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Post by Angmor on Mar 9, 2009 19:10:58 GMT -5
Taraak found the wall of disbelief twist into a clawing sense of black despair. He ran over Calia's words over and over again, desperately trying not to come to the inevitable conclusion but knowing he had to. She had been safe, and she had come back. Come back because of him, even despite the warnings of her oldest companion. "What's going to happen now?" The helplessness in her tone cut him like a dagger. But even now, she was more worried about his reaction than about the answer to that question, thinking more about what he would do. That open trust in her eyes begged him to lie, to tell her that there was some way out, but he could not. She didn't deserve that. She would find out soon enough anyway.
"We die." He answered bluntly, almost choking on the words. "They kill us, slowly. They will torture us, then send us off to their allies, who will torture us much more thoroughly. When they get all the information they think we have, then devise some public execution to set an example. I've seen it before." He watched her mull over the prospect of the bleakest possible future, her countenance dropping slightly but not totally comprehending. How could she? She had never experienced anything that could possibly compare, even if she didn't believe it. He glanced down at River, who still didn't seem to be able to string a coordinated movement together after whatever they had done to her. She stared at him with her penetrating aqua-marine gaze, probably searching for some kind of indication that what he was saying wasn't true. He recalled the memory of a public execution of ten men and their families that he had known and worked with, bringing the vivid image to the front of his mind... ...The screaming of the crowd reached a deafening tumult, drowning out the beating of the drums. The guards on the platform led the first shackled figure forward. From his position in the back of the crowd, he recognized it as Neil, the head of the cell. A wave of helplessness washed over him as the executioner's sword flashed down... River dropped her eyes, recoiling from what he had shown her. "I'm sorry."
He searched for something else to say, but he found that there was nothing else. He was sorry for putting them both in this situation, he was sorry he had been caught, he was sorry he had crashed into her life, he was sorry for filling her head with ideas of a larger world than the safe, isolated one she and River had carved out for themselves. Most of all, he was sorry that he had somehow bred this strange loyalty that had caused her to come back and share the consecquences of everything he had done. "I'm sorry." His head drooped, his neck too tired to hold up his guilt. "It would have been better if we had never met."
Just then the door behind him opened, and he sensed on some subconscious level that Baric was there. It was time, then. He felt his face hardening into an emotionless mask that he used whenever he had to sell a deception, just as he had been taught. He stared down at the floor, not focusing as the two trainees moved Calia and River to the far side of the small room, affixing a leash to the werecat's neck. Baric would need some elbow room for what was to come. He did not even listen to what his hated mentor was saying as he rounded the chair to face him, he merely let his brain register the gaps between Baric's statements and fill that silence with a rank that he had made up on the spot. As far as the Varden was concerned, he was a non-entity. He did not exist. But giving name and rank to your captors was just what was done in these sorts of situations. He was almost into his forth statement of that rank before Baric lost patience. He ignored the pain and the blood in his mouth. He did not even lift his eyes from the floor. "Now... what were you doing here?" "Taraak, private first class, Varden special forces." He said imperturbably. Come on sarge, you taught me better than that. [/color] But he knew his old sergeant hadn't even started yet. What came next then, was a surprise. Just when he dared to hope that Baric was angry enough to kill him outright, the ropes binding his arms fell onto his lap. He stared at them in disbelief even as his legs were similarly freed. He glanced to Calia, but she was still tied. It was just him. At that moment, he felt the familiar leather-wrapped grip of his knife pressed into his hand, and Baric came back around to face him. "Come on. Get up." Unsure why, he did. It felt good to move. His arms and legs felt like a hundred needles were being pressed into them. Baric just looked at him, with that look of calculating cruelty that he wore so well. Taraak glanced around again. Torska and the other two were by the wall with Calia, weapons out but not ready, wearing the same face of puzzlement that he had. His gaze lingered on Torska, but his friend refused to meet his eyes. He looked back to as Baric kept speaking. He looked so vulnerable, a grizzled, sixty year old man standing with his hands open at his sides, facing a fit, young and armed one, battered as he was. Taraak knew firsthand what kind of power and brutality that simple exterior concealed, but the more the man talked, the less he cared. "You betrayed your brothers. You left your friends to rot." He knew Baric was playing him like stringed instrument, but he no longer care. A smouldering hatred that had been building for a lifetime suddenly blazed up, setting his mind on fire. The rest of the room faded, rendered ethereal by the complete, absolute focus on the man that was the object of all the anger Taraak had ever experienced. " You coward." He lunged, throwing a wide slash with the intent to silence that lying face. It never got there. Baric intercepted his arm with one hand while his knee planted itself in his stomach, sending a spasm of pain through his chest. Baric transered effortlessly onto the attack, pressing home a flurry of blows even while easily dodging or blocking Taraak's counters, expertly keeping the knife out of play. Taraak was so angry, he barely noticed. A punch caught him squarely in the jaw, he used the impetus of the impact to help drive a roundhouse kick. Baric simply caught his foot in the air, spinning in closer and slamming his elbow across Taraak's face with the sharp report of bone on bone before dumping him on the floor. He lay on his back, breathing hard, feeling the blood running down his face. Surprising, Baric had stepped back, hands at his sides again. "You haven't learned anything new. What's the matter, the varden made you soft?" Taraak hauled himself to his feet, using the table for leverage. "I am twice as hard as you could ever make me." He hissed around the blood, his throat constricted by his rage. Baric kicked him hard in the ribs, sending him back down. "And yet somehow you manage to drag a young girl into this." He taunted, kicking him again in the side as he tried again to get up. "I'll be starting on her next, you know. I'm sure imperial intelligence will have fun mining her head, especially if she puts up a fight..." With the image of Calia suffering in a cell because of his actions burning in his mind, he rolled out of range of Baric's next kick and jumped nimbly to his feet, launching a flurry of uncoordinated slashes. Practically choking on his own blood, he hacked and punched at whatever he could reach, losing all sense of coordination in the fires of his anger. And he still couldn't touch him. Baric dodged and slipped and blocked every one, silently and inexorably invincible. Finally Taraak flagged in fatigue for one second, during which time Baric laid a staggering brawler's kick that sent him spinning fully around in the air before hitting the floor. The pain finally overwhelmed his rage, leaving him gasping for breath on the ground. Baric loomed over him. "You still don't have what it takes, even now." He stepped hard on his wrist and twisted his foot, causing Taraak to gasp in pain and drop the knife. "You always had that weakness, those little lines that you wouldn't cross. You are a disgrace to my teaching." Taraak didn't even try to respond. There was no thought; there was just pain and despair. Baric bent close, and Taraak felt the man's breath on his face like a draft from hell. "But unfortunately for you, you're still useful. But when the day comes when you're not, I will have the pleasure of correcting my only mistake. And who knows, maybe your sweetheart over there will still be alive to watch you die." . . . Baric watched his former trainee close his eyes and look away, unable to do anything else except continue to cycle air in and out. He reached past him and scooped up the fallen knife, pocketing the blade as he straightened. "Faren, take this thing and tie it up again." He ordered, kicking the groaning body again for emphasis. "And Torksa, lock the girl and the cat in the armory. I don't want them talking to each other anymore." He turned around to face his lads, finding the same glint of fear on all their eyes at what he had just done. In Holsaar's though, there was also something else, a kind of raw, haunted pain. He would have to keep an eye on him after this. "That would mean now!" He shouted, and they all jumped together and moved to do his bidding. "And as for you," He said, addressing the horrified girl and the cat. "I'll see you tomorrow." With that, he turned on his heel and left the room. It wasn't strictly true. he had decided to let imperial intelligence handle them. The girl he was sure would be too easy, even if she knew anything, and he didn't know where he could punch a werecat without killing it. But let them sweat through the night. He would wait a requisite amount of time without his boys seeing him to give them just the right image of detachment, then take one of the folding bunks for a rest. The fight had taken more out of him than he would show. After all, he was by no means a young man. Yes, he would rest tonight and take his prize to ImpInt in the morning.[/size][/blockquote]
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Post by Elvorn on Mar 10, 2009 9:51:52 GMT -5
Torska sat on the edge of his bunk with his head in his hands. If only he could stop the raging torrent of fear and sorrow that was consuming him from the inside out, he would be alright. But he couldn’t. The only thing he felt was a raw, searing guilt. Baric had called Taraak a traitor, a coward, said that he had left his brothers to rot; but he was wrong. He had the wrong man. Torska had sat and watched while his brother was beaten until he couldn’t get back up. He hadn’t stopped Baric, he hadn’t interceded, he couldn’t even look Taraak in the eye. No, Taraak was not the traitor. He looked at the fresh stains on the floor and was suddenly ambushed by anger. How had he let this happen? Sighing, he got up from the bed and walked over to the other captive, taking care not to step too close to the cat. He had no wish to help it release its anger. Kneeling down behind the girl’s chair, he began untying the knots that held her legs. As he did, he wondered how on earth she had gotten caught up with Taraak; she didn’t seem like a spy or saboteur, or even someone who knew their way around Dras-Leona for that matter. One might pick up people for a number of reasons: they had information that you needed, they knew an area in which you were operating, they had a valuable skill set that was necessary; but this girl didn’t even look like she could carry a tune, much less do something that Taraak couldn’t. Torska finished untying the ropes and grabbed the girl’s arm, surprised by how small she felt. He was used to grabbing grown men’s arms and breaking their elbows, not helping people up. The girl shook off his hand and stood shakily to her feet, giving him a black look. Shrugging, he guided her back toward the storage room that she had entered in originally, bringing in the chair and the werecat as well. ‘There you go. I don’t expect that you’ll be getting much sleep anyway,’ he said apologetically, ‘but I can bring a mattress in if you need one.’ He didn’t expect her to acknowledge his offer, and she didn’t disappoint him. Have it your way. Why do I care? He thought, bolting the door behind him. Because Taraak is trying to protect her. He cares what happens to her.
- - -
Faren felt positive; or, more accurately, Baric felt positive and he didn’t want to disagree. The original operation had gone over fairly well, with the one setback of losing the documents far overshadowed by the capture of a renegade Spearshadow agent. Baric hadn’t chewed him out too badly. He’d done well. This was by no means his first assignment, but he was not nearly as experienced as someone like Holsaar. Holsaar's behavior after they had captured the traitor had been puzzling to say the least; switching between reserved brooding and outright frustration. Faren wasn’t sure, but he would bet that there was a history between him and the defector; though Sarge hadn’t said anything about it, and he knew not to ask. Maybe the turncoat had been a friend of Holsaar before he turned rebel? It was an intriguing idea, but Faren focused his thoughts on the manual he was reading. That was a personal issue and Baric would deal with it if it became problematic. Not my business. Sticking to the regs was much easier than thinking about moral dilemmas. He would do what Sarge told him to. It was simpler that way.
He shifted to a more comfortable position in his bunk, noting with interest that one of the mattresses from the row on the other wall was missing. Odd. It might have been taken earlier and he had missed it, but he doubted that. Ah, well. It’s not like the prisoners could escape with the use of a mattress, whoever took it probably had a good reason. The traitor is well secured and the girl didn’t even look like she was able to do much more than sleep. I wonder what she was doing with the Vardener anyway? He allowed himself a moment to contemplate the significance of the answer, but decided that ImpInt would reveal all in time, and anything he needed to know would be passed on. Yes, life was easier when you didn’t ask questions.
- - -
Torska slipped carefully into the room, latching the door behind him. He took a deep breath, trying in vain to collect himself. He felt that at any moment, the slighted push could bring his façade of calm crashing down. Awkwardly dragging the straw mattress and the blanket he had appropriated to the wall, he dropped them with a muffled thump. He turned reluctantly to face the girl, feeling strangely guilty. She didn’t meet his eyes, staring blankly at her boots. Torska found himself staring at the ugly bruise on her cheek surprised by how the mark contrasted so starkly with her pale face. She was afraid. She was doing a good job of hiding it, but he knew what fear looked like. Why are we doing this? This isn’t going to help the Empire. This isn’t even going to help save the lives of other soldiers. Baric is just hurting her to hurt Taraak. Suddenly, he wondered why she had started traveling with Taraak. Ill at ease, he shuffled his feet, wondering if there was a good way to put the question to her. Finally he decided that blurting it out would be as good a way as any and cleared his throat to get her attention. She started as if just noticing him, waking the werecat as she did so. ‘How do you know Taraak?’ He asked, finding something unusually interesting on the back of one of his gloves.
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Post by Lily on Mar 10, 2009 18:21:39 GMT -5
The makeshift 'cell' was not particularly roomy nor welcoming for a night's sleep, but it was definitely a good place to hide away. River was still by the door furiously scratching it, but Calia sat on the floor in the middle of the room, rubbing her arm unnecessarily where the man had grabbed her. Her eyes were fixed into space, and from a distance she looked as if she was sitting as still as she had been crouching back in the alleyway. However, when River finally gave up her attempt for escape and padded back to her friend, she found her shaking uncontrollably. Mental contact was impossible at the moment, but River wouldn't want it anyway. She was sure that Calia's mind was still swarming with the horrid image of what had just happened and what would happen. She had not shed a tear in years. Not since her childhood. In the wild, she had learned to mask any strong emotion with a calm exterior. But now, trembling was the closest she could come to weeping - and was probably the greatest weakness she had ever and would ever show.
At the moment, all she wanted to do was to hide her face from the world. Her guilt was not completely gone, but it could never cover up for the despair she felt for both herself, River and mostly for Taraak. Up until a few minutes ago, she had thought that no man's skill could match his. But seeing him beaten on the floor was probably the most shattering image she had ever witnessed. The whole time, she had wanted to close her eyes and shut out the scene, but she found she couldn't. River might have called it loyalty, but Calia called it shock. Complete and absolute shock. She remembered what Taraak had said just before the interrogation. It would have been better if we had never met. That statement only made everything worse. Maybe it would have been better to stay in the forest. Perhaps if she had never accompanied him, they never would have gotten caught. She sighed and laid her chin back on her knees, closing her eyes although she could have feigned weariness instead of sorrow with that movement. River could do nothing to comfort her friend except to sit in the far corner of the room and mew pitifully, feeling like an actual cat when she did. Up until now, she had no idea that such cruelty or evilness as that she had just seen was real. She didn't believe that men's hearts could possibly grow so black with hatred and that they would harm others to get revenge or just to win. And the thought of them taking out all that rage on Calia made her shudder. No doubt they thought River was rather useful and so she might live a bit longer, but such a thought at this time was anything but liberating. She couldn't bear the thought of being separated forever. At last, at a loss of what else she could do, she padded back over to Calia and, feeling that she sat completely still, curled up on the floor beside her and closed her eyes. Calia, however, wouldn't be able to go to sleep no matter what she tried. Although it might relieve her of the painful memories, it would bring dreams and dreams always brought trouble. She remembered the dream she had had that morning. Maybe it had been a warning of day's events. Then again, she had had a similar dream back in the Spine before she'd agreed to accompany Taraak and many before that. Had those meant anything? She figured she didn't want to know so she fixed her gaze towards a line pattern on the floor and waited.
It was some time before she heard a noise and even then, it was very faint. If she hadn't lived in the wild for a good portion of her life, she might not have detected it. Yet she didn't even raise her head. A sliver of light poured into the room and then disappeared again and she heard the sound of a lock being slid. For a second, out of confusion, she considered looking but decided to avoid seeing any Imperial until she had to. A pair of feet, sounding very close walked around her and seemed to stop just in front. Maybe this was that man who had first captured her. At the thought, the sore on her cheek throbbed and a wave of apprehension she couldn't stop rose in her chest. She was suddenly aware of an odd dragging sound then a thump just near her and the sound of footsteps again before they stopped just in front of her. Their was a silence and then the sound of someone coughing to clear their throat like people did when they were about to say something big or say something hard. Calia jumped before she could stop herself, not expecting him to make a noise as if he was actually going to speak to her. She reached over and nudged River awake. The werecat blinked blearily and raised her head, then spotted the Imperial and hissed. Calia raised her head to look as well.
He definitely wasn't the leader of the group. She wasn't sure if this was good or bad. Either way, he was still one of them. In fact, as she looked closer at him, she recognized him as the Imperial whom had captured River. She was too traumatized to feel hate for him so she simply blinked, wondering if he was checking on her, come to take her somewhere or interrogating. At last, after another silence, he spoke though it was neither conversational or threatening. It surprised her. Out of all the things she would consider someone like him to say, he had asked how she came to know Taraak. River growled deep in her throat. Don't tell him anything. [/i] Calia barely heard her. She eyed the man carefully and then said, her voice surprisingly low and controlled, "We were traveling together..." she trailed off, being careful not to say too much, then added, "Why do you want to know?" The Imperial didn't seem to be on the offensive at the moment nor did he seem like his leader had before. Maybe he was just playing here. It suddenly dawned on her that he was asking like he knew Taraak. What connection could an Imperial have with Taraak? There was so much of him - so much of herself - that was too complex to notice on first glance or encounter. Things she had never known were there before. There were too many secrets in the world outside the Spine that she wished she could just shut it all out and go back to her home. But then she remembered the look Taraak had worn when she'd told him she wanted to go to the Varden. Despite the end she was facing, was that really the best choice? Or the right choice?[/size][/blockquote]
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Post by Elvorn on Mar 10, 2009 19:30:15 GMT -5
'Why do you want to know?' She asked, turning back to Torska. There it was, out in the open. The one question that he really didn't want to think about. There was nothing that he could do for Taraak even if he dared to disobey Baric; which, in this case, would probably mean death or at the very least a beating worse than the one that Taraak had been given. If he couldn't help his friend, what was the point of asking? Because I can't give up. I can't just quit on him. He's never given up on me, and I won't stop trying until they kill him . . . or me. Baric would have his hide for thinking that, he knew, but right now, he didn't care. Well maybe Baric was wrong. 'Because I owe him my life several times over. He is the closest thing I've ever had to a brother. We were raised together, along with thirteen other candidates for Galbatorix's personal hit squad. I would never have made it if it weren't for him. A lot of them didn't.' She looked shocked; not exactly frightened, but her eyes had acquired a guarded look.
‘Galbatorix took us away from our families then had his pet mages erase our memories. Nice, obedient clean slates for him to work with.’ Torska continued, feeling a sick tension gathering in the pit of his stomach. ‘Taraak doesn’t forget things though, so he still remembers his family, though he never talks about them; but I can’t. I just . . .’ His voice wavered and he stopped, taking a ragged breath. ‘Nine years in, our sergeant ordered him to kill a prisoner to prove he was as hard as Baric wanted him to be, and he refused, pulled a runner with the man and went to the Beors to join the Varden. I didn’t know about it until Baric told me a few weeks later. I was a little bit unsure about my loyalties at that point, but Sarge informed me that it wasn’t really about loyalty. It was about how much you had to lose if you decided that the Empire wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.’ He laughed harshly, remembering the motivational talk that his sergeant had given the eleven men left after Taraak left. It was one of his more vivid memories. Pain often had that effect.
‘It’s been five years since then, a bunch of new trainees are being churned out by Spearshadow, poorly trained since they don’t have as much time as we did. Everyone’s dying. I don’t think that anyone has lasted longer than a year from the new batch. Sometimes I wonder why I’ve lasted as long as I have.’ Why am I telling her this? It’s not like she is going to be able to help. She probably hates me for helping Sarge and the others capture her and Taraak. I would. I’m not going to find any sympathy there, so why bother? She’s the only one that I can trust not to take this to Baric. He blinked, surprised. This girl who he had helped capture, the one that was probably allied with the people who he had been fighting for years was the only one that he could trust? The realization hit him like a punch in the gut. If this girl was the only one he could trust, what was his life worth? The only thing that kept him under Baric’s thumb was fear. Taraak seemed to draw his strength from helping people at the risk of his own life, whereas he was simply afraid of dying. Maybe that’s it. He thought, I’m a coward.
Wait, this isn’t why I came here, I don’t need to know why I’m staying when Taraak left, I just need some answers. That’s what I’m working on here, getting answers. He held on to that thought, trying to drown out all of the uncertainty that was laying siege to his mind. ‘Now that you have heard my story,’ he said, confidence returning to his voice, ‘I ask again, how do you know Taraak?’
OOC. Sorry about the size.
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Post by Lily on Mar 15, 2009 13:55:23 GMT -5
As the man revealed all of what seemed to Calia like his darkest secrets, she became more confused. Why would he want to tell her all of this? To gain her trust? If River could scowl, she did and Calia sensed more than saw it. She trusted the werecat more than anyone in the world and she recognized where her friend stood. After all, this man was the one whom had captured River and put Calia in the position she was in now. She had right to hate him. So did Calia. But strangely, the wild girl did not. She disliked him. She wouldn't spill anything important to him or trust him easily. But she found she could not hate him. How do you know Taraak? Why did he want to know? If he really thought of Taraak like how he said how come he was doing this? Because men are weak, Calia. [/i] River spoke and her voice was full of bitterness long forgotten. They are easily bent on greed for power. Evil dominates their minds faster and easier than any other creature in existence.[/i] Calia was hardly listening though. She was brought back to the present and once again heard the voice of the Imperial standing in front of her. He began telling of how Taraak defied and escaped the Empire. ‘It’s been five years since then, a bunch of new trainees are being churned out by Spearshadow, poorly trained since they don’t have as much time as we did.' Calia's thoughts were churning. Spearshadow... Empire... Loyalty... There was so much more to everything than she'd ever imagined before. 'Everyone’s dying,' he went on, 'I don’t think that anyone has lasted longer than a year from the new batch. Sometimes I wonder why I’ve lasted as long as I have.’ Calia blinked, and realized that although she lived through disasters few faced and managed to survive the Spine, she'd never asked herself that question. 'Now that you have heard my story,' concluded the man, turning to face her. 'I ask again, how do you know Taraak?' How could she reply to that? This man wasn't like the Varden spy whom had taken her all the way here, sacrificing everything to get her to the Varden yet they had been best friends. Brothers as he had described. Did that mean she could trust him? River's words echoed through her head. Men are weak, Calia. It was true. But she was a human as well, wasn't she? Did that mean she carried some of this weakness that man possessed? In that case, was she any better than any of these men? She was caught in a struggle for her life, in hopes of going to the Varden to discover what she'd missed about life. Yet here were even more humans facing a different struggle and one that she never would have been exposed to back in the Spine. Then to live, she thought sadly, is a lot different than I imagined.She felt River's soft fur brush her hand. Do you regret your choice, dear one?[/i] Calia inclined her head, and for a moment, she forgot about the Imperial. Did she regret what she had chosen? To leave her home, the only place where she felt she belonged and come chasing after a new and strange destiny however frightening and difficult it might be. To follow Taraak - even to death? N-No, River. I do not believe that I regret it. I may be facing an end, but I know I made the right decision.[/i] River lifted her head, her turquoise eyes gleaming gently. I am glad then. At least we may both live - or die - knowing we made the right choice for us.[/i] Calia nodded slightly, but maintained her posture. At last, another thought crossed from River. Why do you not hate these Imperials, Calia?[/i] It took a while for Calia to respond, but she was sure when she did. I can't. After all I, too, am human. In the end, we're all weak. I just cannot hate.[/i] River nodded knowingly, but this only caused another well of despair to come from Calia. Why must hate exist, River? It only weakens us more. It shadows our gazes so all we can think about is our hate. Why is it here?[/i] For that, River had no answer. She could only bow her head and flick her ear, not knowing how to reply. You said we could find the good in everyone, River,[/i] Calia's thoughts whispered. If that still exists then perhaps we aren't as weak as you said. Some people are harder than others, but it's there. If it really does exist, then we definitely can't be as weak as you said.[/i] Without waiting for a reply, she raised her head and acknowledged the Imperial's presence once again. Hate. It would grow no matter what she wished or tried. Lots of people were driven on by it, but Calia would find something else to motivate her fight because anger and rage only hurt others in its' path. Here was the outcome of such hate in this man. River had already ventured out into the human world and no doubt, she had been exposed to it too. She had learned to deal with it as Calia would have to as well. Sighing quietly, she figured that the Imperial would be expecting her to say something. She could feel River's mind; a warm presence right next to her conscience, and it gave her the courage to speak. "I can't give you a story in return," she said, her voice still careful even after all she had learned. Back in the presence, she remembered that although everyone had a spark of goodness in them, these ones were still shady. She looked up, trying to meet his shadowed face that still seemed to spook her, being hidden a lot of the time by the hood. "But I'll say this. There is a lot I don't know about Taraak, so I can't say I truly know him. But how I know him is different. There isn't much to say. We met in the Spine a few weeks ago and have been journeying to the Varden ever since." There. I doubt the Empire can get a lot from that, she thought when she'd finished, half dropping her gaze so she wouldn't have to stare at the man's hidden eyes. River's only signal of how she thought of it was the slightest twitch of her ear. Still, Calia was half glad that the question hadn't required a huge answer. Then again if the leader of these Imperials had meant what he'd said, there would be a lot of similar questions in the future until her end. Calia swallowed a lump of fear at the thought. No, she told herself firmly. Don't think about that. It's coming, but you can't fear it now. Don't give them the upper-hand. Then something else came to mind. A question that had been burning her mind ever since agreeing to accompany Taraak. She wondered if she should ask. She doubted she would get much in reply, but it was worth a shot. Just to know this at least before she... "What is the Empire like?" She came out and said it just the way she thought it. She had asked a similar question to Taraak many times, but somehow she guessed that it wouldn't give her the same answer as this man. Although Taraak had faced the ominous force himself and escaped, here was on whom had been convinced to stay. Here was one who was still living there, experiencing it for himself. Calia wanted to know the truth at last. Here was her best chance to. "And why are you here, talking to me?" she added after a few moments. He can't have been sent just to stand around and chat. What does he want? Her conversation with River briefly shoved out of her mind, Calia sat there and waited for him to reply, feeling like talking was only delaying her impending and inevitable doom. Ooc//I'm still trying to get back into character, but all in all I'm pretty pleased with this post. Elv'ika, I was thinking you could put into action whatever you were planning on doing with Torska in your next post so this doesn't go on forever. Then maybe Angmor could squeeze something in.[/size][/blockquote]
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Post by Elvorn on Apr 4, 2009 22:29:10 GMT -5
‘What is the Empire like?’ The girl asked, ‘And why are you here, talking to me?’ An excellent question. Thought Torska, And one that I would much rather not answer. As he leaned back against the wall, disjointed images of his childhood in the Complex flashed past his eyes and he involuntarily flinched as he remembered his training. The years he had spent literally sweating blood to please his superiors, to be the best of the best were harsh ones, with no room for error or weakness. He knew that he was expendable and if the King needed something done that would require him not coming back, he wouldn’t even give it a second thought. But even though Galbatorix had stolen his family, his friends and his choices, he felt bound to the Empire; he could no less leave than renounce his personality. The Empire had made him into a perfect weapon to be used against its enemies and he had no other identity. He had thought about going over the wall many, many times, but realized that he was afraid to. The fear didn’t stem from what the Empire would do to him if they found out, it came from wondering what he would do if he got out. Unlike some of the other soldiers in the program he didn’t fantasize about freedom, it left too bitter of a taste in his mouth. No, he had no love for the Empire, he thought grimly, none at all.
‘The Empire is . . . unforgiving.’ He said, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at the understatement. ‘You conform or you suffer. The system itself isn’t evil, but it is warped under Galbatorix. He uses it to enforce heavy taxes and eliminate minority groups or those who disagree with him. People like me are all too common now that the Empire is officially at war, men taken from their parents, wives and children and forced to swear an oath to Galbatorix and fight in his war. It’s true,’ he said, answering a question that he knew was going to surface in a moment, ‘that some fight because they want to, for glory, or some such idealistic fantasy; others fight because they are loyal to the King and his twisted morals, but most people do not want to be involved in this war. And as for me talking to you, well, that’s my business.’ ‘Why do you stay then? It doesn’t sound like you’re very fond of the Empire.’ Torska sighed heavily, looking down at the hard flagstones for inspiration. Suddenly, the faint sound of uncomfortably familiar footsteps reached ears trained by a lifetime of listening. Torska’s subconscious screamed danger and he tensed, looking sharply over his shoulder. Baric. ‘Um, I need to go now.’ He said, lunging for the door. For a second, he panicked as he saw the blank space where a doorknob would have been, but then remembered that, for obvious reasons, there was no handle on the inside and he had left it unbolted when he entered. Pushing it carefully open, he slipped through the crack, checking to make sure that Faren was still occupied with the book he had been reading earlier. Quickly, he removed one of his wrist-knives from the gauntlet housing and began stripping it down, laying the pieces on the table. He had only just begun disassembling the mechanism when Baric walked into the room, his stride quick and angry. ‘And what have you been up to then?’ He asked, voice menacingly quiet in the small room.
Torska looked up questioningly, his hands still deftly oiling the catch on the knife. ‘Keeping weapons and gear up to spec. Manual requires a full—’ ‘I know what the manual says, idiot. I wrote more than half of it. But what were you doing?’ Sincerely hoping that his sergeant could tell how hard his heart was beating right then, Torska paused in his oiling. ‘What do you mean? What was I supposed to be doing?’ Baric looked at him suspiciously for an infinitely long moment, as if trying to look through his trainee’s eyes and read his mind. ‘Alright then, well you might want to get some sleep and finish that in the morning.’ He said, nodding at the entrails of the knife spread neatly on the table. ‘It’s going to be a long day tomorrow.’ ‘Yes sir.’ Torska said, laying down the oily rag and realizing how tired he actually was. Getting up, he walked slowly into the sleeping quarters, aware of Baric’s piercing gaze on his back the entire way. As his mind began to wander, he remembered the conversation with the girl. Immediately the welter of questions that had been forced to the back of his mind by Baric’s appearance suddenly shot to the front again. He realized that he had left the girl’s final question unanswered. Why do you stay then? No, he would get very little sleep tonight. And probably not for some time.
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Post by Angmor on Apr 7, 2009 22:01:52 GMT -5
Baric watched the boy's hastily retreating back with a gaze he he once heard a guard at Spearshadow say 'could melt stone at twenty paces'. The simile pleased him, especially considering the aptness of it. A moment later he had left the room, leaving Baric alone with his brooding thoughts. He now cursed his decision to leave the safehouse. How long was he gone, -an hour?- and already he had lost some control over this situation. He had compramised his professionalism, just for making a point. Blast it, why did Taraak's very presence seem to throw off the actions of him and his men? No wonder he was so damned good at what he did! With a growl of rage he yanked the leaf-bladed knife from the back of his belt and hurled it with all of his formidable strength.
The blade revolved once before burying itself half way into the board hung on the opposite wall that was made for the purpose, divided into sectors by marked and chipped black paint. Baric checked his throw. Dead center. Of course. His fury somewhat attenuated, he walked to the board and pulled the blade free, contemplating that whoever had made it for Taraak had known what an assassin needed. With a calming breath, he sat sank slowly into the chair that Torska had just vacated and rested his elbows against the low counter, turning the knife over in his hands reflectively. He needed to think, and he needed to plan.
Now, Torska could have been in here on perfectly innocent business. After all, it was the armory, and it was an essential and often much-loved place among men of his profession. And so, why did he have so much trouble believing it? He shifted his gaze over his shoulder, past the piles of barrels and crates that had been displaced, setting it on the sturdy door behind him. Behind that door were the only two beings that had ever been known by the Empire to have been associated directly with Taraak, a man who had been trained for, and was now notorious for, working alone. Who were they, and why was Taraak traveling with them? The werecat he could understand. After all, werecats were capable of all sorts of things, if the legends were to be believed. But why the girl? A protege perhaps? A student that the Varden was having him train? That might make sense. Young women like her could go just about anywhere without catching a single eye, which was exactly what every effective spy strove for. It was possible... But no, he discarded it. Her attempted rescue was so appallingly amatuerish. There was no way that Taraak would have even allowed her outside of Surda if she still had any notions of pulling off those sorts of stunts.
Yes, spying trainee was definitely out. The more he thought about it, the more he realized that the doomed attempt to save Taraak had probably stemmed from an emotional connection of some kind. Lovers, perhaps? He knew from experience that people did all kinds of crazy things in the name of love. He had once had the wife of one of his early targets attack him even as he stood over the body of her dead husband. She had made enough noise that he had needed to stab her heart and throat to silence her. Could the same madness have posessed this girl to go up against four of the most highly trained men the Empire could offer? ...No, Taraak was a pragmatist. He had to be. And he could not have changed that much over these five years. The girl had to have some kind of skill that he did not posess himself, or he would not accept the extra baggage. But then why had Torska been so rattled after talking to her? Torska He had been in to talk with her, he had no doubt about that. Baric shook his head slightly. The poor boy still thought he could hide things from him. Thus, he knew that whatever had shaken him, it had to have something to do with Taraak. But what? What could make a man as hard as Torska Holsaar fear telling his superior about it?
In that light, it had to be a question of loyalty. Nothing else would have rocked him so. In all areas but that, Torska knew exactly what he was about. Torska could infiltrate like a phantom, stalk a target invisibly, hold his breath for four minutes, and drive a blade between a target's ribs without a second's hesitation. With Baric's constant training, Torksa had crossed every line that had been set for him. Every line, except the last. The jolt of recognition made him sit up. Of course. It was so simple, he wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. He realized that he had subconcsiously known it all along, but he had never admitted it to himself. He had made excuses and arguments because, after all, Torska was the best. Baric felt his face harden, and he stood up stiffly. No more. No longer would Holsaar sit on the fence. It would end now. But was it a good idea? He debated with himself for several moments, weighing the merits of his plan. His superiors probably wouldn't be happy with him, but that was nothing new. As if they knew anything. Yes, he decided, he would do it.
The decision made, a slow smile spread across his face. It was poetic justice, really. A fitting end for the one black mark on his record. Sheathing Taraak's knife, he strode out of the armory and toward the sleeping quarters. Yes, give it a few hours sleep, then Torska Holsaar would make his choice, one way or another.
. . .
The silence was the worst part. Even though this room had been his entire world for all these interminable hours, he was unable to find anything in it that could occupy his thought. Not a sound, no shifting light source, no interesting patterns. Just cold, unforgiving, black wooden paneling. He had no idea what time it was outside. He could normally count every minute, or even every second with his perfect memory, but he had no notion as to how long he had been out. And of course, he was still bound to the chair, so he couldn’t even get up and pace. There was nothing to keep his agile mind from wandering, to stop memories from springing up unbidden. There was the pain, of course. After all he had put his body through, that was definitely the dominant sensation he felt. His limbs ached from the strain of being bound and immovable for hours on end. The ropes seem to dig into him even through his clothing, and it would probably be easier to catalogue the areas where he wasn’t bruised. He was bleeding and sore, and tired. But even that was nothing compared to the turmoil that he was experiencing within the confines of his own head. As if in response to his despair, images flashed behind his eyes, without order, without direction. Far too tired and uncaring to discipline his mind, he let his memories wander where they would, immersing himself in them until the present, this moment was simply another part of this facsimile of his life. From here, he could detatch himself, and could look over all the events that had brought him to this place. The swift, brutal lessons of his training. The building of doubt and courage amidst his rigidly controlled world. His final decision that broke the events of his life in two. One year of questions and suspicion from the Varden, except for the kindness of a single dwarf, who eventually grew to be the only thing he could ever relate to being a father to him. Four years worth of missions for his newfound cause, some successful, some not. Some of both outcomes almost killing him, but still he always came up standing. And through it all, he remembered having a great sense of purpose, of meaning. And it all seemed so pointless now. Even with all the sacrifices he had made, all the hard paths that he had chosen, and they had all led him here, to the greatest fear that he had ever possessed. Failure.
Where had he gone wrong? When had he begun the chain of mistakes and missteps that brought him here? Where had this all started? Taraak watched the young woman across from him draw herself to her full height, new resolve lighting behind her shocking blue eyes. He knew that look, he had seen it in the faces of underground agents who knew that their lives were over, and decide to complete the mission anyway. He had seen it in the eyes of Varden soldiers, relating stories of how their families suffered under the oppression of the Empire. He was sure that his eyes held the same look when he had turned to Ferial Baric, telling him to his face that he would no longer be a weapon for a corrupt ruler, and knew that his life would never be the same. He could see from that look exactly what she was about to say to him. "I need to go to Surda. With you.”
It was a simple statement, just a few vibrations in the air, but it changed the face of what he had to do entirely. Now this wasn’t just some accidental pick-up he felt obligated to protect from the wrath from his life, they were now in it together. "Look, I want to find this Varden of yours and talk with them." At that though, his bewilderment gave way to a mixture of elation. Here was a soul that he had given up as a lost cause already. Like so many others, she had buried her head in the sand to hide from the war and all that had to do with it while the world went to hell around them. But now though, simply by one simple act of care, and she was beginning to see just what her life would accomplish in this way. In this path, her existence would never make a difference for anyone.
She must have caught the look on his face. "If you will not have me accompany you, then I can find my own way," She said determinedly, jaw set as she retrieved her bow. He could tell from the way that the cat’s… River’s ears pricked up that she was just as surprised as he was. He was careful to frame his reply. What could he say? That he was proud of her decision? That he could disappear from these hunters by himself, but with someone that had not been trained in covert methods, or had even spent much time in a city at all, they had no chance? He decided that the positive was the right approach. “No. I will take you to Surda, if that is your wish. To be honest, I did not think such a thing of you. But you are making the right decision.” Yes. That was it. The place where everything had started to go wrong was there, when he had first decided to take Calia and River along. Even as he remembered, he felt like a fool. Had not every professional instinct in his body screamed for him to refuse? But he had still ignored it like some green trainee on exercise. Had she not given him nothing but trouble that whole little trip through the mountains, and that stupid decision on his part had almost killed him several times. And yet, he had been just fine with that fact. For some bizarre reason, he had been willing to die in order to protect her. Some misplaced sense of guilt, perhaps. But in the end, he couldn’t even do that.
He imagined face of Sergeant Baric loomed in front of him, his pitiless black eyes seeming to drain the light from the world. You’ve failed, Taraak. You should have known. Everything you touch you destroy. No matter what you do, you can’t escape who you are, what I made you in to. You’ve failed. “No!” He Taraak screamed, straining with all his might against his bonds, trying to escape the face that haunted him. But he could not get free. Baric wasn’t even there. He was alone. Alone with nothing but the crushing weight of his failure, squeezing the life out of him with each breath. ”Taraak? Are you all right?” The sudden voice made him sit up and look about the room. He knew that voice. It represented everything that he had ever found comforting and safe. Frünor… [/Color] It took him a whole second to realize that it was a voice from a memory long past. Why he had summoned it here and now he didn’t know, but he quickly immersed himself in it, anything to get away from the nightmare that was the present… He sat amid the soft blue glow of the dwarven lantern, the only source of illumination in the room. The quarters he shared with Frünor were actually quite large, which had struck him as odd the first time the dwarf had brought him here. He sat at in one of the padded wooden chairs by the low stone table, polishing his knife idly with an oiled rag. ”Taraak? Are you all right?” He didn’t bother to turn his head. The deep, rumbling voice could belong to no one else but a dwarf, and the distinctive pitch and inflection identified it as belonging to a particular one. It surprised him just how silently Frünor could move, especially in the deep silence of late night. He kept polishing his knife. The question was a bit too painful for him to answer immediately. A warm hand fell on his shoulder, and he felt more than saw his friend take the chair next to him. “Can’t sleep?” He nodded dumbly, staring into the brightness of the blade as if it held the future in its depths. “Anything you’d like to talk about?” Frünor prodded gently, patiently, perfectly willing to wait in silence if he needed to. Taraak squeezed his eyes shut, holding back the tears of gratefulness that threatened to spill over. “Just memories. It’s worse tonight.” He said at last, still handling the knife to provide a comfortable focal point for his gaze. He and Frünor simply sat in companionable silence for several minutes. That was always how Frünor helped the most, with that compassionate silence, allowing him to speak at his own pace… “It’s been almost nine months, Frünor.” He said, breaking the silence at last. “Everyone keeps telling me that it will get better with time, but…” He trailed off lamely, unable to find the words to express himself. How could he put into words just how discouraged he felt? The Varden didn’t trust him, the Empire wanted him dead, and he himself… He was finding that it might just be easier if he was dead. Why did one such as him deserve a chance to find any peace? With a creak of breath, Frünor leaned a bit closer, drawing Taraak’s gaze toward him. To his surprise, there were tears running down the dwarf’s face, mingling with the complicated knotting of his gray beard. “I had a son once, did I ever tell you that?” A son? He had never mentioned a son… “Aye, a long time ago. He was the joy of my life. One day, he decided that he wanted to follow in my footsteps and become a soldier in the clan’s army. His mother was against the idea, of course, but the decision was mine. I passed her concern off as an outdated maternal instinct, so I proudly gave my consent.” Frünor took a deep breath, as if working up the strength for something… “Ten months later, he was killed by the Forsworn when they raided an outlying town.” A great silence followed, as heavy as the stone of Tronjheim itself. Taraak scrambled frantically for something to say. How could he respond to something like that? Luckily, he didn’t have to. “I felt like half of myself died that day. And when his mother succumbed to grief a short time later, I… blamed myself, for all of it. For some time… I felt like I had nothing left to live for.” Taraak pursed his lips carefully, not wanting to show just how closely that remark hit home. “…What did you do?” He asked tentatively, as if his friend would shatter if pressed too hard. Frünor looked at him strangely then. “Eventually, I learned the only thing you can do. You have to dedicate your life to something greater than yourself.” Frünor’s eyes locked into his. “You have to live for others. It doesn’t matter who, and it doesn’t matter how, but live for others . And you have to believe that the seeds you planted will make a difference, even if it kills you. That way, you will always have hope.” Taraak’s breath caught in his throat. Never before had anyone opened such a clear window in to what he was thinking. Immediately, he knew what he had to do. He had left someone behind in the Empire. He knew that he wasn’t good enough to save him directly, but just maybe, by serving the Varden, he would be able to save his friend. Torska could be turned, he knew it in his bones. He would just have to plant the seeds, as Frünor had said, and simply have faith that they would take root. “Thank you so much Frünor, thank you for everything.” He embraced his friend tightly, his tears running into his already damp beard. “There is nothing to thank me for, lad. You just remember what I said.”He gasped as he came back to himself, amid the dark and gloom of his prison. And yet, all did not seem so dark as it did before. Taraak had known it then, that conversation had saved him. And by the strange twists of fate, it had saved him again. Thank you Frünor.[/color] No, there was still hope left. He had done everything that he could, yes. But now it was up to Torska to decide all their fates. Baric could do all he liked. Taraak wasn’t dead, and that meant he hadn’t failed yet. ((( ))) He was awakened by a hearty punch across the face. From a somewhat detatched part of his brain, he felt his head jerk hard left with the impact, away from where it had been resting peacefully on his right shoulder. It might have gone spinning off into a corner had not his neck had the presence of mind to hang on tight. Somewhat sluggishly, the pain hit. As it did, he recognized who it was that had so rudely wrenched him from his deep, unusually uneventful slumber. There weren’t many who could deliver a tap like that. He didn’t even bother to open his eyes. “G’morning, Sarge.” He managed to mutter around the blood that was filling his mouth, mingling with what was already there from the previous night. “And a good morning it is, Taraak.” Came Baric’s distinctive roughness. He did open his eyes at that. Baric stood just in front of him, as he had expected, but this wasn’t the Baric he knew. While the fact that he was smiling wasn’t all that unusual, there was something in this particular expression that was odd. While Taraak hesitated to say that the old man looked radiant, there was something in his stance and mannerisms made him look more... alive. The old man looked happy. That was a worrying development. While the man had every reason to gloat, Taraak could sense that this was something different. Something more dangerous. “Special occasion sir?” He quibbed with much more confidence then he felt, wetting cracked lips with his tongue. Baric actually grinned, moving to push the table aside to make more room. “You could bet on it, if you had anything left to lose.” Having finished that task, he called over his shoulder. “Kye! Torska! Get in here! Faren, fetch the girl! You can leave the cat where it is.” Taraak felt something clench his innards in a cold grip. For whatever he was about to do, his old sergeant wanted an audience, which was a bad, bad sign. A few moments later, Torska and the one he had learned to be called Kye filed into the room, one behind the other. Apart from the large bruise he had sustained the day before, Kye looked about as bright as an assassin should. Torska on the other hand, looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. He fastidiously avoided Taraak’s gaze, finding something that demanded constant scrutiny on the floor between his boots. “What’s this all about, sir?” Kye asked tentatively, fingering his knife hilt. “You’ll find out in a moment. Ah, here they are now.” Baric said as the larger trainee led Calia into the room, hands bound behind her back. The iron band of fear around Taraak’s heart loosened slightly at the sight of her. She was alive, and Baric hadn’t turned his attentions on her. Yet. He realized that might have been what they were gathering together for, but he doubted it. Not much room, for one. Besides, whatever was about to happen, Taraak could bet that he was going to be the centerpiece. Calia met his eyes furtively, questioningly. He gave the tiniest shrug of his shoulders to tell her that he didn’t know what was going on. It’s going to be alright.[/color] He thought as loudly as he could, but knew that even if she could hear him, he was almost definitely lying. “Right!” Baric snapped in his best command voice, and Taraak felt his back straighten instinctively along with that of every other assassin in the room. “I’ve gathered you here because I figured you would all want to watch this.” He smiled nastily at Calia, making Taraak grind his teeth. “I’ve thought up a suitable finish for this piece of filth, and it best be done here and now. I realize Intel and the oversight pukes probably won’t be happy with me, but I think this girl will make a suitable consolation prize. After all, anyone who could worm her way into Taraak’s affections must have some kind of interesting knowledge for them to fillet. But in the mean time...” Taraak had a suspicion as to what was coming next. It was inevitable, really. Baric would probably think of it as his own clever brand of poetic justice... In a single fluid motion, the old assassin drew the dwarven-forged knife from the back of his belt, through it up, caught it one-handed by the flat of the blade and held it out hilt first, offering it to his greatest student. “Torska, kill him.” [/size][/blockquote]
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Post by Elvorn on May 14, 2009 21:14:45 GMT -5
Torska woke up gasping for air, sitting up so fast that he hit his head on Faren’s bunk above him with a muted thump. Throwing off his sweat drenched blanket, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, breathing heavily. A nightmare. That had been all it was. Just a nightmare. You’re okay, he told himself, It was just a bad dream, nothing to worry about. Something about drowning and a grate and Taraak . . . Taraak! The full weight of the previous day’s events crashed into him with the force of a brawler’s punch. Taraak’s capture, the strange girl, his clandestine talk in the cell, Baric’s interrogation . . . He groaned inwardly, shrugging on his wrinkled tunic and dropping to the floor, his bare feet making no sound on the stone. Walking silently out into the supply room, he averted his gaze from the door of the cell holding Taraak, a spark of resentment toward Baric flaring up at the thought of his friend being beaten last night. You pushed him too far Sarge. We all had our doubts, but you confirmed his. Good work. You said we had to have the edge or we wouldn’t survive. Well you gave it to Taraak and look where it got him. Grabbing the bolt on the door, he wrenched it back angrily, taking out his frustration on the corroded metal. Swinging the door open, he took a deep breath of the cool night air, trying to forget the rancid odor of Dras-Leona’s refuse littered backstreets as well as the doubts that kept pounding in his head. ‘Going somewhere lad?’ The voice, so familiar in its menacing tone, the specific way the sound caught in the larynx, sounded almost smug. The ever present tension was still detectable, but there was a cheerful note that worried the assassin. He leaned against the doorframe, looking out at the lightening eastern sky. ‘No Sarge. Just can’t sleep.’ ‘I see.’ He sounded like he meant it. ‘Well don’t bother going back to bed. I need you for something in a little while.’ Baric said, patting him slowly on the shoulder. ‘Yes Sarge.’
Feeling apprehensive, Torska followed Baric back into the sleeping quarters, grabbing his boots on the way. Lighting the room’s only lamp, Baric pounded his fist on the bunk to wake Kye and Faren, who came tumbling out a few seconds later, rubbing the sleep from their eyes. ‘Up and at ‘em lads, we’ve got work to do today, might as well do it on a full stomach. Kye!’ ‘Sir?’ he said, snapping to as much attention as he could manage after just waking up. ‘Get whatever foodstuffs we have in that pitiful larder and try to make some breakfast. Faren, I want you to get the report on the mission written up, with the appropriate corrections to certain facts.’ The two trainees shuffled off to their respective tasks, yawning cavernously. You’d think they had one hour of sleep, not five. Torska thought. To his surprise, Baric left, walking off after Kye into the storeroom without a word to him. In any other situation, Baric would’ve had a harsh word and a new task for him. Wondering what the Sergeant’s behavior could mean, he wandered absentmindedly back into the armory and gathered the pieces of his wrist knife he had left strewn on the table last night, effortlessly slotting them back into place in the gauntlet. He must have something planned. He wouldn’t just let me off the hook that easy. Baric’s plans weren’t usually ones that his trainees looked forward to.
<<{([><])}>>
‘Kye! Torska! Get in here! Faren, fetch the girl! You can leave the cat where it is.’ Baric’s rough voice rang through the safe house, waking Torska from his doze. Swearing under his breath, he grabbed the edge of the table to pull himself upright, cursing again when the still-extended knife blade stuck in the wood. What’s wrong with me? I never fall asleep in the field! Stumbling into the kitchen, he made sure the knife was retracted, ran his fingers through his tousled hair and prepared himself for Baric. Clutching the remains of a loaf of soft bread, Kye pushed past him, gulping down the last of his prize before entering. Okay, here we go. Whatever Baric was planning, this is it. I hope we come out of it unhurt. He paused, mentally correcting himself. I hope we come out of it alive.
Ducking in through the door after Kye, he glanced at Taraak, looking down just as quickly. Dried and fresh blood had soaked into his friend’s tunic, staining it a sickly brown. One of his eyes was swollen almost shut and ugly purple bruises mottled the sides of his face. And he’s in here because of me. I didn’t do a thing to help him. As usual the only thing I- The rest of his thought was cut off. ‘Right! I’ve gathered you here because I figured you would all want to watch this.’ Baric said, with a smile directed toward the captured girl. ‘I’ve thought up a suitable finish for this piece of filth, and it best be done here and now. I realize Intel and the oversight pukes probably won’t be happy with me, but I think this girl will make a suitable consolation prize. After all, anyone who could worm her way into Taraak’s affections must have some kind of interesting knowledge for them to fillet. But in the mean time...’ He paused, grinning again and pulling Taraak’s knife out of his belt. Torska felt like he was going to be sick. No. No, no, no . . . ‘Torska, kill him.’ His sergeant said, holding the knife out to him with a triumphant smile all over his face.
He felt dizzy. His gaze flicked from one person to another, their expressions caught forever in the frozen moment. Baric looked victorious, his normally stony face breaking out into a huge grin. Faren, behind him, had managed to keep up a façade of disinterested attention while Kye seemed surprised. But the girl was the one who caught his attention, her look of mixed shock and horror turning to accusation. Her face said it all. You said you were his friend. You said he was like a brother. He looked back at the proffered knife. You can’t go on like this. You need to choose. One way or another. Finally, he looked up at Taraak, meeting his eyes for the first time. You need to choose.
He took the knife.
If it was possible for Baric’s grin to continue around the back of his head, it would have. The girl’s look of hatred was burning the back of his neck as he walked behind Taraak’s chair, holding the knife loosely in his hand. The handle felt cool, and had some kind of ridges under the leather, giving it a nice, steady grip. Raising the knife, he took a final look at Baric. One way . . . He brought it slicing down. Or another.
The ropes holding Taraak to the chair fell away, their edges cut cleanly by the sharp blade. Grabbing Taraak under the arm, he hauled him to his feet, taking his friend’s weight. Looking up, a new panorama of faces greeted him, the foremost of those mottling into a deep shade of red. ‘Sorry Sarge, you made me choose.’ He said, giving the knife to Taraak, ‘And I did.’
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Post by Lily on Jun 22, 2009 18:17:13 GMT -5
Ooc//I don't like this post very much, but it's better than nothing. Sorry for taking so long to do it in the first place. >.>
Calia jerked awake from a somewhat dreamless sleep and sat bolt upright, not even remembering falling asleep in the first place. After her rather odd conversation with the Imperial and River, she had settled back down to wait for...something to happen. Of course, the man hadn't shown his face again that evening, and she suspected he had fled the conversation. She was still confused as to why he had been talking to her in the first place. He hadn't gotten a lot of information off of her if that's what he had been looking for. In fact, she had gotten more from him than he had from her. Maybe he was trying to...help Taraak? She furrowed her brow. No...that didn't make sense. If he was on their side why had he helped capture them in the first place? It was confusing. Either way, Calia wasn't expecting to see him again and she half hoped she wouldn't. She decided not to give the whole matter too much thought, sighed and lay back down on the cold, hard flagstones, staring up at the low ceiling above her. River lay beside her, undisturbed by her sudden movement. She hadn't realized how used she was to the werecat's presence even though she knew that it wasn't the same feeling as before when she'd believed River was just a normal animal. In a way, it was the same for Taraak. At first, he had just been another form of human life passing through her territory. Now...he was a lot more than that. Life was just too complicated.
The door suddenly banged open with such suddenness that Calia almost leaped to her feet from the sheer instinct to fight off whatever was attacking. Unfortunately for her, the attacker was much, much more difficult to handle than any wild animal. River also awoke with the sound, and she actually jumped up with bristling fur, baring her teeth as one of the Imperials entered the room. The werecat looked just about ready to kill, but the man simply kicked her out of the way and grabbed Calia, hauling her to her feet. Terrible images raced across the girl's vision as the pain bit her arm, and even though it was futile to fight, she still did. River, who had landed some ways across the small space sprang to her feet from the side of the room, her head spinning from the impact and could only watch the brief tussle before Calia was detained helplessly by the man. The rope felt strange to her like it had when she'd been tied to the chair to watch Taraak being beaten. Her flaming desire to escape was replaced by racing fear. What was going to happen now? She didn't say anything to River; her mind was numb. Instead, she allowed herself to be led out of the room. Her friend snarled in frustration behind her and ran for them only to be held back by the door slamming shut. Calia! [/i] she called, but she received no answer and slumped down in defeat. Calia, meanwhile, had question after question zooming through her head. Are they going to do the same thing to me that they did to Taraak? Is Taraak alive? Is the man from last night going to be a part of this? Her heart raced and she didn't remember being this frightened since that night she'd first escaped into the Spine. She knew it was definitely showing on her face now, but she didn't care. All she did care about was where they were taking her and why they were taking her there. It was no use struggling now, so she could only walk and dread. The first thing she saw when she walked into the room was Taraak still sitting bound to the chair, his state seeming to look more terrible in the morning light. Yet part of her fear melted away with seeing him still alive and she could sense his relief at seeing her too. But then there were still the Imperials. The one holding her stopped once they joined the little semicircle surrounding Taraak's chair and the men's leader started to speak. "Right!" he said in a rather authoritative voice. "I've gathered you here because I figured you would all want to watch this." Here, he flashed a rather sinister smile at Calia, and more questions and fears buzzed in her head like angry bees as he went on to announce that he was going to kill Taraak right there in front of them all. A cold knot of fear formed in Calia's stomach to accompany her racing heart. No, not this.Then something happened that she didn't expect. Instead of killing Taraak by himself on the spot, the man took a knife - Taraak's knife - from his belt, threw it up and caught it neatly before handing it to one of the men gathered there. Calia's eyes narrowed as she recognized him as the one whom had spoken to her the night before and a surge of sudden desire to stop whatever was happening rushed up inside of her, replacing some of the fear there as the lead man said with some triumph in his tone, "Torska, kill him." Time seemed to slow down for Calia as she stared at the man addressed as Torska in horror. The one whom had told her everything about himself the night before. The one who had called Taraak a brother. And now the one who was about to kill him. The knot of terror in her stomach turned into a rolling mass of sudden anger and helpless frustration. It was all up to him. But he was on their side. The side of the evil man. He would kill Taraak and then they would start on her. He was the one who would betray his comrade. After all he said... She had known it had just been a lie to get her to trust him. She watched in outrage as he walked right up to Taraak's chair, holding the knife steadily in his hand. This was it. Now there was nothing she could do but watch. Watch as Torska looked back towards his leader then at Taraak before lifting the knife. Not being able to look anymore, Calia closed her eyes and held her breath. It was the end. She heard the sound of the knife swishing through the air and then the sudden sound of something falling to the ground. Slowly, she opened her eyes expecting to see Taraak slumped over and lifeless. But instead, her heart flew to her throat and she stared in surprise as Torska helped Taraak stand awkwardly and looked up at the watchers. Calia met his eyes for a few seconds after he spoke to the head man, and she saw the decision there as clear as day. He had done it. He had made his choice. She didn't know what to think just yet though, because it wasn't over. Looking towards the Imperials' leader, she saw his face turning red, then purple with the force of his pent up rage and knew that they were still in danger, perhaps more than before.[/blockquote][/size]
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Post by Angmor on Jul 14, 2009 0:34:34 GMT -5
Taraak always figured that he would feel a bit more at this moment. He had always known it would come; that he would probably die with Torska at his side in one way or another, but he didn’t quite expect to feel so numb. He knew he should feel something in the face of execution at the hands of the only friend he had ever known, anger, fear, sadness, pain, betrayal, something. But instead, looking up at his friend as he took up the knife, seeing the raw pain in his face, Taraak simply felt empty, all emotions wrung out of him like he felt in the middle of a fight. All the great epics he had ever read dictated him to say something at this moment, some last words that he could always be remembered by, but the words didn’t come. There was nothing left in him to say that hadn’t already been. There was only what he had said on their last meeting, the unchosen words that summed up everything Taraak had felt towards his friend. ”I’m not giving up on you, Torska. Think about what I said.”
Torska raised the knife shakily, bringing it back for the quick, surgically-precise cut that he had been trained for, preparing to follow his orders, just as he'd always done. No, Taraak could not blame him for what was about to happen. He closed his eyes in preparation, and found to his own surprise that he was praying silently. Please, I don't know who or what is out there, but please, let him think about what he is doing. Let him see. I know that I of all people have probably done nothing to merit any kind of favor, please, if there is ever any mercy, grant it to Torska now. Please, please let him see. [/Color] While it struck him as completely ridiculous, it made him feel somewhat better. He had now done everything that was ever in his power. Now it was up to Torska himself to decide. He held his breath, feeling more than hearing the blade come down. SchinkTaraak waited for the searing pain to go lancing through his body, but it did not. There was only a fierce tingling as- as his bindings fell away... With a huge intake of breath, he felt his heart start beating again, feeling like a leaden weight that had been there all his life was lifting from him for the first time. At last, after six years of hoping, hoping so hard that it hurt, his friend had at last chosen to believe he could change. Taraak felt like passing out right then and there, so giddy with the thought that at least one trial was over, but he knew he could not. They weren't out yet, not by a long road. Torska put and arm under his shoulder and hauled him to his feet . Taraak supressed a cry of pain, half expecting all the bones in his body to break with loud retorts. After sitting unmoving for so long, he felt boiling water rushing under his skin as blood returned to his protesting limbs. And yet, at this moment, it was the best thing he had ever felt. . . . Baric had much the same sensation in the lower portions of his face, but for him it was anything but pleasant. How had this happened? All that work, all that time, and Torska had still chosen Taraak over him. Hadn’t he seen his friend, broken and bleeding on the floor, and example of all who defied him? What was the matter with him? Feeling his rage rising, he took one long breath before reacting. Now was the time to be professional. He was an assassin; if something went wrong, you corrected it as best you could, hid the bodies, and moved on. Of course, on further thought, that did present something of a problem. With Torska's defection, Baric was left with only the two far inexperienced boys at his disposal. He highly doubted that they could prevail against Torska and Taraak, weakened as the latter was. And with himself, that probably made it about even. Not good odds. How had this fallen apart so badly? The simple truth was that Baric had just not expected Torska to say no. And now because of his duplicity, Baric now longer had a lot to work with. But wait...No, he remembered, he still held the trump card. Taraak's friends were still in his grasp. He was back in control. "You may be sorry Torska, but I'm not. You've always had that one bit of weakness, I had just hoped you would have overcome it by now. I guess foolish sentiment wins out in the end. Boys, deal with the traitors." Like the well honed men that they were, Kye and Faren did not hesitate, drawing their weapons and moving to bracket their erstwhile counterparts. Baric hung back, snagging the ropes of the bound prisoner, who Faren had pushed aside. He pulled her to him, pressing a dagger to her back meaningfully. "Don't go anywhere m'dear." He whispered. "I have a feeling that you're going to be the one to win this for me." . . . Taraak’s legs seemed to have decided they would simply not work until he had apologized fully for what he had been putting them through lately. Which, with two assassins bearing down on him, wasn’t particularly good timing for two of his appendages to be difficult. The only thing holding him up was Torska’s arm, which would most likely be needed in a moment. The feeling was coming back now that the ropes where no longer cutting into him, but not quickly enough for it to make any difference. Come on, come on…[/Color] Too late. The larger assassin threw two quick strikes at Torska, who was forced to use both arms to intercept them, even as the younger one came at Taraak. Despite all of his willpower screaming for his legs to hold him up, he found himself sinking to the floor even as he blocked the first knife blow, knocking it aside with the blade of his own. Before he could be dismayed, his arms found another surface on the way down; the small timber table. C’mon boy, there’s weapons everywhere! Anywhere you look, there’s something you can use. You just have to figure out how. Make the environment your armory, and you’ll never need to be unarmed.Remembering Baric’s teaching, he allowed his weight to bear down on the edge of the table, upending it on two legs just in time for it to form an upright barrier between him and the boy’s next attack. His opponent swore in surprise, trying to reach over the edge of table to slash at him. From flat on his back, Taraak watched the knife dance in the air just short of his eyes, even dealing a small cut to the bridge of his nose. I can't keep outsmarting him like this. I'll have to end this, as quickly as possible.[/Color] The assassin was just getting the idea to come around the table when Torska freed himself enough to lend a hand, knocking back his own opponent with a well placed kick to engage with the other. Having been bought a few seconds respite, Taraak resumed pleading with his legs to start bearing his weight, or at least to move somewhat. Grabbing the edge of the table, he hauled himself to his feet, gasping in pain at the pins-and-needles sensation at the movement. But it beat not being able to stand at all, and he figured all pain from this point on was the price of getting free. "Taraak, help?" He looked up, finding his friend entangled viciously with both younger assassins, both of his forearm-mounted blades darting and weaving, barely managing to hold back the seeking weapons of his opponents. Seeing the opportunity, he shoved the table that had become so helpful as hard as he could, sending it sliding across the dusty floor. Torska read his intent. The assassins didn't. The table knocked the two of them into each other, knocking them off balance long enough for Torska to retreat back toward him. "Thanks for that." His friend said breathlessly. "Can you stand?" Taraak felt his mouth twitch into a smile, having missed saying these words for many years. "I'm ready now. I have your back." . . . Hm, we’re in trouble now.Baric was watching very closely how the fight was going, and he had just seen the balance tip suddenly away from him. Taraak and Torska had always worked well together, pairing up on training ops whenever they possibly could. Baric vividly remember the day where he had taken enough notice of it to pit the two of them against all the rest of the trainees at the same time. The pair managed to knock out about eight of them before they had their backsides thoroughly handed to them by the last five, but they both limped away smiling. They seemed to have an instinctive understanding of what the other would do, the sort of instinct that allowed them to fight side by side without once getting in the way of the other’s footwork, that let their blocks and strikes to seemingly flow together. He was seeing it now. Even as we watched, Taraak managed to intercept a slash from Kye that had been meant for Torska’s shoulder, even as Torska was busily planting a kick into the boy’s side, coming within a hair’s breadth of Taraak’s stomach. No, baric decided, this was not going to end well for him. Just at that moment the girl squirmed slightly in his grip, causing him to remember the advantage he held here. There was no way that Taraak would risk her life, and he figured Torska’s newfound weakness would make him feel the same. He had been talking to her last night, after all. But then, Baric had seen enough hostage situations to know that they usually didn’t end well for either party. The longer the hostage-taker talked, the longer the hostage-pleader had to figure out a way out of it, and if the hostage-taker actually did what they threatened and killed the hostage, the advantage disappeared, and they died. No, he decided, this was a battle that he wouldn’t win. Better that he retreat, and fight this one on his own ground, backed up by some more experienced boys. Hell, if he got out of this, he could even demand that Taraak and Torska turn themselves in back at the Spearshadow complex itself. Yes, that would work nicely. His mind made up, he started toward the door, locking his arm around her neck and dragging her in an awkward frog-march in front of him. “Not sounds now, miss. You and I are just going for a little walk, and then your friends can come and find you.” It was a constant in the world of a secret soldier. Whenever you moved them without them having an idea where they were going, they always screamed. In this case, her cry to Taraak was almost halfway out of her mouth before the hilt of Baric’s knife connected with the back of her skull, stunning her. Oh well. he thought to himself, scooping up her limp form and draping it across his shoulders more often used for moving corpses. Sheathing his knife, he kicked open the safehouse door, thanking fate that it was a part of the city where you could walk around dragging a mess of human entrails behind you and no one would so much as blink wonderingly. Smiling, he stepped into the street and disappeared into what would become a fine morning, so long as he did not think about the boys he was leaving behind. . . . It was so good fighting alongside Torska again. His body might have bruises layered on bruises, the assassins’ knife and short sword might inflict small cuts and slices when he didn’t quite move fast enough, but now he could face it with the strength of a man who knew that he was no longer alone. He whirled around to meet a slash from the larger foe, stepping inward to intercept the incoming sword-arm with the blade of his knife. While the well-honed blade should have cut the boy’s arm straight to the bone, but instead it only rent the sleeve to come in contact with something hard and yet slightly yielding that was worn underneath. Taraak recognized it as the same kind of armored vambrace that Torska had been so fond of using to block his strikes the last time they had met. Still, taking advantage of the slight delay, his free hand latched around the hilt of the shortsword and gave a sharp twist in a direction that his foe’s wrist wasn’t designed to go. Just like that, the blade went spinning off into out-of-the-fight-ness. Surprised but undaunted, the boy threw a swift punch at his stomach, one that Taraak was only just able to block. The funny thing was, the fist didn’t withdraw for another blow. Instead he was striving against Taraak’s strength, trying to drive the fist closer to his gut as if… They strove against each other's strength, fists near each other's faces. Taraak was about to step back and break the stalemate when he instinctively whipped his head back in reaction to a sound somewhere between a hiss and a ring. A small blade had seemingly sprouted from Torska's sleeve, it's point terminating a fraction from where Taraak's head had been. He neatly disengaged, dancing back out of striking distance. Where did this come from?The memory prompting him to what was about to happen, Taraak leapt backwards just as a thin blade sprang from the boy’s sleeve, narrowly missing plunging into his stomach. Taraak felt his back hit a wall, leaving him with nowhere to go as his opponent raised the wrist-blade and stabbed viciously. Thinking quickly, Taraak pivoted out of the way, the blade whistling through the space where his neck had been to imbed itself in the wooden paneling with a solid thunk. He raised his knife in defense of the next blow, getting ready to backpedal toward Torska… and stopped. The boy wasn’t coming after him. He was still standing where he had last saw him, trying desperately to pull the knife from the wall, but it was stuck fast. That was the one problem with weapons that were attached to you, he supposed. Making noises of frustration, the boy reached for the clasps that probably held the vambrace there in order to free himself. Without a thought, Taraak kicked out and upward, his foot planting itself in the underside of the arm, just behind the elbow. Something had to give, and Taraak guessed it wouldn’t be the blade. He was right. It didn’t. The bones in the boy’s arm make a sickening wet crunch, his piercing scream adding to the din of Torska’s engagement with the other one. Deciding to end the fight quickly, Taraak kicked the legs out from under him. The blade still stuck in the wall, the young assassin’s arm bent even more before he could catch himself, causing him to pass out from the pain. Taking a deep breath, Taraak turned to assist his friend with the other one… Just in time to jump aside as a limp form fell at his feet. Just that quickly, he and Torska were the only ones conscious in the room. Now for… Taraak felt his relief at the victory drain away as he was sure the blood in his face was now doing. The doorway into the main room was empty. Baric was gone, and he had taken Calia with him. [/size][/Blockquote]
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Post by Lily on Oct 2, 2009 21:13:26 GMT -5
Ooc//Sorry this has taken so long, Angmor and Elvorn. I was thinking Taraak and Torska could come bust River out. If not, I can edit the end of my post.
Er...the second part is a little strange, but I had no other ideas. XP
Bic//River was not angry often. She had no reason to be angry. Life, though sometimes unfair or unpredictable, was not terrible. The wars did rage and evil took its toll, but it had never really affected her directly. No one had ever really provoked her into unstable fury. Calia had helped her keep all that down. For years, she had lived off of instinct. No, rage was not instinct. Rage was emotion. The line between anger and instinct was thin, but clear. She did experience emotion. She could be irritated or impatient, but anger was one emotion that was unwelcome to her. Anger was like insanity. It made you do strange, impulsive things that could, for the most part, not be controlled. Anger was weakness. River was angry now.
They had taken Calia. The girl who had accepted her as a young werecat. The person River had not been afraid to linger around for such a long time. She had braved so much at Calia's side. She had taken blows, hunted, feared and was feared. She had lived. Even after she had revealed herself as she was, Calia had remained loyal and determined. River's true identity had seemed to only strengthen the girl's resolve. Maybe that was truly why River had come all this way with her, back to humanity. Not because of Taraak, even though she was impressed by his courage. Over her years with Calia, she had grown to love her as a friend. It was the one thing that made River feel safe and secured. She had someone she could count on and vice versa. She had found a good place in the world. But those sorry excuse for men had taken her away.
This made River unbelievably infuriated. Never had she known such cruelty, such evilness as the one she had faced here, with these people. Who were they and what gave them the right to do what they did? She would never really understand the motives of human beings. Humans were subject to their emotions and their ambitions. Power was everything to them. They could be easily manipulated. Now she saw the full extent of it. How could these men just do all of this without even hesitating or repenting? It was so...unnatural. Evil was something that didn't belong. When animals fought and killed, they weren't evil. They were trying to survive. But people killed and terrorized for no reason at all except to gain for themselves. How stupid was that?
Here she was, sitting in the middle of a storage closet, scraping her claws uselessly over the hard tiled ground. She had no idea what was happening outside other than Calia was in some sort of danger. She couldn't feel her friend's mind, but she didn't even trust those men a little. It angered her that some people didn't even care about trust or loyalty. They wanted fame and fortune and they'd do anything for it, even knock others down. There was no way she was letting them knock her down.
Rising to her paws, the werecat floated across the floor and came to the door. Beyond that, something bad was happening to Calia. If only she could get out of here... Frustratedly, she glanced around, her eyes flashing. She was already angry. Goodness knows where those men could drive her emotions next if this kept up. The walls were all dark and shadowy - there were no windows or openings. She was trapped, defeated. Right now, she thought, I could really use a dragon's strength and size. She had neither on her side right now, nor time. If she didn't hurry, she could rush out onto a murder. She definitely wasn't going to wait that long.
She decided to take a chance. What else could she do? Flexing her shoulders, she charged straight at the door, colliding with it and letting out a painful grunt. Backing away, and wishing she could rub her sore shoulder, River twitched her whiskers. Well that hadn't worked so well. The door was strong. It wasn't budging anytime soon unless she somehow managed to pry it open with her jaws or paws. It was locked anyway. Wasn't it? She thought back to when they had taken Calia. They had burst in, kicked her out of the way, grabbed Calia, and...left. Had they locked the door behind them?
River limped back towards the door and rose up on her hind legs, grasping the handle between her teeth. Banishing all sensible thought, she gave it a firm tug...and her hold slipped sending her tumbling onto the floor. She shook her head, lashing her tail. She had to do something other than sit here like a useless lump. Calia needed her right now! What could she do? Stupid, stupid, stupid. Of course! She was a werecat, not a cat. All she needed to do was to morph into her human form. But then she suddenly heard footsteps approaching. Could it be those men, back to take her too? She shrank backwards instantly, pressing up against the wall. She couldn't transform now, in case she was caught. Needless to say she would be in trouble if she did.
***
Pain. Too much pain. How could life continue like this? It wasn't worth living if everyday was dragged out. Colour didn't matter anymore. Nothing needed animation if everything was so dull. Nothing was worth it. What was texture and colour if nothing else was lit up? How could the sun rise everyday if it didn't warm anything or anyone? How could anything be beautiful or precious? Life was nothing but a waste. A lesson smote upon evildoers to send them on a path of reeling agony and negativity. Nobody was above anyone else because eventually, they all sunk down until nothing was of any importance. The world was just there to flaunt it's perfection in the face of the imperfect.
The man was harsh and cruel. Some could even say he was a psychopath. He had no patience, no mercy. He wanted work done, but he wanted to cover up his methods for getting it done. That's why he lived out here, in the Spine, far away from the watchful eyes of civilization. Maybe he had a prick of humility. It mattered little anyways. He made her suffer. That was reason enough to call him a merciless overseer.
She had failed him that day which was why he was making her pay for it. She was barely twelve, but that was a punishable age - or so he said before he had slapped her across the cheek for asking the question. She didn't press. He was Master, the only thing that she was forced to count on out here. Besides, arguing would only warrant a worse punishment. Still, the pain didn't matter anymore, did it? Pain was just another thing that came of this low life she led.
That day, she had been assigned to horse keeper. Why was that? She wasn't the only slave here. There were two others along with her. Though scratched and bruised they were still useful to him. Why had he chosen her that particular day?
As she'd been sitting out in the pasture, she had accidentally slipped up on her watch, and let a horse escape into the woods. Her master only had three horses, and with something that big... It would surely be a huge loss to him. When the creature had first escaped, she had let out an involuntary scream of rage, frustration, and fear. What was he going to do to her? She'd been beaten just for burning his dinner only a few months ago, so what was he going to do now? She'd wanted to run away. In fact, her legs almost carried her off into the forest if she hadn't been held back by stories her old caretaker, Mr. Salvora, had used to tell her. So, with no other option, she walked back to the house.
It took him no time to find out. With someone as smart as him, he'd figured it out as soon as he'd seen her stricken face. Instantly, he'd dragged her from the room by her hair. The other two, Kara and Ben, had been watching with frightful expressions. Once he was in the shed, he beat her. No, that was not the right word. He'd hit and pummeled everything out of her. Many times, she wished that her life could have been carried off into the wind with her helpless cries Then everything went red. Everything was so crimson, so confusing. Nothing made sense excpet her burning, passionate desire for this to end. For her miserable life to just end right there. Pain left her after a while. Everything was numb and dark. Nothing made sense to her anymore. Her mind went dead blank. What did it matter that the sun filtered through the cracked rooftop to dapple her broken body. The sun would never rise on her again. This was it, the end. And even as that thought crossed her mind, a terrible taste gushed into her mouth. Metallic, choking. Blood. Then she was falling. Falling. [/size]
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