more a hindrance to her comfort than a soft reminder of better times. Her skin was dirtied from the grimy floor she'd been made to sleep on and a loose bandage on her right wrist hid the healing wound of a night not long past when she had tried to palm away the face of a Kelvic man thrown onto her. Her horns were the most pristine aspect of her appearance and her former glory as Syna's favoured abortion, but with one lost to an inch of her scalp she found the reminders provoked by the women using the remaining one to adjust her head abhorrent. It took a lot of energy not to snap at them, energy best left to participate in whatever little game her captors had cooked up for her to play, especially as she suspected the men watching this would have struck her for acting out.

Bide your time, whispered Ciraaci to herself deep in the pit of her mind where she'd retreated to survive. She had come a long way to break now and let the fear and horror sweep her up into a mindless frenzy. They may give you the sun, she assured herself. One could only hope, really. Ciraaci could only hope. If she felt the sunlight she might be able to breathe easier and clear her head, find herself elated with the reminder that she did belong to Syna even if neither of them wanted the other anymore.

Rubbing her dirty palms on her bare, grime-streaked leg, Ciraaci considered the sickle curved on the meat of the left. Her captors had noticed it early on and questioned what it meant. She couldn't understand them and they couldn't understand her, so the interrogation was fruitless if not rigorous and excruciating. The mark was what helped her remain strong in the prison; if she looked at it, even at her lowest, she would remember that she had a purpose to fulfill and that somewhere out there, perhaps far away in the black isle the ethaefal had called her first home, Dira thought of her.

Over the time she had stayed here the gnosis had activated when Ciraaci had entered a new room and she'd witnessed the terrible demise of previous inhabitants. In one, a hound was force fed a drug with a cut of meat and succumbed to his death surrounded by passionless caretakers. In another, a woman was killed in the midst of an abhorrent act with a horse-man. These images haunted Ciraaci for a long time after she received them and in private she'd cried over the memories and the lives lost in such terrible ways.

Up to this day, Ciraaci had come to understand one very important thing: this city, these people, were monsters far crueler than those that hunted the Sea of Grass. They were human with no reverence for the cycle Ciraaci had promised to uphold when she'd spoken to Dira. They were perhaps worse than the Zith. At least the menace on the grasslands ate their prey as often as they carried them off and returned the meat and bones to the earth. From what Ciraaci had seen of this place, the victims were not offered such comforts and whatever little monsters bred out successfully were not much better off than their parents.

Her internal monologue and condemnation of every man and woman in this building and this city was cut short by a particularly sharp tug on an unruly tangle just beneath her broken horn. Ciraaci saw stars for a moment as the pull aggravated the area and she came to a tick later with a gasp of complaint and a shifting of her body to get into a more comfortable position. The woman who'd struck a nerve giggled and tittered some meaningless jumble of words to her companion and they laughed together at the ethaefal.

Oh, how she seethed.
Image
x
User avatar
Maore
the void behind my teeth.
 
Posts: 202
Words: 135357
Joined roleplay: January 25th, 2017, 6:11 pm
Race: Ethaefal
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Plotnotes
Medals: 2
Featured Thread (1) Donor (1)

The auction.

Postby Maore on February 27th, 2020, 6:51 am

Image
Ciraaci continued to tolerate the rough treatment of her caretakers for roughly thirty more chimes, closing her eyes when the pain settled behind her eyes and became unbearable, and only relaxing once their hands dropped away and she was left blissfully alone. A look confirmed that the guard was still there, so she wasn't wholly alone, but at least he wasn't laying his hands all over her and using her horns to tilt her head this way and that like -- like a man looks over a slave.

Oh.

Ciraaci's anger spiked when the idea settled into her bones. Her fingers clenched on her thighs, white-knuckled in the frayed fabric, and her jaw ached with how tightly she'd locked it shut. Her throat ached to start screaming again, to belt out curses at the guard and anyone else who'd listen. She wanted to bite someone, claw their eyes out, squeeze their throats until they broke under her fury.

But she didn't, and it was the inaction that saved her from a premature death.

"Good morning, my dear," the chipper voice of Ennoia Nitrozian announced as he swept into the cell and took a position in front of Ciraaci. She was forced to look at him when he reached into her space and tilted her head upwards. His eyes were unreadable, his mask impeccable, but she could see the tension in his shoulders and the furrow of his brow and detect the smallest tremble of something that had the hand under her chin vibrate with excitement. He looked at her and for the umpteenth time during her stay in this prison, Ciraaci felt like a horse having its qualities assessed.

Was Ennoia qualified to do the assessment? Some nasty little part of her thoughts found him to be a subpar horseman. A shame, really. If he had ever been spat out of a woman in Endrykas, he'd have died on the Sea of Grass not long after he climbed onto his first horse -- and the world would be better off for it.

"None of that now, Ciraaci," Ennoia tutted as he examined her. He must have read the negative spiral of her emotions in her eyes and the subconscious flinch that arose whenever his touch ghosted over the shattered root of her horn. "Today's a big day. It would be a shame to ruin it over something so petty."

She wanted to ask what was petty about daydreaming of her captor dying unloved and forgotten but her lips betrayed her and formed the words to a different question.

"What am I doing today?" She asked.

He hummed a meaningless tune, something clearly meant to discomfort her, and she closed her eyes and begged her gods, begged any gods, to give her the patience to put up with this man for another day.

"Look at me, please," Ennoia said after a few moments of blessed silence. She did. She had to. No part of her being wanted to deny herself the sight of him. When they made eye contact, he smiled, and she warmed up just the tiniest bit. "Today's the big day. You will be free."

524
Image
x
User avatar
Maore
the void behind my teeth.
 
Posts: 202
Words: 135357
Joined roleplay: January 25th, 2017, 6:11 pm
Race: Ethaefal
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Plotnotes
Medals: 2
Featured Thread (1) Donor (1)

The auction.

Postby Maore on February 27th, 2020, 7:07 am

Image
The ethaefal blinked at him with genuine confusion. Free? He only beamed at her uncertainty and ran the fingers of his left hand through her brushed hair. She didn't flinch at the motion but her jaded eyes turned wary, expecting pain or fear to follow like bile chasing bulrush back up the throat.

"Well," he hummed softly, mussing her untangled hair with a fondness she'd have expected to be reserved to a cherished pet. It wasn't entirely unpleasant but she felt like recoiling would have earned her his ire. "I suppose 'free' is too broad of a term. You won't be staying here anymore."

Her heart galloped, a hundred horses pounding across the Sea of Grass with whooping Drykas astride their bare backs. The thunder resonated in her head, somewhere behind her eyes where her headache had lived. It shook the foundation of her bones. Was this the epiphany of Zulrav? Was this feeling elation or fear in the face of the impending storm?

"I am still a slave?"

Ennoia regarded her for a few more long moments, his hand stilling to cup the warm curve of her cheek. Ciraaci never wanted to lean away -- lean forward? -- more than in that moment, that terribly intimate moment where his steel grey met her pale green. She couldn't read his eyes but it felt as if his hand were gentle, less excited, upon her skin.

"Yes, my dear," he said. "You are still a slave."

She flinched back then, recoiling from him hard enough to push the chair back against the floor. Ennoia's hand dropped; for a moment, one breathless moment, Ciraaci could read the surprise and excitement hiding behind his masks, but then they were gone, hidden behind patience and understanding and urgency. He gestured for her, asking her to return to his hands, and she leaned forward warily, frightened of him dropping those masks again. His interest was unwholesome, she thought. She didn't want to encourage it by resisting him. She didn't want to stay here anymore.

"You can trust me, Ciraaci. I will be taking you home."

Home home home homehomehome. The word sounded funny as it rattled around in her head, hitting on places that once housed such fond memories, such love, but echoing in the void that remained. She frowned at that, confused over the meaning of the nothing behind the word. Was it Ennoia or was it Ciraaci, Astarael, Syna's Divine, that didn't know the meaning anymore?

"Where? Where is home?" She asked him, her voice hushed, her eyes shadowed by some profound grief, a loss that couldn't be compacted into words or feelings anymore but just simply was.

"Across the lake. You will love it there." Ennoia leaned back from her then, removing himself from her space and taking away the warmth and fragile comfort his company had brought. She almost hissed her disappointment.

479
Image
x
User avatar
Maore
the void behind my teeth.
 
Posts: 202
Words: 135357
Joined roleplay: January 25th, 2017, 6:11 pm
Race: Ethaefal
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Plotnotes
Medals: 2
Featured Thread (1) Donor (1)

The auction.

Postby Maore on February 27th, 2020, 7:22 am

Image
The man was done with her, turning away to address the guards that lingered in the room and outside in the hall. She didn't understand, but she imagined that he was giving them commands, telling them that she was walking out of there without chains, her head held high, the men who'd touched her put to death for defiling her divine form in the ways that they had. It was too much to wish for; her divine form was little more than a soiled piece of silk and the defilement had surely scarred her soul at this point, but she could dream and escapism was her favourite coping strategy.

Ennoia exited her field of view and then there was a flurry of movement, alighting a sense of alarm in Ciraaci that was wholly imprinted by assaults in these cells. She jumped forward before hands could be laid at her, one her feet and joints locked tight together, anxiety ripping through her nerves in lightning fast bursts of something. Nothing good would come of fighting or running but for a mindless moment she thought of how she'd survive on the Sea of Grass without cover and all she wanted to do was run and fight.

Her hands clenched into fists again.

Ennoia stepped back in front of her, crowding her space as someone stepped in behind her, dimly alerting her to the chair's sudden absence. Her eyes focused on the man, the only recognizable thing in the room aside from the mottled walls and flickering candlelight and overly long shadows.

"You're safe," Ennoia said. He said it in Common and then in Pavi, promising her a whole litany of pleasures if she trusted in him. Baths, the sky, the wind, birdsong, a God that listened and responded in all the ways that Syna remained silent and dispassionate.

Ciraaci followed him, guided by the warmth of his hand as he led her through the dark walls of her long time home.

It was a confusing path, but part of it was familiar; the birthing room, the breeding room, the place where the dog had died, a long corridor haunted by the screams of distant voices far at the end, and familiar, hated, despised, obsessed faces.

By the time Ciraaci met sunlight again she had started crying, her tears encompassing almost two years of grief and trauma, two years of forced isolation and intimacy, two years of intermittent starving and gorging, two years of wishing death upon everyone who met her eyes. Now she was free.

Ennoia let her cry out her tears, patiently leading her away from the compound and into Lakeside. He had a destination in mind and she was blindly following, only vaguely aware that they were being accompanied by guards and that Ennoia had been talking with the caretakers and captors before they'd left the premises. If she'd been paying more attention, not so caught up in her grief, anxiety, fear, and joy, she may have better noticed the area and asked about their plans.

506
Image
x
User avatar
Maore
the void behind my teeth.
 
Posts: 202
Words: 135357
Joined roleplay: January 25th, 2017, 6:11 pm
Race: Ethaefal
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Plotnotes
Medals: 2
Featured Thread (1) Donor (1)

The auction.

Postby Maore on February 27th, 2020, 8:07 am

Image
Being left to her devices like she was -- though not really; the guards were still following them and Ennoia remained half-attentive to her actions -- Ciraaci cried out her tears, expressed all the seasons of pain and fear, and eventually found a sort of placid calm, a peace to settle deep into her bones where dread and spite had previously nested.

She became aware of birdsong.

The wind gusting along her bare calves and tickling the back of her neck.

An unseasonal warmth.

Voices raised in laughter and fondness, conversations she could neither understand nor cared to try, a pair of women kissing, a jewel-collared man carrying a basket of perishables, children at play.

"This is Lakeshore," said Ennoia, startling Ciraaci from her near-hypnotic appreciation of what she was seeing, smelling, and hearing. "You cannot see it from here but Ravok is across the lake." He gestured off in the direction of... the lake.

Oh.

The water was much more vast than she anticipated. From her position it was wine dark and calm, placid, threatening, hiding something. Ciraaci hated water. She hated it hated it hated it hated it feared its cold, cruel grasp and the chilled sensation of it settling in her lungs, briny and coarse.

Without being aware of it, the ethaefal had begun to hyperventilate as she walked, gaze fixated upon the glass-like surface of Lake Ravok, primal fear settled deep into her gut borne of hundreds of years of avoidance and the instinctive fear of a race that had no need of the sea and boats when they had horses. Horses couldn't cross a lake. Horses couldn't sit comfortably in a boat. Ciraaci was Drykas; she was meant to stand firmly on the earth. She couldn't swim. She couldn't fly. She couldn't survive this crossing.

The guard at her right said something that the ethaefal was vaguely aware of being deriding. Ennoia hummed in acknowledgement and turned to regard his new slave. Grey eyes encompassed a storm of emotions now that he wasn't confined into Ciraaci's claustrophobic cell. Elated, relaxed, impatient.

"Afraid of water, my dear?" He asked her. Her face burned at the tease, flushing unpleasantly under the acknowledgement. Dismissing the irrational fear of water reaching up to drown her on the shore, Ciraaci shook her head. Ennoia's smile was indulgent, but irritated. "Don't worry; I will take care of you."

No, he won't, some little voice whispered in the back of her mind, nestled deep under layers and layers of his promises of trust and safety. Don't trust him.

But she did. She swallowed and picked up her pace, keeping close to his heels, as he led her towards a small cluster of buildings resounding with the beat of men hard at work over metal.

465
Image
x
User avatar
Maore
the void behind my teeth.
 
Posts: 202
Words: 135357
Joined roleplay: January 25th, 2017, 6:11 pm
Race: Ethaefal
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Plotnotes
Medals: 2
Featured Thread (1) Donor (1)

The day.

Postby Maore on February 27th, 2020, 8:21 pm

Image
It seemed that Ennoia meant to take her to the docks. The closer she was brought to the shore the higher her nerves climbed up her limbs. They strangled her throat and crushed her lungs under the weight of crashing whitecaps. Her nightmares lived on the coast of the lake. A boat couldn't keep them safe; man wasn't meant to float, horses weren't meant to float, she couldn't swim.

Ennoia noticed her terror when he glanced her way. For just a moment there was a deep honesty in his gaze, a window thrown open and curtains peeled back. He was irritated, his eyes said, already tired of her fright and unwilling to compromise. She stopped dead in her tracks abruptly enough that the guard immediately behind her ran into her. She stumbled forward and Ennoia caught her in cold, hard hands.

Ciraaci opened her mouth to say something -- an apology, maybe, or a plead, don't make me cross the water -- but it was cut off with Ennoia's own words, harsh Common that spoke of frustration.

Before she knew it, a black cloth was draped over her head, a soft bag that muted sounds and completely cut off sight. She wheeled back instinctively as if backwards was the route to escape. Her hands raised a moment later, when reason caught up to action, but her hands were restrained and tied behind her back.

Ciraaci's heart erupted in her throat, pounding a dizzying beat into her head and chest. If the fear of water was a stranglehold on her lungs then the terror of the unknown was a man jumping on her diaphragm crushing the breath out of her from the bottom up.

"None of that now," Ennoia said. Her trust in him flagged at the sensation of knuckles ghosting her bare arm. It hurt to flinch back but she couldn't help it. Without being able to see him coming she couldn't anticipate the contact; everything was as terrible as the nights in the dark when her cell would house an unfamiliar man. "This is better. I don't want to see you drown."

She was tugged along by a length of rope bound to her wrists, almost wheeled backwards by the force before she caught on and hurried to keep pace.

* *


The crossing was horrible without her sense of sight and her ability to determine risk in choppy whitecaps, but not because the water was rough or the wind was wild. No, the physical act of crossing the water in what Ennoia referred to as a 'ferry', a Common word with no discernible match in Pavi, was quite pleasant.

It was the presence of others on the boat, nameless faceless people she couldn't see but she could hear chittering, going on around her as if the sight of a hooded and bound woman was a common sight. She couldn't distinguish many of their words among the tumult of their manifold voices but she naturally suspected they were laughing at her weakness. The shame darkened her mood; she hoped that wherever Syna was behind the overcast clouds that the goddess was pleased with what had become of her forsaken child. She hoped that Syna was proud.

That Syna was crying tears of joy.

With no way to count time aside from inside of her head, a wildly inaccurate way to do anything so important, she didn't know how long the journey was. If it weren't for the occasional sway or break of a gentle wave against the hull of the ferry, Ciraaci might think she was simply on land, perhaps in the smoothest carriage a man could buy, but eventually the fantasy broke.

"Home sweet home," Ennoia said.

Ravok.

616
Image
x
User avatar
Maore
the void behind my teeth.
 
Posts: 202
Words: 135357
Joined roleplay: January 25th, 2017, 6:11 pm
Race: Ethaefal
Character sheet
Storyteller secrets
Scrapbook
Plotnotes
Medals: 2
Featured Thread (1) Donor (1)


Who is online

Users browsing this forum: No registered users and 0 guests