The Heaven Spire
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Below are the 11 most recent journal entries recorded in the "valorschosen" journal:
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06:06 pm
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Dream. Woo!
So, I'm walking through this really pretty downtown area of some city that I'm guessing was up north somewhere (LOL, btw) and up ahead , there is this HUGE hill with this weird building built on to and in to it.
So, I'm all "That place looks awesome! I wonder what it is!" And head up. It was weird because the entrance to the structure (the only on visible on the front, at least) was up towards the top of the building.
I climb up the hill and slip in to the hall way and start poking around. There are all these different 'Cells' of different rooms, big ones though, with glass fronts facing the hall. The first one I look at is a Library, so I'm thinkin' "Cool, college campus"
And then I hear the bell ring, and all these people start coming out of these other doors...changing classes. And in chargrinned horror, I turn around and look back at the entry way, and see this HUGE banner across the top reading "D_____ Field Domms"
Not that I have ANY f`ing idea what that means, but I discerned that this was *Gasp!* a high school, and not a college.
So I'm standing there all like "Crap..." and teacher walks along and shoves me in to a class room, yelling at me that I'm gonna be late. LOL
Then, my dream cuts away from me, and has these mini flashes of other people. The first is this scrawny dark haired guy sitting at a table somewhere, his face on it and his hand loosely grasped around an Asian style teacup (without a handle) . This girl walks over to him and asks if he wants more (holding a tea pot) and he looks up like he's all hung over and looks around going "Where am I?" She laughs and tells him "The Islamic Society" (Don't ask WHY my mind came up with that, because I have NO idea) and then he does a double take, leaps up, and bolts out.
So this guy is muttering about how he's late for class. And mind you he's dressed like Screech from Saved by The Bell. With all the stupid geometric patterned clothes that TOTALLY don’t match.
Soooooo...then it was some other chicks mini entrance thing, and she's hanging out in a hallway with these other kids, and they're just sharing a cigarette and just talking.
And then, the uber hot intro. Shows this gym type thing, and some people practicing kendo. One guy totally pwns the other, and then when the match is over...he takes off the mask all hot like and shakes his head, hair falling around his face, and smiles.
Apparently he, Captain Mismatched, and the smoker girl were all friends. I see him as I'm heading out the classroom I'd been shoved in to, and the three are standing around talking and laughing with a few other people. He and I look at each other for a moment, I smiled shyly, and then walked away, towards the outside. I hear from behind me "Is she new?" (him asking) and then "I've never seen her" (from the girl)
So as I'm almost outside (after class, HAHAH)I hear "Hey! Er...miss?" I turn around and he’s standing there, smiling. "Are you new here?" He asks me. "You wouldn't believe what happened if I told you" I reply. His friends come over, we all get to talking. We introduce ourselves, though I can't remember what their names were.
So, we all walk out together, though a different way (as there were a lot more entrances and stuff on the otherside of the hill)
OH! I forgot one HUGE detail.
On the VERY topmost part of the hill, (and pay attention, cause this is awesome) are these mini pavilions, open on the sides with Greek columns and stuff. There are a few withered and twisted old trees, and a one of the pavilions has crumbled partially, leaving the columns broken. It looked ominous and pretty all at once, so I had gone up to the school-thing to try and see if there was a way I could get up there to look at it.
Okay, so, back on track...we're walking out one of the other halls, and there's this courtyard. Off to one side is this pretty wrought iron gate blocking off this open hall that's completely covered on the outside by an arbor, The gate looked really old, and had a chain around it to keep it closed. Me, being curious, and noting that the hallway kind of slopes up, just a little, think it may lead towards the top of the hill, where I wanted to go. So, of course, I'm all "Where's that go?"
So, he replies with "Some place we're not allowed *Shrug* " The girl, whose name was Jess (I think) then says "You guys HAVEN'T been in there?"
We all look at Jess with that "Well?" expression. She rolls her eyes and digs through her pocket and pulls out this weird lock pick looking thing. In like...two seconds she has the lock open. We all step in to the arbor way then, while mismatch guy is all "We shouldn't be doing this..."
We walk a little ways, until we're around the corner and out of sight from the main courtyard, and look around. There are stairs/ramps that lead up where the arbor way continues, and then down, which continues in the arbor way that gets really dark and creepy looking.
I ask "Can we get to the top from here?" Mismatch guy says "We shouldn't go down there!" and points at the creepy hallway. I'm thinking "duh, I don't WANT to."
He smirks though, and ask him why, because apparently he (mismatch guy; MM from now on) knows.
MM says "Some bad stuff happened there a long time ago. Some people were killed...and there's stories that it was by a vampire." At this point we all groan and laugh, and start heading up. So, we get up a good ways, and then there's another gate. This time, Jess can't get it open.
But! (Huzzah!) there was a space in the arbor big enough that one could get to the outside, so we all do. When we get outside, the scenery has changed slightly. It's still sort of down town on the other side of the hill, but now the side we are facing is really kind of Old World looking, with lots of smaller buildings and this weird castle/manor thing in the near distance. Maybe a mile or two away. We start feeling around in the arbor on the other side of the gate, hoping there might be another hole. While Jess is looking, I climb up the vines and am crawling sort of across the top (don't ask me how the physics of this work), trying to see maybe how much farther we’d have to go to get to the top.
So, Jess has her arms about up to the elbow in these vines. MM is looking around all nervous like we're gonna get caught, and he (the other guy) watching me. Jess comments then "Hey, there are a lot of butterflies in here!" And I look down all "What are you talking about?"
As I lean over to look down, all these moth/butterfly things fly out. One lands on my arm. It's about the size of a silver dollar, and isn't quite a moth and not quite a butterfly. It had a thicker body like a moth, but pretty wings like a butterfly. Except, the wings were a little scary for some reason. When the wings were flattened out, they looked like these piercing dark red eyes, but somehow looked...cognoscente. For some reason, I freak out a little bit and shake my arm trying to get it off. It doesn't move. I freak out again when another one lands on my arm, and the first one moves a little, and I see blood on my arm (I have a huge fear of insect bites, for some reason). And then I fainted. And I have only fainted TWICE in my life. And never over a bug. I remember seeing myself fall from the top of the arbor (luckily it wasn't too far to the ground) and He was kneeling beside me as the scene faded out.
Soooooooo. I have weird dreams that night (in my dream) of some guy with long black hair standing at the top of the hill, under one of the pavilions. In my dream, he's looking dead at me, though I don't think I'm physically even there. I wake up, and my arm is bleeding again where the moths had landed.
So, next day. Jess gives me her lockpick thingie, and MM guy sneaks me in to the Library. I start reading up on the school some, to find out what the pavilion things are, and how the school got to be constructed so WEIRDLY. I don't remember everything in the books, but apparently there was a tunnel system that lead from the manor house/castle thing to the hill, and the pavilions were commissioned a few hundred years ago by some creepy guy. That coincidentally owned the manor house.
I read a little more, and there has been these weird occurrences of deaths since the guy died (supposedly) or vanished, in the lowest levels/tunnels of the school. Some were 'mundane' like someone fell down the stairs and had broken their neck, but others were unusual, such as people being covered in all these tiny bleeding spots (that looked a lot like the ones on my arm). That's (obviously) why people weren't supposed to go in to the lower levels. I'm like "Cool, didn't want to go there anyways. I've seen enough bad movies to know NOT to go down the creepy tunnel."
So, I start going back to the arbor way. Get past the first door, no problem. When I get to the second one, I'm getting ready to go outside again, when I notice the second gate is OPEN. Not a lot, just an inch or two. Since I'm thinking it might be a care taker or something, I keep going up anyways. I call out “Hello?” and don't hear anything at first. Then I hear footsteps WAY down in the hallway behind me, slow and clicking loudly on the stone. (Not sure how it echoed since the hallway wasn't enclosed in stone, but whatever). Then I figure it's someone wondering what the first gate is open, because I'm a jack ass and forgot to close it, and probably heard me, so I start hauling for the top. I get to the top, pushing aside these thick vines and stuff, and make it to the apex of the hill. I walk to the pavilions, looking out over the city, and looking at the architecture of the structures, trying to maybe gauge what period it was created.
I sit down on this marble bench, calming down a little, and then hear "And how did you get up here?" from behind me, near the entrance/exit. I turn around. There's this good looking guy standing there casually, in a modern cut black suit. He smiles somewhat. He looks young. Not as young as I am, but not much older looking either.
At first, I immediately think "Crap. It's the guy I was dreaming about." But then I take another look, and this guy doesn't look the same, not exactly. This guys hair is kind of wavy, and he has bangs. The other guy did not, so I relax a little. Jackass me for not remembering the concept of a hair cut and gel.
He says "Been a while since anyone was up here" as he wanders over casually. I don't get up then, and look back out towards the city. "I saw this place from the street...it looked pretty." I tell him.
He sighs dramatically, walking until he's standing almost right behind me. I get a little uncomfortable, because I don't like people I don't know very well to be that close to me. I look back over at him. He says "So few people have appreciation for this sort of thing any more."
So, I'm uncomfortable now, and stand up. I walk around him, back towards the door. He smiles and says "Leaving so soon?" taking a few steps closer.
"Yes, I'm supposed to be meeting some people." I say, and step back through the door.
At first, it's okay. I walk at my normal pace because I don't think he's following. And then I hear footsteps from the top area, and get scared. So I start to run. I hear the footsteps speed up too.
So, I'm panicking a little now, because my chest hurts (I do have a mild heart condition, acts up when I do things that raise my pulse rate) and I'm scared. I run RIGHT in to the three of them standing just outside the second gate. I start freaking out to Him and telling them all what happened. Jess goes and looks and says she doesn't hear anything.
I'm upset. He gives me a hug and hushes me softly, and leads me out. MM and Jess follow. I tell you all what had happened up there again, and as I'm telling you all, MM says there was an accident today. A girl was found dead at the bottom of the stairs, but she hadn't fallen. We ask him where, and he says down in the basement.
Jess says then "You guys are so lame. We should go down there JUST so you can see there's nothing down there." And she starts heading down the darkened arbor way.
We, like idiots, follow her, because we don't want anything to happen to her.
So, it gets really dark the further down we get. Every so often is a single exposed light bulb, on a temporary rig. It's obvious they are fairly newly set up, and not 'meant' to be there, as there are sconces on the wall, but no torches or lanterns.
When we get to the end of the tunnel, and there's another iron gate, opened. This gate is WAY old, and covers pretty much the whole front of the doorway. We go in. Light from the last bulb in the hall way spills in, and on the floor was some CREEPY stuff. There was a HUGE alchemists circle carved in to the stone floor, with all these pentagrams and stuff. Normally, that stuff doesn't bother me, since I've done enough occult research to be able to tell the difference between alchemical stuff and things that are CLEARLY supposed to be evil/malicious, and this most definitely was. On the ground, were old chains, and claw marks in the stone, spaced like fingernail markings. It spelled of copper in the room.
In the darkest part of the chamber we can see another archway, with really old masonry around the edge, leading to another tunnel. Jess is all "See? Nothing down here but a bunch of old crap." And then we hear footsteps coming from the dark archway, and BOLT. Pansies.
That night, the four of us sit around talking and trying to figure out what everything indicates. I ask if any of them have ever seen a teacher or anyone the looks like the guy I describe, and none of them have.
We all end up crashing at MMs house, in the living room. He's in a chair, Jess is on the floor, and He and I are on the couch.
In the morning, we all wake up and Jess tells us we need to check out the rest of the tunnel. Because if something bad is down there, we need to let people know.
So, being the heroes, we all decide to go back down. We get flash lights and he had his sword and stuff (of course. Who doesn‘t, really? I‘m so lame). I have only two daggers, as I'm not prepared for such a thing. And what geek DOESN’T have a couple of daggers lying around?
So, back we go. Go back down the tunnel...lots of cobwebs and stuff. A few dead rats along the way. And then there's a light at the end of the LONG tunnel, and stairs leading up.
Up we go, and it opens up in to another place, similar to the first chamber. This one has manacles on the walls and stuff, and is better lit...we can see old blood smears and stains on the walls and floor. I tell Him that I'm scared...He takes my hand and squeezes it.
We make our way out of that chamber quickly, and up...we're in the manor house, and it's BEAUTIFUL. Styled in late baroque period. We're all sneaking though, looking for some signs of...SOMETHING. We're not sure what. And then he appears. He looks like how he did in my dream, still in the modern suit but with longer straight hair and bangs.
Jess yells out "What the hell woke YOU up?" as though we had done something to make him manifest or whatever.
He laughs (very evily, btw) and says he was never sleeping. And then MM is all "Wait, you're a vampire." He says "Yes, that's right." And then Jess is all "How were you out in the sun the other day?"
And I'm thinking "Duh, Dracula-type Vampire! They're just weaker during the day."
And then he laughs again, and claps, and walks a little closer. We all tense up, He draws his sword. MM is trying to get his phone to work, ‘cause a cell signal will really help us in a battle against the undead. PH33R MY RINGTONES.
He looks right at me and says "See, that's why you're what I need. You appreciate my minature Acropolis, and you know your monsters." He smiles then, his fangs VERY evident, but not stupid looking. Then he moves in for the attack. He smacks aside Jess and the other guy, and gets in this rather epic duel with Him. He holds up well for a while, until he cheats and slashes Him across the side with his nasty vampy claws. He goes down, I move to help Him. He (Vampire guy, V from now on) moves in to grab me, when I stand up and draw a dagger, stabbing it deeply in to his chest. The blood pooled out slowly for only a moment, very thick...almost like syrup. And then it just sank back in to his clothes and skin.
V tsks at me as I'm looking up horrified at him, and backhands me. HARD. I got down too. He growls and tries to get up, but He can't...His wound wasn't exceptionally deep or wide, but seemed infected or something. V kicks your sword away as he walks over to me.
I'm holding my cheek and whimpering because I'm scared, and had never been slapped for two, and it really hurt. So I can barely move as V yanks me up and starts dragging me away.
I black out then. I wake up not too long later, but I'm not in my normal clothes. I'm wearing this pretty white nightgown type thing--it's very long and plain, with thin straps. Very kind of "sacrificial offering". I wake up on the floor, on a carpet. I sit up, but the guys (being my three buddies) are no where to be seen. The room I'm in is just gorgeous, with a beautiful domed crystalline ceiling. One could tell it was nighttime, because of the color of the sky. V is standing across the room, looking at an assortment of knives.
Noticing I’m awake, he turns back to me and holds says. "Well, I suppose it won't matter since you'll be dead when I use them anyways." He adds then, putting up two different daggers. "This one, or this one?" He one down and walking over towards me.
Needless to say, I PANIC. I get up and try to run away, but I feel heavy, dazed. He snatches me by the shoulder and throws me down, tearing the strap of my dress as he does. Nothing gets exposed really, though it felt like it. I was trying to push him away, and keep him off of me as he kept trying to lean in and bite me. Was hard to tell where he was trying to bite too. >< Since, after all, Vampires in some legends bite on the chest closest to the heart, rather than the neck. How dare he get fresh with me!
Finally, I'm too weak to fight him off any more, and am just sobbing as he's getting closer...I can feel his breath on my shoulder. (Not sure why a vampire was breathing, but whatever)
And then I hear "OFF MY GIRL, ASSHOLE!" And He comes running over, and boots V. Hard. V goes tumbling aside. V rolls up to one knee, sneering at Him. Another epic duel ensues. Only this time his hand has sort of shape changed in to this gauntlet-y claw like thing, and he's using that as his weapon.
V dives in, he lops off that hand, Vader style. As V's staring at Him all "WTF?!" He lunges in for another slice. Off with his head. >>
Before it hits the floor, V turns entirely to dust and ash.
He comes over to me, takes me up in to his arms. He holds me tightly, and whispers "Let's get out of here."
Helping me up, He keeps one arm around me as we make our way out. The next day, He and I are sitting on the hill top, on the same bench. The sky looks beautiful that day, and the dead trees seem to have started to bloom again. I rest my head on His shoulder, and He kisses the top of my head.
AND THEN...in the MANOR...It shows the chamber again. The alchemical cirle on the floor starts to glow for a moment, and then blood starts seeping up from the symbols, and flowing UP stairs. Scenes flash through various hall ways, of this blood flowing in the wrong direction, over beautiful white marble and over gold tiles...
And the last image is the blood pooling around the pile of ashes.
DUN DUN DUN! ::Ominous music::
And that was it.
Yes, I am a loser.
Current Music: Theme from Legend
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12:32 pm
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Part 6----Pages 26-current
The lich look pleased then, and began tapping its talon together. “Excellent,” It hissed, looking at Kazlin again. “Bane has made it known to me that who brings her over to our flock shall have her. Does that entice you, Kazlin?”
The priest forced a smile, trying to ignore the sickening feeling that welled up when the Chosen spoke his name, “Aye, Chosen. I paid a handsome price for her.”
The Bane Lich only laughed, that dry, mocking tone ringing out again. “Foolish humans…that is all you can think of, isn’t it? How very fortunate...very fortunate indeed. Yes...all humans think of that. How fitting that it shall be the downfall of a paladin!” Again it laughed and laughed, until it's breath came in dry rasping gasps, none of which set Kazlin at any ease.
Time had ceased to exist in the blackened chamber hidden in the walls of the ship. The only light the priestess ever saw was the flame from Kazlin’s one candle that he guided himself with, when he came to feed her or tend her wounds. He would clean her wounds and apply the salves and herbal pastes, taking great care and patience when he fed her and dressed her. He’d gone so far as to bring her ‘new’ clothing, a long tunic and torn pants that had no doubt at some time been the garments of another slave, now that her own clothes were little more than bloodied rags.
“Just convert to Bane’s guidance, pet. It’ll all be for the better,” He murmured, straightening up as he heard the panel in the other room sliding open,, though he did not turn, but merely lowered his voice to a whisper. “Join us…join me,”
Turning to look at who had entered, Kazlin let out a low, relieved breath, only half of which really escaped his lips. A gnoll was dragging in a struggling young man, the other Tyrran that he’d purchased nearly a week earlier. The young knight let out a primal scream as he saw his companion there, laying on the floor yet still chained to the wall, thrashing all the more wildly, even as the gnoll punched him, dropping him to the floor, still conscious, but groaning. The gnoll snorted once, looking towards Kazlin, and then it turned and left, yipping and barking to another cohort.
“Don’t try anything stupid,” Kazlin warned him, folding his hands under the sleeves of his robes, turning away from the paladin and priestess both, walking over towards the throne to take his place beside it, inhaling sharply as he awaited the Chosen’s arrival.
None of them had to wait long.
The young man had scarcely crawled over to his companion and begun to pray over her body when the Chosen appeared, bothering not with the secret panel and door but merely stepping out of a tear in the fabric of reality itself it seemed, a smug look on its decaying face, if such a thing were possible. Valiantly, the young paladin placed himself between the lich and his still chained and fallen friend, doing his best to keep up his brave front. Blue eyes burned intensely as they regarded the Baneites, and much like the priestess had some days before, the young man vomited from the intensity of their evil auras. The lich laughed maniacally, clearly deriving some sadistic enjoyment from the paladin's discomfort, his own bitter laughter nearly drowning out the man's pitiful moan.
The lich strolled over towards the man, still grinning as the paladin pushed up from his hands and knees to his feet again, wiping his mouth on his hand. “Leave her alone, or incur more of Tyr's wrath!”
Again the lich cackled, tapping its spidery fingers together. “What wrath? I do not fear retribution from a maimed and eyeless pretender. If your 'god' truly cared at all for either of you, would he not have intervened by now? Wouldn't he have saved you?”
The young man scowled defiantly, again puffing up as he moved more squarely in front of the priestess. “We do not question our lords will! Justice shall be met!”
“Perhaps you should start then, whelp!” Now the lich sneered, pointing a long finger out at the male paladin. He began to chant, the words bringing a horrified expression to the young man, even sending Kazlin's eyes wide with disapproval as eerie greenish light began to gather and swirl at the Chosen's fingertip.
By my will it shall be done
To my Lord you both shall come.
Deny your god and goodly will,
Deny me and your death I'll till.
Take her as a man his wife,
Deny my words I'll take your life.
Once the spell was completed, the light shot forth from the lich's digit, growing slightly in size to the diameter of a small ball, and struck the young man roughly in the chest, launching him back against the wall. He let out a muffled groan of pain and sorrow, as the words of the spell were not lost to him, choking back a disbelieving breath and looking at the strange mark now marring his chest. It was as though he'd been burned, though the flesh was smooth and glossy black, some vile and foul mark slowly appearing on the damaged skin.
With a smirk, the lich swirled around towards the hidden panel, gesturing that Kazlin follow, and he did; the priest was far too angry not to, as he too, fully comprehended the implications of the powerful binding spell. Behind him, Kazlin slammed the secret panel closed, many of the small items on the false bookshelf rattling with the force of being jammed back into position. The lich turned slowly, that grin still in place.
“Something amiss, cleric?” It crooned at him.
“That was not what I had suggested, Chosen. I have remained silent as you have continued to damage my things, but this...this is beyond my consent.” Kazlin stalked forward, fists tightly clenched beneath his long black sleeves as he looked at the undead monstrosity, towering ominously over its skeletal frame. “I will kill the boy if he touches my property in such a manner.”
“Is that so?” The lich hissed, returning Kazlin's intense stare, “She is nothing, priest. She is not worth the effort or concern. Is this a question of my authority?”
“I do not question your authority,” the priest spat, narrowing his eyes, “But you seem to forget that I control and command sizable power as well, as High Lord of Athkatla.”
“Oh? I think the people of Murann would disagree.” The Chosen laughed then as Kazlin's eyes widened slightly, the larger man's entire form shaking with rage. The lich had hit on his pride, and with that, it knew it had some control over the impertinent priest.
“Never speak of Murann again,” Kazlin threatened, his voice a mere whisper as he turned away from the lich. He literally had to bite his tongue to keep his seething anger in check, storming out of the cabin to the main decks, the mocking laughter of the undead still stinging his ears.
Back within the hidden chamber, the two Tyrran's stared helplessly at one another. The woman had managed to sit up, and held her arms out to her friend, but he fiercely shook his head, quaking veritably where he sat.
“Adam?”
“Don't come nearer, Iria. I won't succumb...I won't.” He murmured in reply, clawing in vain at the mark on his chest. He succeeded only in raking blood scratches across his front, the glyph remaining dark and prominent even beneath the crimson.
“What have they done to you?” Whispered the priestess, Iria, as she crawled nearer to him. Her chains though, only allowed her so much freedom of movement, and while she strained with all her might, she could scarcely touch his leg. “Adam! What have they done?”
The knight turned his blue eyes sorrowfully towards her and he moved a bit closer to her, taking her hand within his own. “I know that you know what spell that was...they've cursed me. If I do not relent to their curse, I will die...if I do succumb, I will violate...” He paused there, turning his face away with a bitter expression, “...my sacred vows.”
Iria frowned deeply, and gave Adam's hand a light squeeze. “Tyr will help us...we cannot lose our faith in him,” The knight said nothing, but merely nodded, swallowing hard.
“Aye, you're right. I will not bow to the foul ones,”
Neither Iria nor Adam knew just how terrible the curse was, not until early the next morning. They'd been reciting prayers together in hushed voices, as though any moment they expected Kazlin or the lich to burst in and stop them, but nothing happened. They were not disturbed but one time, by a gnoll carrying in a meager breakfast for them; the gnoll didn't even look at them, didn't growl or grumble, just merely set down the tray and then turned and left.
Already, the spell curse was affecting the young man. His face seemed hollow, once bright eyes faded and somewhat sunken; it seemed as though he'd lost a significant amount of weight overnight, his muscles appearing more stingy and malnourished than the previous day, and the mark on his chest seemed to be spreading, growing larger. While they ate, Iria had questioned him again about the curse, and finally, Adam gave in. Her expression darkened as he told her, and he sighed heavily, turning his face away shamefully; he looked as though he'd suddenly aged ten years, his guilt so intense.
“I'm sorry... I could not be spared from the curse. My will wavered...”
“Stop that, Adam. You couldn't have resisted that spell ...no one could.” Straining in her chains, Iria reached out for him and took his hand, squeezing it. “Pray with me,”
And pray they did. And still, no comfort came to them.
Days crept by, and with each day that passed, Adam continued to whither away. By the third day, his ribs were clearly visible, the muscles in his legs and arms so atrophied he could not stand and could barely move, Iria having to help feed him. They'd huddled together for warmth, as with each day that passed, the air grew colder, so much so that the Tyrrans could see their breath with each labored gasp.
It was on the fourth day that the secret panel again slid open, and rather than the gnoll that customarily brought them their food, in stepped the lich and Kazlin. The stoic expression on the Bane priests face instantly vanished when his eyes adjusted and he saw the dying paladin laying in the Tyrran woman's lap, her arms draped protectively over his chest. She lifted her head and only scowled at the two Baneites, turning Adam's face away from them and towards her own. The lich nodded his head towards Iria, and Kazlin strode forward purposefully, snatching up one of Adam's limp arms and tugging the paladin away none too gently, her grip far too weak to have held him there. He passed the young man over to the lich, who proceeded to merely drag the semi-conscious man from the hidden chamber, laughing cruelly as he did while the priest remained.
“Don't give in Adam! Do not give in!” Iria struggled in her chains as she watched the panel slide shut again, slapping away Kazlin's hands as he crouched by her. She screamed for her brethren, calling out prayers to him in the language of the celestials, straining helplessly against the heavy irons that bound her, despite the futile attempts by the Bane priest to hush her. Finally, Kazlin slipped in behind her and clapped one of his hands over her mouth, while he wound her long braided hair around the other, pulling back slowly until the muscles in her neck were taut and tight.
“Now hush, pet. All that screaming is most unbecoming,” He spoke to her softly, sweetly as he almost always did, his voice soothing and deep as he moved his hand from her mouth, dropping it to her shoulder. “That poor boy cannot escape the Chosen's spell, pet. He is already dead and gone,” After giving one last tug on her hair, Kazlin released Iria's braid and rubbed his hand up and down her throat, leaning his head against her shoulder. “It won't be too much longer before his body finally gives in.”
“Be silent,”Iria hissed in return, fighting back the bitter tears rising up in her eyes. “He will not die.”
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11:41 pm
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Part 5--pages 21-25
But it seemed Tyr had abandoned her, for nothing in the world could have prepared her for the horror that arrived the next evening.
She’d awoken in a small dark chamber, her ruined dress gone and replaced by the rags of a peasant. Chains hung from the walls and ceiling as though in a dungeon, though she could still hear the lapping of the waves at the boat, feel the gentle rocking…she was still on the ship, in some other hidden compartment. There was a rather elaborate chair across the room from her, on a very small raised dais…
And on that throne was the most awful creature she had ever beheld. Grayish-green flesh was pulled taught across the bones, as though frozen half in the stages of rotting away, while baleful red eyes shone from sunken eye sockets. The wicked grin on the lich’s face sent a cold shiver all down her back, and she could feel the vile and evil aura rolling off the undead almost like a mist. Elongated talons that had once been human fingers tapped slowly against the arm rests of the throne, clicking on the lacquered wood like the skittering claws of a small creature across smooth tile. Flowing black robes concealed its bony frame, decorated with dozens of tiny gems and silver thread, a garment much finer than anything Kazlin had ever worn.
Kazlin stood at the things side, holding a single candle. His face was grim, but set—any pity he showed for her last night was completely gone, replaced by cold indifference.
“What a rare prize you’ve found!” Croaked ‘The Chosen’, leaning forward slightly on its throne as it stared at the priestess, “What fun she’ll bring us.”
“Yes, Chosen,” Came Kazlin’s reply.
The Tyrran said nothing, merely backing herself up against the wall. Daringly, she began to make the sign of her faith before her chest, though she had not the chance to complete it. The lich let out a hiss and threw up one of its clawed hands, the wicked sharp digits extending out wide as some unseen force shot out, slamming into her body and knocking her back hard against the wall.
“Renounce Tyr!” Shouted the Bane lich, that clawed hand still extended out wide.
Even as the priestess crumpled to the ground, she shook her head.
“Then you shall suffer!” The Chosen curled his fingers into a fist, and a reddish light began to envelop the priestess, seeming to smother her. “Renounce the Blind God!”
Despite her choking, she steeled her fierce green gaze and merely stared at the lich, and glared even more hatefully at Kazlin. She spat blood towards them both, keeping her head up proudly even as the tangible, viable wicked energy bore down on her, raking innumerably tiny scratches all over she body, as though she were being sliced by thousands of invisible razors. Still, the Tyrran kept her head up defiantly, despite the shouting and cursing of the lich until unconsciousness overcame her, the image of Kazlin standing there impassively burned into her mind.
When she awoke again, she was bound by heavy chains, still in that dark little room. Her arms and shoulders ached, though not from the multitudes of tiny wounds on her body, but from the fact she hung there from them, arms forced wide and chained overhead, the rest of her dangling there limply. Kazlin was standing there, gently dabbing at her wounds with a wet cloth. Seeing her eyes slowly open, he knelt and set the bowl and rag aside, lifting up a mug to her lips. It smelled like bitter tea, but she hadn’t the mind to question him, even if she’d been physically capable of mustering the strength to talk.
“Bane is not so cruel as to forsake his children,” He said softly to her, looking almost pained as he saw her wince as she drank, patiently holding the mug to her lips. His own twitched downwards as a small frown creased his otherwise smooth brow, “The Chosen will soon return to… ‘speak’ with you.”
The priestess struggled weakly, before she just fell still again, and the Baneite resumed his treatment of her wounds. He smeared a sweet smelling salve over her wounds, stepping in slowly and leaning his, whispering in her ear. “It will dull your pain…if you merely accept Bane, all pain will end.”
She turned her face away from him, wheezing softly as unconsciousness came over her again.
“Never.”
The tortures continued on and off for well over a ten-day, growing more intesnse and cruel with each day she did not give in to the lich or to Kazlin and their dark god. It started with beatings, most of which Kazlin himself delivered, with switches and flogs and scourges fixed with nails and broken glass--she was strong, she could handle that pain, even managing to keep silent as her flesh was shredded and flayed. Though, when these almost ritualized beatings did not prove to work, the Chosen became more inventive, summoning swarms of tiny insects at her to bite and pinch and tear at her, their filth infecting open wounds as they veritably covered her. She twisted and wriggled through this, trying to shake the vermin from her hair and face, and while that delighted the lich, it was not enough.
More inventive he became still, taking great care in preparing new poisons to test on the priestess. Some were made into a fine powder, some were thick salves that were rubbed into open and now infected wounds; others were placed in what little food she was allowed. They all had various effects on her, some making her convulse and shiver uncontrollably, some made her wretch and expel anything that had been in her stomach. Some of the poisons caused fever, some dulled her senses and insides so much Kazlin thought she'd expired, until he'd pressed his ear to her chest and listened to the slow, nearly inaudible beat of her heart. The priestess was unconscious frequently, the poisons so strong and so vile that her body simply could not withstand the ravaging, regardless of whether or not her mind or will could.
It was the instance when the knight nearly broke her own back from such intense convulsions from the poisoning that the lich finally relented and heeded to Kazlin's words--"she is no use to us dead"--that that particular form of torment ceased, and instead, the lich returned to the mundane tortures. After only a day or two of these 'simple' and boring floggings, the lich left the ship for a time, irritated and frustrated by the unwavering will the woman possessed.
Kazlin took the time to heal her wounds, unchained her with care quite uncharacteristic for a man that had personally inflicted many of her wounds. He'd taken her back to the spacious cabin with the enormous bed, laid her out and cleaned her up. He was not certain if she was ever aware that it was him or not attending to her, for the rare instances when her eyes were open they were glazed and glassy, unblinking and unfocused. In attempts to ease her pain and the effects of the poisons, Kazlin resorted to drugging her, making tiny cuts along her throat and chest, and dropping the 'remedies' as he called them, into the open wounds so they would absorb more quickly in her blood. She slept fitfully as the drugs and poisons both ravaged her system, and she murmured many names in her sleep. At times, she seemed to be fighting some unseen opponent, twisting and turning weakly, uttering quiet cries until finally she awoke, a feverish sweat drenching her body.
Kazlin was immediately at her side, taking her by the shoulders and laying her back again, shushing her as a parent might a frightened child.
“You should not provoke the Chosen one, pet. His power surpasses your will without question.” He said matter-of-factly, ignoring her pained whimpers as his fingers too roughly brushed over her wounds. The fact she did cry out made him smile slightly...it meant her resolve must be weakening, and that in turn meant that his inevitable victory was drawing nearer. “If only you'd renounce your misguided faith, I would send you home,”
“Home?” She whispered almost dreamily, staring past him with clouded eyes, “Cormyr...”
The Bane priest leaned down as she stared up at him, barely able to hear her words. He propped himself up on his elbow as he looked down at her, half laying on the bed beside her. “No, my home, lovely. You would want for nothing. I simply ask that you obey me. In time... perhaps even love me. I am not a cruel man..."
Forcing her eyes in to focus, the priestess turned her head and looked up at Kazlin, a bit of what he thought may be hope flickering in her eyes.
“Nothing?”
Kazlin nodded his head, his most charming smile rising on his lips. “Anything at all...your every desire I would grant.”
“Then I desire for you to let me die,” She whispered, closing her eyes and turning her head away.
Sighing, the priest merely shook his head, sitting up as he stroked her hair. “That my pet, would be a tragic waste.”
The priestess awoke a short time later, the familiar dull ache in her shoulders and arms again as she was once again chained in that tiny room. The stink of rotting flesh and old death filled the Tyrran’s senses, stinging her eyes and nose, the lich standing terribly close to her. The crimson glowing eyes seemed to burn in to her as she looked back at him, her senses dulled and her body heavy feeling. She could see a dark shape behind it, still near the throne…she guessed it was Kazlin.
“Who do you owe allegiance?” It hissed at her, raking his claws down the front of her ribcage—not rending the flesh, but slicing the cloth and leaving awful raised welts on her skin. The Chosen walked around her slowly as it did, coming to a stop with its talons on her back.
“Tyr,” She whispered,
The Chosen hissed again, dug one claw deeper into her back, near her spine, droplets of blood pooling all around it as it leaned in, sneering even more. If its flesh could have been any more tightly drawn across the bones, it likely would have split, letting whatever stagnant fluids and rotted tissue were left in its withered body spill out down its awful frame.
“How do you serve?” The lich croaked, leaving its hand still. “Are you a temple whore? A mere bed warmer for the priests and knights?”
“I am a knight and priestess both,” came her reply, sudden anger evident in her voice, despite her obvious fatigue, “I serve no man but Tyr,”
Claws bit deeper into her body, twisting a slight bit. “You will come to serve…”
“Only Tyr,”
“Then why does your god forsake you?” It whispered to her, its very voice like needles to her, claws descending even further into her flesh, buried almost to the first misshapen knuckles. “Surely the foolish Maimed god would save a devoted priestess…”
The priestess cried out in pain, unable to answer had she wanted to, an involuntary shudder so extreme and hard coursing through her that caused her binding chains to rattle as sharp talons cut through sensitive nerves and tore through muscles, the slow gush of warm blood running down her back freely now. She twisted again, and finally the lich ripped its claws free, letting out peal of mocking laughter. It laughed for a long moment, its head actually thrown back in glee, until something else caught its ear.
Praying. The insolent woman was actually praying, right there in front of the Chosen of Bane, speaking slowly even as blood ran from the corner of her mouth and from the gaping wound on her back, her words mostly unintelligible. The brazen display of courage the lich had never witnessed before sent it in to a rage, and it let out a howl so horrid that even Kazlin winced, closing his eyes and covering his ears.
As suddenly as the howling had started, it cut off, and when Kazlin reopened his eyes, the lich was gone. His slave still dangled there from the chains, reminding him more of a carcass hanging in a butchers shop than a woman he’d so recently paid a handsome sum to own. Blood dripped rapidly onto the floor beneath her, soaking her ragged clothing and filling the small chamber with the coppery smell. Hurriedly, he moved over to her, unlocking the heavy manacles that bound her wrists, lowering her to the ground.
“Damn you for being stubborn,” He whispered, using his own robes to staunch her bleeding. “If only you'd heed my words.”
Kazlin found the Chosen pacing about in his cabins just a few moments later, the heavy black robe it wore following it like a pool of liquid shadows, the dark silk gliding smoothly over the polished floorboards even as the lich turned about sharply, scowling over at the Baneite as he emerged from the hidden chamber. The secret panel behind the bookcase slid shut smoothly behind him, and Kazlin merely stared at the Chosen.
“Perhaps there is a better way, Chosen,” began the priest carefully, pulling out a chair for the lich.
“How?” It turned its burning gaze over to its cohort, its eyes flaring up as it did.
“I purchased another slave, when I bought her,” Kazlin explained, remaining standing even as the lich settled ungratefully on to the offered chair, “Another Tyrran, a paladin. She seems to be…more willing to cooperate when one of her ‘brethren’ are at risk.”
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11:39 pm
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Part 4---pages 16-20
It was on the third day of her captivity in the captain’s cabin that Kazlin informed her they would be dining together that evening, something more than he or another crewman bringing in her meal. She had yet to see him actually sleep in these three days; at least, had yet to know if he’d slept there, beside her. The sheets and pillows were always undisturbed on that portion of the bed, looking quite untouched. It appeared he never spent much time in that room, in all actuality as items seldom moved save for a candlestick or lamp. Then again, if he was playing captain to this ship, his days were likely filled with spinning lies to cover the slave trade, and convince harbor masters and passing patrols that this was but a simple merchant vessel.
After her bout of afternoon sickness, the priestess watched the rays of dying sunlight filtering in beneath the door, her heart sinking. It was time.
For the first instance since she’d been first detained after her ‘purchase’, the Tyrran was allowed time to bathe by herself. A wash basin had been carried into Kazlin’s quarters and filled and magically warmed, and she’d been allowed scented oils and herbs for the bath. She did not like at all what it implied, what the fresh towel and new dress likely meant, or the dinner that was being laid out on the other side of the changing screen indicated.
But, she took her allotted hour to bathe and dress, and let the spectral servants come her hair and twist it up into a simple but elegant coiffure. The dress that had been brought up for her was simple, long and flowing, but with lacing up the back and front that allowed for a slightly more precise fit. A few flowers were placed in her hair, tiny blossoms of pristine white with dainty curling petals and a few streaks of pale pink marking the buds. The priestess-knight took to pacing anxiously after the changing screen and tub had been cleared away, a sick feeling welling up in the pit of her stomach. Kazlin would be arriving shortly, and she’d have to endure more questions with answers she could not conceal; she’d have to keep her wits about her and fight him off…
The desk had been moved aside, back against the far wall, and a small, long table now occupied its former place, a chair set at either end. A modest dinner had already been brought in on covered trays and platters, wine goblets and bottles set out and uncorked. The candles were being lit by the same unseen servants, the flames manifesting as though from thin air. She’d already decided she’d eat and drink only enough to sustain herself, not willing to give him any advantage over her. When she heard the doorknob turn she stopped her pacing, turning to look towards the entry way.
Kazlin, as anticipated, stepped through, dressed in the simple finery she’d come to expect. He smiled at her, and gestured towards the table as he walked over to it, pulling out a chair for her. She sat down, moving with a sort of stiff grace, and he pushed her chair in beneath her in proper gentleman’s fashion. He settled into the chair across from her, uncovering each of the platters to reveal a different dish and poured the wine, that painfully charming smile never leaving his face.
The Tyrran drank from her glass, keeping her eyes lowered, feeling color rise up in her cheeks beneath his smoldering gaze.
“That dress suits you well,” Kazlin said absently, swirling the dark red liquid in his glass about as though quite bored, though a hint of amusement remained on his face. “Surely it must not compare to your other dresses,”
“I’ve had no other dresses,”
Kazlin looked surprised and amused by her blunt answer, raising his eyebrows curiously. “None? A lady that’s never owned a dress? I do not believe that for a moment. How is it that you’ve never had a dress?”
She shifted uncomfortably, in her seat, picking at her plate of food. “I’ve never needed one,”
“Oh? Never needed, or never wanted?”
Her sharp green gaze flickered up in what would have been warning, had she not been in such a precarious situation; but, she was, and quickly remembering herself, she looked down again. Kazlin managed to conceal his own grin at her discomfort, taking a long drink from his goblet, and then promptly refilling it. They finished the rest of their meal in relative quiet, and when he did ask questions, she answered with little more than a word or two. Finally, he let out a pleased sigh and pushed back his dish, standing up and strolling over to her. She straightened up and held her breath, letting him pull her back up to her feet, slowly turning her gaze up towards his. Large hands clasped her by the shoulders, and slowly did he lean down, kissing her cheek near her ear; he could not see her disgusted expression or the baleful flash in her eyes...and he did not notice the silver table knife she had hidden up her sleeve. Standing back up straight again, Kazlin stepped away from her, walking to the small table beside the bed to light the lamp there, shrugging off his jerkin and tossing it carelessly towards another chair.
Very foolish of him, to turn his back on her.
He was turning around to face her again when she leapt at him, a small table knife in hand. Kazlin was stunned as he saw the flashing silver, wincing as the little blade was buried up to the handle into his shoulder. The Tyrran whirled around back towards the table to snatch up another weapon, but the priest caught her by the wrist, nearly lifting her off her feet as he threw her to the ground. She’d not ever been easily frightened, but as Kazlin glowered down at her, pulling the knife from his shoulder with a wet slurping sound, she found herself terrified. He threw the knife across the chamber and then stooped down, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her up roughly to her feet; small hands balled into fists and struck as his chest feebly as she tried to wriggle away, pushing at him with the heels of her palms and forearms futilely. Kazlin spun around, turning her towards the massive bed and then struck her, slapping her hard across the face with the back of his hand. The sheer force of the blow knocked the knight backwards, and she fell to the floor again, narrowly managing to catch herself on her hands before her head hit the ground. With a speed uncharacteristic of a man his size, the priest again stooped down and snatched her up again, one hand coming up to her throat as the other tore at her simple dress, ripping the once modest collar wide until it fell around her shoulders, the swell of her breasts clearly visible now beneath the distressed lacing and torn cloth, and with a final shove, he threw her back onto the bed. When she hit the mattress the little flowers in her hair came loose and her dark hair tumbled free, pooling around her head as it bounced twice from the impact of her fall. Before she had even half a chance to scramble away, Kazlin was upon her again, his wide hands catching her slender wrists and pinning them to bed, keeping her legs still with the pressure of his hips pressing down against them.
“Look at me!” He roared at her, bringing his face down very close to her own, “Look!”
Through tears and sobs she did look up, ceasing her wasted struggles; he’d caught her, and there could be no escape now. His face was only inches from hers, his lips drawn back into a cruel sneer and his eyes narrowed dangerously. The Tyrran could only stare at his teeth, the canines seeming a slight bit longer and more pronounced than she had ever noticed before, and at his eyes which no longer appeared the clear and warm hazel color, but a deep yet bright and vibrant green, burning with their intensity; even the pupils seemed a but elongated like a cats. Kazlin’s frightful visage renewed her struggles and she twisted and thrashed vainly beneath him, large tears now freely flowing from her eyes, just a freely as droplets of blood dripped down from his wound onto her shoulders and ruined dress. The sweet smell of the blossoms that had once been in her hair and were now crushed beneath their bodies covered the coppery scent of his blood, of few of the damaged petals now stuck to her flushed cheeks and bare shoulders.
“Is this how you want me to treat you?! Like a piece of meat? A common whore!?” He roared again, squeezing her wrists and pressing down harder on to her as he yelled. She did not answer him, weeping openly now as she felt him grind his hips down suggestively and as she felt the warm rush of his breath on her face and throat. In one swift adjustment, Kazlin gathered both her wrists up over her head, using only one hand now to pin her, keeping the other free now to roam as it wished. He tore at her dress, the sound of ripping fabric eliciting a mournful cry from the priestess, which the Baneite quelled with a careful squeezing of her throat. When the wail died away and she was merely sobbing again, his free hand continued its wanderings, tracing down the taper of her waist and then the swelling curve of her hip, fingers digging in harshly to the soft flesh there for a moment before it went back up to her neck, clamping down tightly again.
“Would you rather this? For I can be as cruel as I have been kind.” He only loosed his grip when her breath finally came as a hoarse, choked gasp. The feral rage on his face suddenly vanished, quickly replaced with self reproach, as he watched her heave and suck in air, her back arching up as she coughed and gasped. He released his grip on her hands, placing his own flat on the bed on either side of her head, and merely stared down at her as she writhed weakly, trying to turn away from him but simply unable to summon the strength or coordination to do so. Finally, he sat up, still settled between slender legs, now quite exposed from all their thrashing with the torn gown bunched around her thighs, and he pulled the remnants of her dress back down over her knees, back over her breasts, though he trailed one finger down that scar on down the center of her chest, touching the skin until the scar disappeared back beneath her clothing.
Scowling, Kazlin stood up and stormed out of his chamber, leaving the priestess laying there still only semi-conscious. The crew members he passed all quickly moved aside, even the usually stupid gnolls, none of which foolish enough to cross the path of the disheveled and bleeding Baneite. One could guess that things had gone very well, or terribly badly. He’d lost his temper, and he abhorred losing his temper…such a weakness was unacceptable both to him, and to his god, and the fact that one woman, stubborn enough to attack him, made him react as he had, greatly annoyed him.
Kazlin began to pace, around the main deck, sending the crew continuously scattering like insects, until one of the men gathered the courage to approach.
“Are you alright, captain? Shall we have the boy brought up for punishment?”
Kazlin looked back at the mate, and merely shook his head, that expression dark as storm clouds still on his face.
“No. Not for this. I imagine I’ve caused her quite enough…distress this evening.” He covered his own displeasure with a rueful smirk, and the stupid crewman just nodded and laughed, shuffling away. It was about time for the shifts to change, when the rest of the gnolls would emerge from the lower decks to sail the ship under the cover of the night. He watched them for a long while, as the dog-beasts and the men traded shifts, making certain that it was all a smooth transition.
Finally, after an hour had passed and his minor wound had stopped bleeding, Kazlin headed back towards his spacious quarters, all of his anger dissolved and gone. He entered quietly, did not slam the door behind him. In the dim light—all the candles save one were now extinguished—he saw that the priestess still lay on the bed, and saw that she tensed when he stepped nearer. She began to quiver as he approached calmly, slowly, pausing to stare down at her with his head leaned against the tall bedpost. He did not look at her directly, actually closing his eyes for several minutes before finally crouching beside the bed and staring at her face. The Tyrran now lay on her stomach, flower petals still stuck to her face and in her hair, her arm tucked up against her chest and fingers curled against her lips. Her face and eyes were still wet with tears, and she looked away as his gaze came to rest on her face. He saw glimpses of the heavy bruises he’d left on her slender throat, already a deep scarlet purple, and when Kazlin listened closely, he could hear the soft, damaged wheeze of her every breath. Hesitantly, he again adjusted her torn gown, trying to pull it up over her back, to cover the scars, a sudden wave of guilt coming over him as if he personally had inflicted every one of those wounds. The priestess shuddered as his fingertips brushed her skin, and Kazlin let out a frustrated sigh, sweeping a lock of hair back from her face.
“I’m sorry…” He began in a very small voice, resting his hand almost tenderly on the back of her head. He murmured a few words, and that rejuvenating blue glow shined again around his hand, repairing the damage he had done to her, broken blood vessels and collapsed tissue healing up at a quite accelerated rate. “You must understand my position, pet. Many men in my position would just as soon kill you as go through all the trouble I have. I do not like to lose my temper, but I am so--”
Kazlin’s voice cut out as something seemed to strike him, a thought perhaps, his eyes growing suddenly distant as he looked through or past her, the holy symbol around his neck pulsing with a faint green light. His lips, still parted in mid-word, began to turn to a frown, which deepened with ever passing moment, every pulse of energy from his icon. Finally, it stopped, and the look on his face was a mask of bitterness and irritation, though his eyes betrayed the slight hint of fear…
Suddenly, he stood up and whirled around, slamming his fist into the wall near to the bed, the wood splintering and cracking beneath the force of his blow. Blood smeared from his knuckles as he pulled his hand away, looking helpless for a split second. The priestess sat up slowly, covering herself with her arms as she looked at him timidly, biting her lip.
“One of The Chosen is coming here…coming for you.” Kazlin finally relented, the sour expression on his face belying more and more of his utter helpless in the situation. The woman looked confused; she did not know what a ‘chosen’ of Bane might be, but could only imagine it to be awful.
Seeing her bewilderment, Kazlin again dropped into a low crouch before her, staring upwards at her eyes, suddenly wishing that he could see himself there, that they would reflect the candle’s light. If she had been merely a half-elf, the Chosen would kill her swiftly, would not bother to spend time slowly torturing her as he knew that it would…she’d be swiftly killed, and then the Chosen would be gone, leaving Kazlin to his own business. But that could never be. The Chosen would know in an instant what she was, if it didn’t already…and that for certain meant a most terrible death.
“The Chosen…they’re creatures that have embraced the unlife, that wields power no living cleric could ever dream of possessing,” He explained to her, frowning again, “Someone has told it you are here…”
The way he kept referring to The Chosen as ‘it’ made her shudder.
“Why do you tell me this?” She questioned.
Kazlin looked taken aback for a moment, grasping for an answer beneath her near otherworldly gaze. “Because I want you to remember that I am a most kind master…and that Bane provides for all of his children.”
She turned her face sharply away from him then, arms still held modestly over her chest. “Tyr will not abandon me,”
Kazlin heaved a heavy sigh, managing a small, weak smile. “Pray that you are right, my pet. Pray that you are right.”
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01:56 pm
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Part 3-----Pages11-15
“I do not like people damaging my things,” Not allowing the man a chance to answer, the Baneite punched him hard in the gut, eliciting the most pained scream most of the sailors had ever heard. The black glow transferred from Kazlin’s fist to the mans body as his hand connected, energy tendrils snaking out and seeming to burrow into the man’s flesh, his skin around the area turning a sickly gray and clammy to the touch. Kazlin stepped back and merely scowled, watching the man collapse into a writhing mass on the deck, clutching at his stomach and yowling in pain, the gray tinge spreading over his body as bruises began to manifest on him.
“Nor do I like my orders disobeyed,” The scowl on his face twisted and shifted into a bemused smirk as he gave the man a kick, his sharp gaze sweeping the rest of the crew in warning. None said a word, nor did any move to help their still twitching compatriot; they just nodded and shuffled their feet, and went back to their tasks in silence. After a moment, Kazlin turned and walked back to the woman, tsking at her again.
“Getting yourself in trouble already, pet,” She tensed up as his hand came to rest on her back, fingers trailing through the blood now slicking her back and wetting her now ruined tunic. He bent down a bit to look at her face, the expression on which could only be described as dulled and subdued. Green eyes were distant, half lidded and pink lips were parted and slack; she looked almost catatonic, somehow serene despite her injuries. With his dagger he cut her free, catching her in his arms before she fell to the deck. She seemed slight and delicate to him when he finally had her in his grasp, the solidity of when had touched her previously seemingly inconsequential and surreal. She didn’t struggle or flail when he knelt down and swept her up, hooking one arm beneath her knees and gently looping the other around her shoulders, wincing inwardly as he felt the warm gush of blood wet his bare skin, her head lolling back. Kazlin gave the lasher one last hard kick before he stepped clear over the body, which was an easy enough thing for his great height, nearly six and a half feet tall, walking purposefully towards his cabin.
The Tyrran awoke late in the night, her face half buried in a lush, soft pillow. The pain in her back was dulled, as were her senses entirely it seemed, her vision hazy and hearing muddled as though she were underwater. She was not back in the cabin amongst the other slave women as she had expected, but instead found herself lying face down in a soft and spacious bed, silken sheets pulled half up, covering her lower half, though the blazing coals in the various braziers provided more than enough warmth. A set of silver shackles cuffed either wrist, the interior of the manacle finely lined with cushiony satin while the exterior was polished to a glittering shine. Twisted silk rope secured the manacles to the bedpost, the knots all unyielding and well tied despite her efforts to wriggle and pull them loose. Turning her head with a defeated sigh, she spotted her tunic, or remnants thereof on a chair next to a wide desk, where a small laboratory of sorts had been assembled; she could see well the mortar and pestle, vials and mixing knives and dried plants and little clay crocks stopped with wide corks, all the things an herbalist—or poison crafter—could ever need. The priest knelt not far from the desk, before an altar to his deity, deep in prayer; the words, though unintelligible to her, seemed almost pleasant, or perhaps it was the tone of his voice, deep and smooth, that was so disarming. Either way, she found herself nearly enraptured by it despite the fact that a part of her mind screamed at her to struggle and fight and demand her release and freedom, and as she listened to the dark honey sound of his chanting, the stubborn knight found herself fraught to keep her eyes open.
It could have been minutes, it could have been hours, later when Kazlin finally finished his ritual prayers, making the sign of his faith before he pushed up to his feet, snuffing out the ebony prayer candle with his bare palm. He long since changed out of his day clothing, finding the leathers, though no matter how soft, to still be too uncomfortable in the night. The jerkin and tall boots were changed out for only a soft linen shirt and breeches, a pair of slipper like boots likely of elven make covering his feet. Kazlin strode over to his newest acquisition, lighting a few oil lamps along the way, carrying one near and setting it on the short table beside the massive bed. A slight frown creased his lips and brow both as he looked down at the Tyrran’s back, staring hard at the innumerable scars that crisscrossed and marred what should have been smooth flesh. The newest lash wounds were still angry and red, though he’d carefully stitched them back together and treated them with comforting salves. He found himself marveling silently as he watched the muscles in her back and arms tense up in perfect succession as he lowered himself onto the bed beside her; her muscles were all well formed yet not over developed, strong yet retaining a feminine softness—clearly she had seen battle, trained to wield weapons and defend those dear to her. Feebly she struggled against the silk restraints, though her body seemed unwilling and slow to respond to her commands, even as she felt the heat rolling of his body in almost pulsing waves.
“Now if I thought you wouldn’t run away or disobey me again, I’d let you up. I had to see that your other companion received the rest of your beating, you know. Poor lad…doesn’t even know what he’s done,” He murmured to her, lifting a wide hand and stroking her hair. She said nothing in reply to him, made no move; she merely stared out at nothing, the light of the lamp flame never dancing in her eyes, as it would have any other girls. It seemed the light was just swallowed up by the deep green depths, or perhaps the glow was just unable to compare to the ethereal radiance they seemed to emanate.
Undaunted or perturbed by her silence, Kazlin continued to speak to her, keeping his voice pleasant and calm as he stroked her hair, smiling to himself as her eyelids continued to droop.
“How do you feel, pet? Those wounds hurting you?” He stopped stroking at her still-plaited hair and picked up a small bowl from the nightstand, stirring the contents therein. The salve had been made with all the proper herbs to speed healing and soothe and ease pain—he’d seen to that, of course; however, he’d also added something more, a sedative that he was certain would assist in keeping her properly subdued. Using the small medicine spatula, he applied a bit more of the substance to the still weeping wounds, finding a secret delight in the wince and then subsequent relaxation it brought to her. He continued to speak to her, though his voice soon faded away to a pleasing hum.
“You’ll find I can be a most generous master, sweet girl. Most generous and accommodating,”
The Tyrran awoke the next morning at the dawning, the noise of the crew moving about on the deck rousing her from her drugged slumber. Kazlin was no where to be found, the covers on the bed no more disturbed than they had been the night before; the only thing that seemed changed or different was the fact Kazlin was in fact gone, and that when she moved to pull her arms up, she could; the ties were no longer binding her to the bed posts. So she pulled herself up, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed to the floor. Her vision was still cloudy, movements still slow and indolent, so much so that she dropped the now cold cup of tea set out for her, the china cup shattering on the hard floor boards. As daintily as she could manage, she stepped around the shards, using the bed to guide and balance herself. A set of clothes were set out for her on the same chair, a skirt and tunic of the same poor quality and harsh material, though they were clean and devoid of tears. After clumsily dressing herself, the knight moved for the door, trying vainly to open it, but it was locked securely, and from the outside. Pressing her back to the door with a heavy sigh, she took a moment to survey the room, searching for anything she could use to get away…
The desk, where the makeshift laboratory had been arranged, was now cleared off, save for a singular sheet of parchment. There was the small wardrobe where the altar had been, the doors on it closed and latched, though black silk cushions still remain out. There were a few sitting chairs in the room, and a narrow bookcase that reached from the floor to the ceiling, filled with only a small number of books really; it seemed that while this cabin was spacious and elegant, it was not often inhabited, or not done so for any long amount of time. The most impressive piece of furniture in the cabin was the bed, an absolutely immense thing with a frame constructed of elegantly carved wood and reinforced with twisted iron bands; two people could easily had slept on the bed, likely without ever even touching. There were no windows in the Cabin, the only light spilling in from the narrow crack between the door and floorboards, or being shed from a few braziers, the coals and embers within still glowing softly; the lack of windows seemed odd, if these were in fact the captain’s quarters. All the ships she’d ever seen had windows along the back of the structure, allowing light to pour in…but that was not the case here.
After pounding on the door gained her no attention or summoned the priest, the Tyrran tried to open every possible thing in the room—the wardrobe, the chest, the drawers on the desk, none of which yielded any clues or help, each and every one locked up securely. The books on the shelves were generic, some filled with poetry and prose, some on general religion, history, or warfare; nothing exceptional. Thinking herself to be alone, and by extension safe, she fell to her knees and began to pray to her god, hurried words rushing from her lips in quick breaths. Half expecting the priest to come storming through the doors at any moment, she prayed and prayed, begging for some sign or comfort from her god Tyr…but none came. The warming, reassuring rush she usually felt when communing with her deity was nil, and instead she found herself greeted with a shuddering chill.
“No…he would not abandon me here, not like this…” Opening her eyes, she looked up as though able to see the heavens through the ship, a helpless and confused look all over her face. “Why? I’ve served loyally…I have served…”
“Perhaps Tyr is not concerned with a mere initiate priestess,” Kazlin stood there at the door, locking it behind him. In one hand he held a small tray, on which were a bowl and small pitcher and bowl, the other merely tucked the door key into a pocket. “Bane cares for the success of all his children…initiate or Chosen, he does not abandon us.”
She sharply turned her face away from him, gathering herself up and hugging her legs to her chest, remaining seated where she was on the floor. With a grace uncharacteristic to most men of his size, Kazlin knelt beside her, setting down the tray without a sound or spilling a drop. There was a hot broth in the bowl and a piece of bread, milk in the pitcher. It was a rather meager breakfast, but she’d not eaten for days…hesitating only a moment, she reached out and pulled the tray over, picking up the bowl and raising it to her lips, drinking deeply. He watched her, quietly satisfied.
“So, will you talk to me today, pet?” Kazlin moved over to the bed, pulling up the slightly rumpled sheets and smoothing them out, taking care to wind the silken ropes back around the bed posts. He watched her over his shoulder as she ate and drank, milling about the room leisurely as he did.
She only shook her head at him, pushing away the tray from herself as she got to her feet. The Tyrran adopted her proud and defiant stance again, keeping her head up as she stared across the room at him…she didn’t seem intimidated by him, or if she was, her expression didn’t belie it at all. He towered nearly a foot taller than she, and was likely twice as wide at the shoulder, but she seemed neither impressed nor afraid.
“Feeling better today then? The crew did give you quite a lashing. And I suppose I should thank you. Aoth—the man you hit with that stool; very clever, by the way—well, I’d like to thank you for killing him. It saves me the trouble.” Kazlin lifted a hand, casually inspecting his nails and fingers, lifting his eyes towards her with a smirk. She inhaled sharply, but said nothing and did not look away, only shifting her weight slightly from one foot to the other. They stood for a long while, or at least so it felt, staring impassively at one another, each waiting for the other to make some sort of move. Finally, Kazlin approached her, stooping to pick up the tray and empty dishes. With his other hand he caught her wrist, and gave her a firm but directing push towards the bed.
“I suggest you rest, my dear. You and I are going to have a talk later. And you will talk.” He only released his grip when she finally sat, tugging her arm away from him with a baleful scowl. Kazlin merely smiled.
After Kazlin left the spacious chamber, the Tyrran knight stared at the door after him for a long moment, her gaze smoldering enough it could nearly have burned holes through the heavy wood. But that searing anger soon gave way to fatigue, and almost against her will, and likely against her better judgment, she lay down and closed her eyes. She slept a deep and dreamless sleep for several hours, waking to the sound of the door being closed and locked again. Kazlin had returned, with another plate of meager food, setting it down on the night stand, sitting on the bed without batting an eye. She sat up instantly then, frowning and pulling the covers tight around her, feeling as though she were quite naked though she remained fully dressed.
“Sleep well, pet?” He asked casually, looking over at her.
“Yes,” She looked surprised by her own answer, as though the word had slipped unwillingly from her own lips. Eyeing him, she picked up the tray, and again lifted this bowl to her lips, drinking again.
“I’m so pleased. Your injuries had me quite distressed. So, will you tell me where you’re from then?”
The Tyrran looked over the edge of the bowl at him, eyes calm and yet confused somehow. She was compelled to answer him though she in truth did not want to, her thoughts jumbled as the words ‘Suzail’ and ‘Cormyr’ continuously danced at the tip of her tongue. Her hands trembled as she put the bowl aside, folding her hands in her lap and looking down and away.
“Cormyr,” She finally answered, her entire small frame veritably shaking. She’d wanted to be vague and merely say ‘the south’, but again the words came out against all her determination to keep quiet. She could not formulate a different answer; even had she wanted to lie or been permitted to, she could not. Something was compelling her to speak the honestly, much against her will…
Over the next two days, she divulged to him information to him when he asked, unable to keep herself from replying with anything but the simple truth; how many Tyrran warriors were located in the great fortress in Suzail, what she knew of the troubles in Proskur, what rank in the church she was…she’d not wanted to tell him any of it, but he’d somehow coaxed it from her with warm tea and that deep melodic voice. He’d not yet been able to learn her name, but each time he asked, it grew harder to resist telling him.
She hated him for it.
And every day, after his usual questioning, she grew sick, dizzy and nauseous; her vision would blur and she’d inevitably fall back to the bed in a deep sleep, waking many hours later feeling tired and heavy. Every day, she would try and pray to Tyr to help her, to help her companion who was still alive down in the slave holds…but no answer came, no comfort.
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01:55 pm
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Part 2----Pages 6-10
“Yes, sir. Will she be going out with the others in the morning?”
To this Kazlin nodded, stepping back towards the door. “Indeed. I want her bathed and cleaned properly, and dressed. She’s an exceptionally personal investment, that one.”
Both Liz’beth and the other woman nodded and sank into low, respectful bows, not straightening or turning until Kazlin was gone and well out of sight. He’d left the door open, and the quieter slaver poked her head outside, ordering the basin and water and fresh clothing.
“Well aren’t you a pretty one,” Liz’beth mused, sauntering around until she stood before the Tyrran, locking stares with her. The woman said nothing, and Liz’beth only grinned. “How fortunate that Master Kazlin finds obstinate ones like you entertaining.”
Gradually, the frightful whispers among the other five slave women began again, all no-doubt directed at the newest acquisition. Even still, the Tyrran woman did not speak nor her gaze falter or waver for a moment, green eyes boring into the slave driver without relent, and nor did Liz’beth speak or flinch, merely smiled.
It was when the washbasin was carried it in and filled nearly a half hour later that the silence was finally shattered.
“Undress and get in.” Liz’beth ordered, pointing to the basin. The other slaver, the quiet and violent one, stood beside the tub, holding a small bucket; a few grooming instruments were clearly visible, a comb and scrub brush and soap and oils—nothing extravagant, but all of it with its function. Inhaling deeply, the woman did as directed, tugging off the remains of her tunic and breeches, standing impassively there, facing the oppressive mistresses, her back to the other slaves. When she finally stood there nude, a sudden and unexpected hush again fell over the peasants, and Liz’beth shot them all an accusing scowl.
“What is it?” She demanded, her hand moving again to her scourge, that wicked little tool that caused so much pain to so many. One of the slaves lifted a hand, pointing at the new woman.
“Her back! Look at it!” She stammered, turning and huddling herself against one of the other captives, clear blue eyes wide with shock. Liz’beth’s scowl deepened, and angrily, she marched around behind her to investigate.
Scars marred the tanned skin there, some long and thin and smooth, others wide and jagged—some were clearly from burns, others likely arrows or spears, and so many more that could have been lash marks or sword wounds or a dozen other things, that her back was comprised nearly entirely of scar tissue. There were scars on her arms and stomach too, though these seemed slightly less severe, likely from better care. One long scar in particular ran right down the center of her chest between her breasts, the marring feature white and thin, trailing from near her heart almost the full way to her naval, though the skin all around was smooth; this wound had been mortal, and clearly she’d received some magical healing, though by the looks of it, it did not come when it would have been most vital.
“Not so pretty after all,” Liz’beth chuckled, giving her a firm push towards the tub. Without any argument or struggle, she stepped into the cool water and sat down, washing stale blood from her body and hair.
“Should we tell Kazlin?” Inquired the other slaver, crouching down and beginning to comb through the woman’s long dark hair, untangling the braid and brushing through until is nearly glowed like copper in the orange glow illuminating the hut.
Liz’beth shook her head with a smirk.
“No. He’ll find out for himself, I’m sure. And I’d hate to think that we might spoil the surprise of his discovery.”
Just as had been ordered, the immense merchant ship was prepared for voyage by the first rays of the dawning sun, legitimate mercantile activity a clever mask for the slave trade. The slaves were in fact all hidden in secret holds, concealed behind false walls in the large cargo caches on the lower decks. Among those slaves was of course the Tyrran woman and the other five, all forced in one small chamber. There was a single oil lamp to light the room, and two large mattresses laid out with a heap of tattered blankets—the conditions here seemed squalid, but were comparably better than those of the other slaves, the mere ‘laborers’. Oddly enough, there were no guards posted in the room, and they were only looked in on and supervised during meal times. There was a good chance that could change though; after all, it was only the first day of the travel.
The women remained largely huddled together on the mattresses, weeping or talking in hushed, frightened whispers, all but the Tyrran. She bided her time pacing for a while first, before an idea seemed to strike her, and then she took to gathering up the threshes strewn about. Plopping down beside the door, she began twisting and twining them into a thin length of rope. None of the other women spoke to her save one, a girl of no more than thirteen, named Katrina. She sat herself down across from the Tyrran, spouting off a never ending stream of questions—where she came from, who she was, what she did. Katrina guessed that she was a weaver, and then a seamstress, a baker, a spinner…finally, the Tyrran just laughed and smiled at her, finally looking up as she tied off the ends of her little rope.
“I’m a Priestess, and Knight of Tyr.”
Katrina’s brown eyes grew wide then and she leaned in close, staring at the woman in unabashed wonderment. “You’re a knight? Really, for honest?” She cupped her hands in her chin as she stared up at the woman, still a bit skeptical.
The woman only nodded and gave another smile, tugging on the rope she’d woven as though testing its strength, and apparently satisfied, she tied it around her leg, just below her knee, well hidden beneath her skirt. Katrina wrinkled her nose, creeping in closer.
“What’s that for?”
“I hope you won’t ever have to see, miss.” The knight answered, smoothing out the folds of the rough fabric as she remained seated, back to the wall.
“How’d you end up here?”
The blunt question seemed to catch the woman off guard, and a sorrowful, almost shamed look crossed her face. “There was a battle…dozens of orcs…and then a terrible cold. I do not imagine that any of my companions survived, save for one.”
Katrina looked wonderstruck and sad all at once, and had her mouth open to speak when the Tyrran sat up quickly, immediately looking towards the door and getting to her feet. There were footsteps approaching, two sets, and they finally came to a stop there in front of the door. There was the tell-tale turning and clicking of the lock and then the creak as the door was pushed open…she half expected the arrogant Bane-priest to come strolling through, but instead two men pushed their way in, stinking of sea water and sweat, leering at the women in each in turn. The captives fell into a deathly silence, huddled and clinging to one another…all except the knight, who stood calmly, proudly between the men and the others, and young Katrina, who tried likewise to adopt the same stance.
“The captain says you can pick on for yerself and crew,” One said to his cohort, twirling a set of large, heavy looking keys on a finger. The other man, younger by far, began to move closer to the women, Katrina notably, but with every step he took, the knight mirrored him, keeping herself between him and the girl.
“Out of the way, wench!” Shouted the younger man, coming forward and giving the Tyrran a rough shove, “You ain’t the one we want!”
Katrina’s fearless façade crumbled then and tears started to flow and wet her cheeks as realization struck her. The girl let out a sobbing wail and shrank down to the floor, covering her face and head as though would protect and shield her. The older man came forward and reached for Katrina, and while he intended to reach for the girl’s arm, instead he found his fingers tangled up with the Tyrran’s, who had once again placed herself between the men and the girl. A peculiar look came over her face then, a sweet yet sultry smile, as she stepped nearer to the both of them, her free hand coming up to the face of the older man.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a woman that knows what she’s doing, sir? I would provide much more activity, I’m certain.” The younger sailor glanced past her at the trembling girl, and then just smirked.
“Fine then. It’ll be you,” The older man twisted his hand free from hers then, and clamped it around her upper arm, tugging her out through the door and into the narrow corridor of the ship. It was dark and quiet below the decks, the hallway itself not even wide enough for one person to walk comfortably through, instead having to twist slightly sideways to fit, and the lingering stench of death and filth wafted through the hot air. There were sounds coming from the other end of the corridor, in the darkness, the shuffling of feet and the occasional wheezing cough…more slaves.
The narrow hallway seemed to terminate at a dead end, until one of the men lifted a heavy fist and pounded on the wall. There was the creaking of a gear, and then a panel of the wall popped open, a rush of cool air blowing back into the passageway. Behind them all, the false panel swung shut, and a few empty crates were moved back in place. The passage would have been difficult to detect even to the most astute of elves, so well was the panel concealed. The rays of the dying sun filtered in to the storage hold through an open hatch, a number of sailors scurrying about, moving crates or bundles of rope or canvas—doing all the things expected on a sailing ship, save for the fact there were other things down in the wide cargo cache as well: a small horde of gnolls were moving about in the hold, most hunched over and shoving or stacking immense crates, a few others ascending to the upper deck.
She, the Tyrran felt sick for a moment as she stared at all the wolfish faces, on man and gnoll alike, and the sickness turned to anger and rage as she thought of her lost companions…Leandra, Kat, Tim Feng…and Dailan…not to mention her fellow Tyrrans…all lost and gone…and yet here she was, still alive. It was all horribly unfair.
The two men pulled her along then, weaving through the maze of workers and sailors, among the crates and barrels until they reached another passageway, this one not concealed as the other had been. This hall was short, and much wider than the other; there was a wide, open room at the end of it, the crew’s quarters most likely, and to left was the galley. They led her past the crude kitchen and eating area, into the other large room where a number of hammocks, some filled with sleeping gnolls or humans, the others empty to one last door. The older man with the keys turned the lock and pushed the door open, and through the threshold the younger one stepped, dragging the ‘slave’ along with him. There was a single candle illuminating the small room, set on a low stool beside another old and stained mattress, in only slightly better condition than those in the other slave hold. There was again the sound of a lock turning, and how it sickened her, even as she forced a smile at the other man and settled down on to the ‘bed.’
“Well then, off with yer clothes.” He ordered, already working on loosening his own belt, “Haven’t got much time,”
The Tyrran managed another forced smile, and merely patted the mattress beside her. “Why don’t you come down here and help me?” When the man looked skeptical and uncertain, she quickly added, “I’m terribly shy…”
That made him smile, and seemed all the coaxing he needed. Without removing his clothes, he plopped down beside her, grimy hands immediately coming up to her shoulders, rubbing in suggestive manner. He foolishly leaned in, kissing along her collar and neck, and thusly not paying attention at all to what her hands were doing. One was gripped firmly onto his shoulder—if he’d been paying any attention, he might’ve been more likely to notice the strength there—and the other hand was groping for something in the dim light. Finally, she found what she was looking for, and shoved him back hard. He didn’t have any time to react, not even gasp as the candle snuffed out and the stool came flying at his head, bashing him hard across the face. Blood spattered from his nose and mouth, his eyes rolling back as unconsciousness gripped him, and to the mattress he fell with a soft thud. Worried yet hoping that the other crewman had heard the noise, the Tyrran woman pressed herself to the wall next to the door, unwinding the make-shift garrote from beneath her skirt, snapping it twice to again test its strength. Predictably, she heard the bar across the door being slid up and aside, and just as predictably, the door squeaked open and a crack of light washed in. Seeing his comrade unconscious and unmoving, and still clothed, the other man grew worried and stepped in; the door slammed shut behind him. While he let out a confused shout, he didn’t turn around fast enough, and soon found himself choking as she leapt at him, lashing the garrote around his neck and pulling it tight. He flailed and struggled, slapping on the door and walls in a vain cry of help, his voice nothing more than a dying gargle. After a minute or so, both tumbled to the ground, the man still miraculously alive though the woman knelt on his back, keeping the rope pulled and twisted tight. Angry tears welled in her eyes as she continued to pull, though before she could complete her ‘task’, rough hands were pulling her off of him, slapping her and pushing her to the ground. She could hear the man sputter back to life even as she stared up at the other crew standing around them all now, looking every bit as wicked as she knew they were. One of the largest of the man snatched her up, and the shouts of “lash her to the mast!” went up and “give her ten lashes! No, twenty!”
She did not struggle as they carried her above to the top deck, nor did she struggle when they began to tie her up to the mast; she didn’t scream or cry as the whip came down hard across her back, leaving great bloody gashes in its wake, tearing the flimsy fabric of her tunic with each lashing. The cries of bloodlust from the crew just melted away into a dull hum as the pain overwhelmed the Tyrran, and she slumped; if she’d not been bound in placed, she would have fallen to the deck.
“Stop at once!” It was him, his voice, Kazlin yelling from the uppermost deck. She could hear the heavy, fast footfalls on the stairs and deck, and the defensive squabbling of the crew as they tried to explain themselves.
“The bitch nearly killed Khemed and Aoth!” A cry went up among the sailors, and she did not need to see them to know they were all bobbing their heads in accord. She could feel the tingle in the air as the whip was raised up, and tensed as she anticipated another blow, but none came, there was the whistling crack, but she felt nothing.
Kazlin stood between the crew then, and the insolent Tyrran knight bound to the mast, the whip curled around his raised arm and fist, his eyes narrowed dangerously. With a jerk, he pulled the whip clean from the lasher’s hand, scowling deeply as he did.
“Clearly, mate, you did not hear me correctly,” He warned, throwing the whip to the floor. Stalking forward, the priest began to murmur foul words that made the knight shudder and twist in her confines, and the blackish glow soon encircling his fist made the lasher tremble with fright. The other crew members all stepped back, an instant hush falling over them as Kazlin closed in, looming ominously before the crewman.
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01:52 pm
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Part 1---pages 1-5
“We have some commoners for the trade up in the North,”
Kazlin looked up from his desk, sighing in mild annoyance; it was the third interruption today, and certainly not a very welcomed one at that. He could smell the gnoll looming in the doorway even all the way across the long room, the stench of mud and wet fur invading his nose and twisting his thin lips into a small frown of distaste. The gnoll itself, one called G’nar, shifted uncomfortably under Kazlin’s sharp and calm stare, snorting a bit before it spoke again in broken common.
“We have three more that may be of particular interest to you,”
Thin black eye brows arched up expectantly, waiting for the stupid creature to finish and explain, and after several long moments of silence, the priest waved his hand languidly, spurring the gnoll to continue. Pushing back his chair, Kazlin stood, twisting the small knob on the lantern behind him, watching more of the wick fizzle to life and catch before glancing back over his shoulder at the dog-beast.
“Well?”
“Tyr followers. Two live, one dead.”
“Tyr?” The smile that suddenly crossed Kazlin’s face as he turned about made G’nar twitch, ears flattening back slightly and tail lowering, every muscle in his body clearly tensed. He nodded his massive head just once, before barking out an order to one of his companions and stepping aside. Two more gnolls stepped in, a larger specimen carrying two bodies, one over each shoulder; the other—apparently much younger than the other two of its kind—carried only one, and dropped the still form unceremoniously onto the carpet of Kazlin’s chamber. The other two bodies were laid out with a bit more care, at least so much that neither head was bashed against the stone floor as they were lowered.
His interest piqued, Kazlin sauntered over, crouching beside the pair of bodies. The stench of the gnolls was near overwhelming, sour and bitter, and Kazlin shot them all a look, and back they stepped; none were so foolish as to test the patience of the Bane priest. With some care, Kazlin rolled the first over, again frowning in distaste as still wet blood slicked his fingers. The man’s face was bruised and bloodied, eyes swollen shut and lips torn. His short cropped hair was stained and wet with blood still, leaving a smearing stain on the carpet where he lay. The few patches of his flesh that were not blood slicked or bruised were a faint frosted blue, still chill to the touch. Kazlin looked up at the gnolls, and all three shared the same confused expression, the largest of the three shrugging wide shoulders.
“Barely live,” Kazlin murmured, stressing the word ‘live’, shaking his head and heaving a deep sigh. “The other best be in better shape than this one,”
As the priest moved to the other still hooded figure, the dog beasts all shared a snorting laugh between them, G’nar actually rubbing his pawed hands together in anticipation. “We think this last one will please you greatly.”
“We shall see,”
This body too was rolled onto its back, Kazlin again lifting his brows in curiosity: a long braid wound about the neck of the form, falling over a shoulder too slender to belong to a man, a hand too delicate flopping limply against his thigh as he moved the body. Kazlin’s hand moved to the dagger at his hip, cutting the rough hood away rather than merely pulling it off; no, this prize could prove too valuable.
And valuable it was.
“Half-elf. Young, strong,” The leader of the little gnoll band snuffled and laughed, pointing at the woman that lay there, near dead on the floor of Kazlin’s study. Standing up slowly, the priest smirked up at the three beasts behind him, and then nodded towards their find waving his hands, palms up.
“Pick her up. I’ll need to inspect her.”
Obediently, the other two stepped forward and gripped her by either arm, hoisting her modest weight up easily between the two of them. An almost hesitant look on his face, Kazlin stepped forward, uttering beneath his breath a few words and prayer spell. A soft blue glow radiated around his hand as he brought it to her face, and beneath his caress, the cuts and bruises faded away, the puffy inflamed skin around her eyes smoothing out to a flawless visage. The blood on her face seemed to melt back into her flesh, returning the chilled blue to a healthy flush, and with a sharp, deep breath and a twisting struggle, her lashes fluttered and her eyes opened. Immediately she cried out and wrenched in the grip of the gnolls, eyes darting frantically in the room like a caged animal awaiting the slaughter. But their grips held tight, and after a moment of futile resistance, she let out a deep dry sob, falling limp.
This did not dissuade Kazlin. Managing to keep his expression most disinterested, he nodded towards the smaller gnoll, who in turn, let her arm drop. Her body crumpled under her weight, though with one massive heave, the larger doggish creature lifted her up, giving her arm a tight, twisting squeeze until she placed her feet flat on the ground, standing on her own. She did not lift her head, keeping eyes planted firmly on the ground. With the same care as he’d taken when touching her face, Kazlin took her free hand in his, turning it over, inspecting it; her nails were torn and still an unpleasant shade of violet-blue, blood caked beneath and around them, no doubt from vain attempts to claw her way free. She had smooth hands, soft fingertips, though her palms were slightly hardened, from holding a sword or other weapon…very interesting; she was a warrior of some degree. He took her chin in his hand, turning her head up; still though, she kept her eyes downcast and finally closed them, the color indistinguishable beneath the fringe of thick lashes. With a light pinch he forced her jaw open, looking into her mouth like a trader inspecting a horse; his own smile widened. It was all looking very good.
“Open your eyes to me,” Kazlin kept her face in his hand lightly, fingers tracing slowly down to her throat where they came to rest, firmly locking in place beneath her jaw to keep her head up. When those dark lashes did flutter up again and she locked her gaze on his, Kazlin was for a moment, truly stunned. Orbs of forest green stared evenly back in to Kazlin’s own clear hazel eyes, filled a fierce defiance that served only to bring a curious look to the Baneites face. His stare intensified as he searched the hunter depths, something amiss about them.
“Bring me a candle,”
Obediently, G’nar brought forth a candle, the stink of singed hair wafting over the smell of damp fur and old blood. Hooking his fingers around the silver candlestick Kazlin brought the flame close to her, this girl’s—no, no this was a woman—this woman’s face, a slight smile tugging at his lips as he gazed for a moment longer. Her eyes reflected nothing—not the shining glow of the flame or his reflection—they reflected not a thing, not when he leaned in and not when he moved the candle in so close that she winced ever so slightly from the heat on her face. She was no half-elf; she was something far rarer, and this delighted Kazlin. With a puff he extinguished the candle and thrust it back at G’nar, his hand sweeping loose locks of chestnut colored hair back from her face, teasingly trailing a finger up the sweep of her tapered ear.
Stepping back, Kazlin uttered a few more words, tracing a rune in the air and staring intently at the woman, his eyes distant for a moment as he concentrated. Through his eyes, he could see it all, her very essence so entirely. Normally the aura of goodness would have sickened him with its intensity and he’d have wasted no time in gutting her then and there…but the glittering light centered on her head gave him additional pause. Kazlin leaned in close, his hand coming up to loosely grasp her throat for a moment, sliding it back until his fingers were lost in her hair and he leaned in, his lips nearly on her cheek or ear, whispering in celestial in a voice sweet and thick like honey.
“I know what you are,” He felt her stiffen, felt her sharp breath in his hair, and merely smiled, drawing back languidly. Looking over his shoulder, he grinned at the leader of the little gnollish band.
“Five hundred gold pieces.”
G’nar nearly choked at Kazlin’s blunt offer, craning his head around to stare at the priest, his ears perked up attentively; he certainly wasn’t going to argue with an offer twice that of a normal breeding slave.
“Fine,” G’nar growled, a wide, wolfish grin on his face as he again rubbed his hands together in unabashed greed. He barked at his companions, the larger of the two throwing the woman to the carpeted floor none too gently. She caught herself on her hands and knees, keeping her head down even as they all walked to the highly polished desk at the other end of the room.
The constant plink of coins falling onto the hard wood did little to mask the excited sniffs and snorts of the gnolls. They spoke of other numbers, other slaves, one for breeding, others for labor, and Kazlin counted out every coin, nearly a thousand gold worth in total.
While the gnolls and the Baneite conversed, the woman crept over towards the one still breathing man, taking one of his hands in her own and she began to pray.
“Now, now, pet. None of that.” It was these words that roused her from her prayer, and when she looked up, the gnolls were gone and there Kazlin was, crouched before her with a smile on his lips. She stared at him for a long moment, at his smooth olive flesh, glossy dark hair and eyes the color of a dark champagne…he was a handsome man, and he knew it, keeping himself well groomed and cleaned, choosing garments and adopting habits that accentuated his leonine features. He moved with a languid, deliberate grace even as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other while he crouched, looking much like a great cat patiently watching, waiting for the most opportune moment to pounce. He took her by the shoulders then, still positioned across from her on the opposite side of the other Tyrran, rising to his feet and pulling her up with him as though she were little more than a doll. Stubbornly, she twisted again in his grasp, but long hands and fingers tightened on her like a vice, keeping her still while he again let his eyes sweep up and over her, again inspecting his most recent purchase; her clothes were nearly rags, once the garb worn by an adventurer obviously, and through the holes and tears in her attire, Kazlin glimpsed tanned flesh and feminine curves. When his eyes finally reached her face again, he held her gaze for only a moment; with her jaw clenched and set, she turned her head away from him, staring at no spot in particular on the wall.
“What is your name?” Kazlin loosed his grip on her shoulders, and while he had expected her to shrug or slap his hands away, she did not, remaining silent and impassive, motionless save for the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. Minutes passed in complete silence, until Kazlin’s grip finally fell entirely slack and away from her smaller frame, hands coming to rest on his own biceps as he crossed his arms.
“It’s no matter, really. I’ll come to know it in time. And you, my pretty girl, will come to know me,” An amused smirk played across his face as her striking eyes flickered back towards him for an instant, from his face to the holy symbol so prominently displayed on his chest—light rays squeezed in a black fist—hunter orbs narrowing in what could have been worry and what could have been anger, but was very likely a combination of the two.
Without another word, he again grasped her by the arm, a tad more gently this time, directing her towards and through the door. She cast one sorrowful look back at her companions, never once though looking at her captor. The labyrinthine halls he led her through were silent save for the clicking of his boots on the cold floor and the quiet padding of her own bare feet, until they reached one final door, dim silver moonlight shining in between the ground and door. Kazlin pushed the door open and pulled her through, having to drag her for a few feet as she reeled from the sudden light. The sensitivity to light only further cemented his prior assumption—she was indeed one of the plane-touched, with some fragment of celestial blood flowing through her veins.
The shipyard that the tunnel opened up to was bustling with activity and filled with noise, screams and barks from humans and gnolls alike as slaves were hauled from one cart to another or beaten where they stood, malicious laughter and excited yipping puncturing the night. The scent of sea air was heavy, crisp and clean compared to the dankness of the tunnels, and over the tops of several low buildings that were little more than huts, a large ship was visible, white sails snapping and billowing in the winds as did the merchant flags flying from the mast.
Pulling his new prize through the compound, Kazlin shouted out a number of orders to the slavers, humans mostly who in turn passed the orders on to gnolls, insisting that the ship be ready to sail by the dawning. Finally, he stopped before one of the large huts, apparently better guarded than the others. Two human soldiers stood before the door, halberds crossed in front of the ingress and with a sword on either hip, eyes sharp and suspicious, but submissively downcast when Kazlin appeared.
“Sire,”
Kazlin merely nodded and waved a hand as though he hadn’t the time for formalities, and quickly, the guards unlocked the door and let him in. Once inside, he let the woman free of his grasp, and found himself secretly pleased and disappointed both that she did not cry or crumple when she viewed her surroundings. The structure was longer than it was wide, much like his office, though had none of the fineries. The floor was dirt with straw and threshes scattered about, piled in some places to serve as bedding and a few bundles of dried flowers hung at intervals, clearly to cover any smells rather than bearing an aesthetic service. Small braziers hung from the cross beams, providing mild warmth and a bright luminous glow, small wisps of scented smoke rising and curling from the pans. Five peasant women, all of them pretty if not a bit dirty and obviously terrified, sat huddled on the far side of the hovel, cowering before the two female slavers that were stalking back and forth in front of them; when the whispers of the slaves fell silent, both turned and approached, bowing formally before Kazlin.
“My lord,” One began, an unremarkable woman with light hair gathered back high on her head in a severe bun. She quickly reattached the scourge she carried back to its place at her hip as she straightened up, a rather wicked smile slowly curling across her lips.
“And good evening to you, Liz’beth. I have a new pet.” Kazlin smirked and waved one of his long hands at the woman, who still stood silent and still, eyes fixed intensely, but distantly, in front of her. “I want her cleaned and prepared for the journey.”
“Yes, my lord. As you will it,” Liz’beth bowed again, and the other slaver stepped forward, roughly grabbing the Tyrran by the arm. When the woman twisted and slipped away defiantly from the slaver’s grasp, there was an angry flair of the temper; the slaver raised her hand back to slap the impudent new thrall. The other slaves all shared a collective gasp and wince, though before she could bring her hand forward, Kazlin caught her by the wrist. He tsked at her, and smirked, wagging a finger at her as though scolding a child.
“I don’t want a hand laid on this one. If she’s any trouble, you have the guards come and fetch me. She’s…” Kazlin’s smirk melted into a charming smile as he looked past the slaver to the Tyrran woman, “…a very special case, one that I will discipline personally.”
Current Mood:  blank
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06:15 pm
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Writing Update
Yes, I have closed all my other posts concerning my story. Mostly, because it was too confusing to try and keep everything straight, as it's gotten so long now. I'll start posting stuff again, likely in five (or so) page segments, since there have been edits and such not to the body, as opposed to just additions made at the end.
For those of you that -have- been keeping up with it, I would reccommend rereading it, to catch the changes. Granted, a lot have just been grammar and spelling fixes, but a few important parts have been added.
Current Mood: contemplative
Current Music: Emilie Simons--Flowers
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11:51 am
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Fahk! >
Okay, let me just say that sometimes I REALLY, REALLY, REEEEEEAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLY hate Word when combined with uber crappy computers.
Why, you ask?
I'll tell ya.
Because it likes to close on you when you try to save , and then decides "Hey, F--k you, toots!" and then doesn't want to recover it---it, being the recovered file.
CURSES!
So, I lost about a page of what I HAD been hoping to add to my other writing piece. GAH.
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10:09 pm
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WebComic Idea
Okay, I just have to say it somewhere. J and I came up with a totally bitchin' idea for a web comic. I'm all kinds of excited to get working on it--just hope that my art will hold up and that my muse will be kind. ^_^
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01:29 pm
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First post..blah blah blah
Yep, first post. I know everyone cares.
I feel that I must lament for a moment the recent loss of my scanner. It has served me well and honorably; it shall indeed be missed.
But, with it's loss, I shall move on, and buy a new scanner. A better scanner...
...a scanned that takes up less space.
Ja ja!
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