Date: 4/18/2000 10:57 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Beck Weller
"Is it him?"
So much distance separated the owner of the disembodied voice from where it now erupted that some crackling was bound to sneak in. The soft violet glow of the magical orb hovering over Grayson's palm plastered the alleyway in an otherworldly caste, throwing the shadows of him and his team into sharp relief against the stone walls.
"It's him, Mistress. It's Beck. Do you still want him alive?" Captain Grayson's voice responded in hushed tones, lest the prey catch wind of the hunting team.
"I specified undamaged, Captain. Any harm I find on his body I'll echo on each one of you and your hunters." Even through the static across the dimensions, her annoyance rang clear.
"Understood. I will contact you once your prisoner is secure." Folding his fingertips across the globe, he plunges the corridor and team back into darkness. He would likely be punished for ending the communication before her dismissal, but at this point it was not a high priority on his mind.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Beck ambled aimlessly down the very center of the road, hands clasped firmly behind his back. Troubled thoughts swam behind the ice chips he called eyes, while his long hair pendulated back and forth across his cheeks with each step. His lower lip bore the brunt of his pondering, continuously being chewed.
The evening of fighting had soothed the rage that seemed to constantly seethed in his chest. Sometimes he thought that it would grow to the point that it would become a living flame, exploding from his body and consuming everything in a maelstrom of fury. If he didn't wander out in a blind fume, his night would plunge into the icy depths of fear as his eyes caught hold of the women that frequented the rings. One way or the other, tonight was a
thankful break from the usual extremes.
On rare moments of alacrity, regret would seep in for what he'd been forced into. Unlike most of the people in the Outback and Arena, he truly didn't wish to be fighting. Rather, it was necessary for his survival. He had to learn to control the berserker within, he absolutely must learn the ways of combat in order to avoid the fate others had already chosen for him.
The bracers around his wrists clinked delicately together behind him, once again bringing their permanence harshly to mind. Slowing to a halt, he lets out the pent-up breath in his lungs... and continues to exhale until there is no more air left. Pausing, he locks the vacuum in his chest, letting the nerves tingle and ignite... a physical pain to match the pain in his mind.
Large hands clasp over his crossed wrists, pinioning them behind him and interrupting his meditation. Without thought, he immediately goes limp in his assailant's grasp... and as expected, the bigger person easily holds him up at a perfect height for throwing out his feet, blowing out the inside of the person's knees.
Tucking into a ball as he falls, he rolls to a halt and brings his hands up before him as he faces his attacker, something now second nature from his trials in the ring. The bigger man slowly grunts as he rises to his full height, a head taller than Beck.
Beck quickly scans the man over. He wore the livery and light armour of the house of Kithailis, black and green with a sickle moon arcing along the breastplate. His thick, braided sorrel beard obscured most of his face, though that facial feature alone identified him.
They'd found him.
Captain Grayson stepped cautiously forward, somehow intent on bringing the smaller man down with only his bare hands and brute strength. Rushing the last few paces of distance between them, he lunges forward and snatches Beck up into a crushing grapple.
For his own part, Beck had been frozen in place by the fact that he'd still forgotten to inhale until he hit the ground. Just as he pulled in a breath, it got crushed out of him again. His teeth grind together as pressure and lack of oxygen begin to dim his vision... his mind shuts down... the rage once again assumes control.
Snapping his neck up violently, he smashes his skull into Grayson's chin. The move doesn't get him free yet, so he swings his head forward once more, shattering Grayson's nose with his forehead. Crimson washes his vision as he drops to the ground once again, pain secondary to the fact that this man violated him... his privacy, his freedom... this man wanted to end the life he had worked so hard for. The blood runs freely into his eyes from the cut
on his brow.
The bigger man was reeling, his hand clutched to his face, blood welling from between his fingers. Beck ignores the fact that other shadows were moving in on him, circling for the kill... the fury had such a hold on him.
Swinging a powerful uppercut, he drives Grayson's fingers further into his ruined face. Beck's arm flies back down from its heaven-bound position, driving his opponent's head further down. Translating the momentum of his swinging arm into a spin, he lifts his leg and smashes the larger man to the pavement like an axe splitting wood.
Common sense screams once at him. Flee! Others approach! For a split-second, the animal instinct of flight seizes his figure and he leaps into the air. But he comes down on the prone figure of the Captain, cracking ribs and making soft jelly out of what once was hard tissue and bone. Screaming in fury, he tears at the unprotected back beneath him until a tackle from behind spills him to the side of the street.
Many hands muffle and hold him, something pricks him softly in the arm before the redness of blood and rage dims to the black of unconsciousness.
"Putting a stitch in time."
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Re: "Putting a stitch in time."
Date: 4/22/2000 1:08 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Beck Weller
There were only two occupants not expected to stand in the great audience hall, resplendent with its hanging tapestries of defeated kingdoms and lined with foppishly dressed vassals.
One of them was Launna, Mistress of the Kithainis Empire; a woman of immediate command and immaculate beauty. She looked young by all accounts, silken gold hair cascading down her royal livery of luxurious violet velvet robes, loosely tied about a lithe frame. However, every one of the equally splendid courtiers and dress-clad soldiers knew that behind that succulent skin lay the hardened heart of a sorceress long since past her innocence.
The other was the prisoner, named Beck Weller by Her Majesty; his Mistress and owner. His elbows were cruelly forced together behind his back and bound there with wide leather straps, the silver bracers attached to each of its three mates by thick, short chains. It would be impossible for him to rise from his kneel thus hobbled, so he was carried in by two guards hefting a pole that ran underneath his arms, leaving him dangling like a piece of meat
above the floor.
Grave charges dripped from the herald's mouth of his current deeds as the guards lowered him to the floor before the throne. The first and foremost was his betrayal of the royal house, running away from the duties and obligations of his servitude. The second being murder outright of Her Majesty's master huntsman, captain Grayson. Other, less serious infringements followed; stealing from Her Majesty's citizens to acquire clothing for himself,
raising his hands in anything other than supplication to his superiours, daring to lift his eyes without invitation and other such perpetrations of the code of humility.
Beck retained his customary silence. Even had he wished to protest, the thick pad of leather strapped across his lips would have prevented it. It had been pleasant for a while not to wear the instrument of silence, but the moment that he'd awoken from the drug-enduced sleep he'd found it securely back in place as if he'd never removed it. He remained bent, hiding flushed cheeks behind the long arcing curtain of his pale hair, though his downcast
eyes could be seen by all.
"Bring in the witness." Her voice, calm as always, stung his ears with the disappointment it carried.
All heads turned as Huntress Kira made her way to the front and began the tale of finding him. Eyebrows raised as she told of locating him in a shabby pugilist's establishment, in a burnt-out ring fighting with another person. Sharp inhales of shock rippled across the crowd as she regaled them with the story of how he stole a knife and proceeded to a basement arena, wielding the dagger in combat with other armed fighters. Heads shook in disgust as
she related how Captain Grayson had confronted Beck to distract him while the rest of the hunters could surround and overpower him... ultimately leading to the Captain's murder.
Kira finished the telling and turned, her boots making hard noises against the floor in the thick silence that followed. Beck could feel his face burning as the pressure of a thousand eyes ate at his temper, he knew they were all staring at him even without raising his own gaze. Finally Mistress Launna spoke again.
"This isn't the first time you have failed me Beck." He could feel her cold gaze lingering on him. It was much different from the others', like having a point of ice pressed into his fiery forehead.
"I took your voice from you the last time. This time your crimes are far, far greater." She began to pace from one end of the throne dais to the other as she spoke. "What then should I take from you that will sufficiently convince you of the damage you have done? Your voice is mine... your body, name, identity, life... all belong to me. When you force me to discipline you, you force me to damage my own property Beck, and that simply irks me."
Her voice was raising to a dangerous level near the end, so he was very grateful when she took the time to sigh and vent some of that frustration before it was fully focused on him again.
"Were you not my property, I would have you executed for your actions."
His blood ran cold, fear drenching the fires of fury with an icy douse. He had no doubt that she had it within her powers to find something worse than that to subject him to.
"I cannot decide what to do with you yet, if you remain in my sight I will have you killed... but I do not discard my tools so lightly." She stopped walking, once again fixing him with her emerald stare.
"Somehow I will hone the corruption off of you Beck... I will make you useful once more. Until then, you will be chained in the kitchens. Take him from here." With the curt wave of one hand, she dismissed the guards to carry him away and fulfill her decree.
From: Beck Weller
There were only two occupants not expected to stand in the great audience hall, resplendent with its hanging tapestries of defeated kingdoms and lined with foppishly dressed vassals.
One of them was Launna, Mistress of the Kithainis Empire; a woman of immediate command and immaculate beauty. She looked young by all accounts, silken gold hair cascading down her royal livery of luxurious violet velvet robes, loosely tied about a lithe frame. However, every one of the equally splendid courtiers and dress-clad soldiers knew that behind that succulent skin lay the hardened heart of a sorceress long since past her innocence.
The other was the prisoner, named Beck Weller by Her Majesty; his Mistress and owner. His elbows were cruelly forced together behind his back and bound there with wide leather straps, the silver bracers attached to each of its three mates by thick, short chains. It would be impossible for him to rise from his kneel thus hobbled, so he was carried in by two guards hefting a pole that ran underneath his arms, leaving him dangling like a piece of meat
above the floor.
Grave charges dripped from the herald's mouth of his current deeds as the guards lowered him to the floor before the throne. The first and foremost was his betrayal of the royal house, running away from the duties and obligations of his servitude. The second being murder outright of Her Majesty's master huntsman, captain Grayson. Other, less serious infringements followed; stealing from Her Majesty's citizens to acquire clothing for himself,
raising his hands in anything other than supplication to his superiours, daring to lift his eyes without invitation and other such perpetrations of the code of humility.
Beck retained his customary silence. Even had he wished to protest, the thick pad of leather strapped across his lips would have prevented it. It had been pleasant for a while not to wear the instrument of silence, but the moment that he'd awoken from the drug-enduced sleep he'd found it securely back in place as if he'd never removed it. He remained bent, hiding flushed cheeks behind the long arcing curtain of his pale hair, though his downcast
eyes could be seen by all.
"Bring in the witness." Her voice, calm as always, stung his ears with the disappointment it carried.
All heads turned as Huntress Kira made her way to the front and began the tale of finding him. Eyebrows raised as she told of locating him in a shabby pugilist's establishment, in a burnt-out ring fighting with another person. Sharp inhales of shock rippled across the crowd as she regaled them with the story of how he stole a knife and proceeded to a basement arena, wielding the dagger in combat with other armed fighters. Heads shook in disgust as
she related how Captain Grayson had confronted Beck to distract him while the rest of the hunters could surround and overpower him... ultimately leading to the Captain's murder.
Kira finished the telling and turned, her boots making hard noises against the floor in the thick silence that followed. Beck could feel his face burning as the pressure of a thousand eyes ate at his temper, he knew they were all staring at him even without raising his own gaze. Finally Mistress Launna spoke again.
"This isn't the first time you have failed me Beck." He could feel her cold gaze lingering on him. It was much different from the others', like having a point of ice pressed into his fiery forehead.
"I took your voice from you the last time. This time your crimes are far, far greater." She began to pace from one end of the throne dais to the other as she spoke. "What then should I take from you that will sufficiently convince you of the damage you have done? Your voice is mine... your body, name, identity, life... all belong to me. When you force me to discipline you, you force me to damage my own property Beck, and that simply irks me."
Her voice was raising to a dangerous level near the end, so he was very grateful when she took the time to sigh and vent some of that frustration before it was fully focused on him again.
"Were you not my property, I would have you executed for your actions."
His blood ran cold, fear drenching the fires of fury with an icy douse. He had no doubt that she had it within her powers to find something worse than that to subject him to.
"I cannot decide what to do with you yet, if you remain in my sight I will have you killed... but I do not discard my tools so lightly." She stopped walking, once again fixing him with her emerald stare.
"Somehow I will hone the corruption off of you Beck... I will make you useful once more. Until then, you will be chained in the kitchens. Take him from here." With the curt wave of one hand, she dismissed the guards to carry him away and fulfill her decree.
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Re: "Putting a stitch in time."
Date: 4/28/2000 6:11 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Beck Weller
Mistress Launna sauntered easily across one of her many verandahs, the sheer gown billowing from her body, plucked at and lifted by uncountable fingers of the wind. A genuine smile of satisfaction rode her berry lips; pleasure at this body of hers, pleasure at the state of her domain, pleasure at the continuing fruition of her long-tended plan.
"Are you sure it's wise to leave him in the kitchens, Mistress?" Dawn, the queen's chancellor, voiced her distress from her perch upon one of the many railings. "He's already demonstrated how dangerous he is. Wouldn't the dungeon or the training halls be more appropriate?"
Launna's eyes shifted momentarily to the willowy figure sitting on the thin strip of steel, her legs swinging merrily over a deathly high drop. Such was her advisor's demeanor, concern and ponder brewing within a shell of carelessness and fancy. It was one of the many things that made her love the woman so.
"Of course it's not wise." Launna bent her gaze once more out to the kingdom sprawled out from the steps of her castle, myriad sparkles of light beckoning life in from the rest of the moonlit night. Her lips curled further into satisfaction. "He should easily be able to escape from there, perhaps even by tonight."
The blue eyes of the chancellor blinked wide at her Mistress, her mouth left open in disbelief. "Mistress... wha... you... ?"
Launna laughed, stretching her arms languidly above her head in the night breeze. Her slender fingertips easily brushed the stone tracery of the verandah ceiling as she let the railing hold her waist, leaning a bit out over the empty space herself.
"Beck Weller has always held a potential dear Dawn, only now is he finally reaching it... whether he realizes it or not. I've waited so many years for the results of such careful breeding and planning... " She dropped her arms underneath a secret smile, thinking back on the rituals and planning that year had required of her. She could almost still smell the delicious scent of enchantment and sweat in the air as her two chosen slaves had fulfilled
her wishes. Nine months later, Beck would be born into bondage and begin the arduous task of becoming her ultimate accomplishment.
Dawn tucked a lock of her short fiery hair behind her ear and looked back at her Mistress, awaiting more. Just as she was about to prompt the still figure, Launna began speaking again.
"His little forays into the fighting arenas only further that purpose. His rage will grow... with the tutelage of these establishments he will learn to temper that rage into a fine weapon; sharper than any hunter's arrow, deadlier than any poisoned blade. Then Dawn... then he will come back for me."
"Aren't you afraid, Mistress?"
Launna remained staring out at the city, knowing full well the worried expression her advisor most surely wore. "Does the farmer fear his herd? Does the alchemist fear her experiments? Surely not. Such things are impossibly dangerous of course, but there is always the element of control. When he returns again, lives will most certainly be lost and things will be broken, for he will have no equal in this land. But in the end, he will never
overcome his Mistress."
From: Beck Weller
Mistress Launna sauntered easily across one of her many verandahs, the sheer gown billowing from her body, plucked at and lifted by uncountable fingers of the wind. A genuine smile of satisfaction rode her berry lips; pleasure at this body of hers, pleasure at the state of her domain, pleasure at the continuing fruition of her long-tended plan.
"Are you sure it's wise to leave him in the kitchens, Mistress?" Dawn, the queen's chancellor, voiced her distress from her perch upon one of the many railings. "He's already demonstrated how dangerous he is. Wouldn't the dungeon or the training halls be more appropriate?"
Launna's eyes shifted momentarily to the willowy figure sitting on the thin strip of steel, her legs swinging merrily over a deathly high drop. Such was her advisor's demeanor, concern and ponder brewing within a shell of carelessness and fancy. It was one of the many things that made her love the woman so.
"Of course it's not wise." Launna bent her gaze once more out to the kingdom sprawled out from the steps of her castle, myriad sparkles of light beckoning life in from the rest of the moonlit night. Her lips curled further into satisfaction. "He should easily be able to escape from there, perhaps even by tonight."
The blue eyes of the chancellor blinked wide at her Mistress, her mouth left open in disbelief. "Mistress... wha... you... ?"
Launna laughed, stretching her arms languidly above her head in the night breeze. Her slender fingertips easily brushed the stone tracery of the verandah ceiling as she let the railing hold her waist, leaning a bit out over the empty space herself.
"Beck Weller has always held a potential dear Dawn, only now is he finally reaching it... whether he realizes it or not. I've waited so many years for the results of such careful breeding and planning... " She dropped her arms underneath a secret smile, thinking back on the rituals and planning that year had required of her. She could almost still smell the delicious scent of enchantment and sweat in the air as her two chosen slaves had fulfilled
her wishes. Nine months later, Beck would be born into bondage and begin the arduous task of becoming her ultimate accomplishment.
Dawn tucked a lock of her short fiery hair behind her ear and looked back at her Mistress, awaiting more. Just as she was about to prompt the still figure, Launna began speaking again.
"His little forays into the fighting arenas only further that purpose. His rage will grow... with the tutelage of these establishments he will learn to temper that rage into a fine weapon; sharper than any hunter's arrow, deadlier than any poisoned blade. Then Dawn... then he will come back for me."
"Aren't you afraid, Mistress?"
Launna remained staring out at the city, knowing full well the worried expression her advisor most surely wore. "Does the farmer fear his herd? Does the alchemist fear her experiments? Surely not. Such things are impossibly dangerous of course, but there is always the element of control. When he returns again, lives will most certainly be lost and things will be broken, for he will have no equal in this land. But in the end, he will never
overcome his Mistress."
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Re: "Putting a stitch in time."
Date: 4/28/2000 7:02 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Beck Weller
"Aye lad, keep up the good work and I'll be tellin' th' Mistress about what a fine kitchen boy ye be." The man grinned then, a gap-toothed smile that begged Beck to knock loose the rest of that mouth's occupants. He was prodded with the end of the mop again, prompting him back into action.
His knees were soaked through and sore, nothing too unfamiliar about the latter. He wasn't able to rise above his crouch, the chains attaching his wrist bracers to the stone floor of the kitchen weren't long enough. However, they were just the right length for him to kneel at the side of a washing tub and scrub the castle dishes.
The Mistress had thought it best that he try and wash the blood from his hands by assisting with the menial duty. At first he thought of refusing, none of the regular kitchen staff would come near enough to him to force the issue once the guards had gone. But he realized that in time he would need something to keep himself occupied, lest his anger awaken and reduce him to flailing like an animal against his bindings. So he scrubbed, resignedly, at
the ever-dwindling pile of crockery... they were at least smart enough to keep the utensils and metal pans away from his murdering hands.
As he crouched at the side of the sudsy vessel he thought at length about his situation. Each plate and trencher that passed his hands marked another argument for his humility. He was a slave... born to be a laborer his whole life long. He blamed his parents for that, for bringing him into the world under such circumstances. They should have known better than to have a child when they knew it would share their fate.
However, his brain kept showing him flashbacks of the faces he'd encountered in the Arena and the Outback... faces that looked upon him as more than a tool or a pack animal. Some reflected respect at his abilities in the ring, some indifference at his existence, some even pity for his conditions. Even those faces that feared him were a vast improvement to the sneer of expectancy written even on the kitchen-dwellers that surrounded him. In that
other land, he could be more a person than he was here.
Mutinous thoughts bombarded his quiet meditation and were immediately rebuked by caution. Even were he able to escape the chains that secured him in place, there were six other scullery workers surrounding him. If they proved no resistance, there were two armoured, armed guards posted outside the door and scores more standing between him and any exit from the castle.
One of the pots slipped from his fingers and smashed soundly into the floor, interrupting the conversational flow around him.
"Oi! Our new helper seems to have shaky hands eh?" Raucous laugher erupted around him, but no other jibes followed. They seemed intent to mainly ignore him and finish their task... they had beds to get to. As long as his pile of clean dishes grew as steadily as theirs did, they had no qualm with him.
He stared blankly at the shards laying splayed across the stone floor until his peripheral caught one of the other dishwashers reaching for the mop again. With a quick motion, he swept a larger piece of the hard pottery under his knee and resumed reaching for the last soiled plate, giving the gap-toothed one no reason to poke him again. Later he would figure out what to do with it... for now, soap and water were his main concerns.
From: Beck Weller
"Aye lad, keep up the good work and I'll be tellin' th' Mistress about what a fine kitchen boy ye be." The man grinned then, a gap-toothed smile that begged Beck to knock loose the rest of that mouth's occupants. He was prodded with the end of the mop again, prompting him back into action.
His knees were soaked through and sore, nothing too unfamiliar about the latter. He wasn't able to rise above his crouch, the chains attaching his wrist bracers to the stone floor of the kitchen weren't long enough. However, they were just the right length for him to kneel at the side of a washing tub and scrub the castle dishes.
The Mistress had thought it best that he try and wash the blood from his hands by assisting with the menial duty. At first he thought of refusing, none of the regular kitchen staff would come near enough to him to force the issue once the guards had gone. But he realized that in time he would need something to keep himself occupied, lest his anger awaken and reduce him to flailing like an animal against his bindings. So he scrubbed, resignedly, at
the ever-dwindling pile of crockery... they were at least smart enough to keep the utensils and metal pans away from his murdering hands.
As he crouched at the side of the sudsy vessel he thought at length about his situation. Each plate and trencher that passed his hands marked another argument for his humility. He was a slave... born to be a laborer his whole life long. He blamed his parents for that, for bringing him into the world under such circumstances. They should have known better than to have a child when they knew it would share their fate.
However, his brain kept showing him flashbacks of the faces he'd encountered in the Arena and the Outback... faces that looked upon him as more than a tool or a pack animal. Some reflected respect at his abilities in the ring, some indifference at his existence, some even pity for his conditions. Even those faces that feared him were a vast improvement to the sneer of expectancy written even on the kitchen-dwellers that surrounded him. In that
other land, he could be more a person than he was here.
Mutinous thoughts bombarded his quiet meditation and were immediately rebuked by caution. Even were he able to escape the chains that secured him in place, there were six other scullery workers surrounding him. If they proved no resistance, there were two armoured, armed guards posted outside the door and scores more standing between him and any exit from the castle.
One of the pots slipped from his fingers and smashed soundly into the floor, interrupting the conversational flow around him.
"Oi! Our new helper seems to have shaky hands eh?" Raucous laugher erupted around him, but no other jibes followed. They seemed intent to mainly ignore him and finish their task... they had beds to get to. As long as his pile of clean dishes grew as steadily as theirs did, they had no qualm with him.
He stared blankly at the shards laying splayed across the stone floor until his peripheral caught one of the other dishwashers reaching for the mop again. With a quick motion, he swept a larger piece of the hard pottery under his knee and resumed reaching for the last soiled plate, giving the gap-toothed one no reason to poke him again. Later he would figure out what to do with it... for now, soap and water were his main concerns.
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Re: "Putting a stitch in time."
Date: 5/22/2000 12:03 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Beck Weller
Many, many other servants and slaves had been subjected to such discipline, those chains had endured much in their time. Though the plates were coated in a thin film of rust and the rock was pitted with erosion, their anchors in the stone floor had been tested time and time again by raging defiance and thorough guards.
Steel and stone were much more enduring than clay and flesh, but Beck found little else to do with the few night hours. By orders, laziness, or fear... he had been left chained to the floor while the other scullery workers had been led to their beds. He plied the shard of crockery against the edge of the hole where his right hand chain was bolted to the floor, the echoes of his scraping keeping him company through the mind-numbing night.
Nobody had thought to sweep up the scattered pieces of the broken pot, a lucky thing for him as each piece in turn was reduced to a mere stump by repetative gouging. After a few hours, there were no more segments to reach for.
He stared absently at the very slightly widened gap, making small tugs against the restraint. Raising to his feet, he strained with all his force and weight against the bond, but to no avail.
It would have been nice if that were really his plot... a daring escape agaisnt odds that none had beaten before, one boy against thick chains and a castle full of armed men. For a moment, he let his mind follow that flight of fancy.
As a blasphemous sigh of wonderment rebounds off the instrument of silence still tightly affixed agaisnt his lips, he lets go the dream. He wasn't lucky enough to be cleaning the portal room floors this time, he'd likely never be trusted to even go unbound for years... if ever. He knew quite a few of the castle slaves whose bracers had permanent chains affixed to them.
Without further scraping tools, he busies himself rotating the chain link against the bolt in the floor. For a while he didn't even notice that the anchor itself was rotating along with the chain... after all, it was very dark.
From: Beck Weller
Many, many other servants and slaves had been subjected to such discipline, those chains had endured much in their time. Though the plates were coated in a thin film of rust and the rock was pitted with erosion, their anchors in the stone floor had been tested time and time again by raging defiance and thorough guards.
Steel and stone were much more enduring than clay and flesh, but Beck found little else to do with the few night hours. By orders, laziness, or fear... he had been left chained to the floor while the other scullery workers had been led to their beds. He plied the shard of crockery against the edge of the hole where his right hand chain was bolted to the floor, the echoes of his scraping keeping him company through the mind-numbing night.
Nobody had thought to sweep up the scattered pieces of the broken pot, a lucky thing for him as each piece in turn was reduced to a mere stump by repetative gouging. After a few hours, there were no more segments to reach for.
He stared absently at the very slightly widened gap, making small tugs against the restraint. Raising to his feet, he strained with all his force and weight against the bond, but to no avail.
It would have been nice if that were really his plot... a daring escape agaisnt odds that none had beaten before, one boy against thick chains and a castle full of armed men. For a moment, he let his mind follow that flight of fancy.
As a blasphemous sigh of wonderment rebounds off the instrument of silence still tightly affixed agaisnt his lips, he lets go the dream. He wasn't lucky enough to be cleaning the portal room floors this time, he'd likely never be trusted to even go unbound for years... if ever. He knew quite a few of the castle slaves whose bracers had permanent chains affixed to them.
Without further scraping tools, he busies himself rotating the chain link against the bolt in the floor. For a while he didn't even notice that the anchor itself was rotating along with the chain... after all, it was very dark.
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Re: "Putting a stitch in time."
Date: 5/28/2000 2:28 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Beck Weller
Batog- the larger, older, and senior ranked guard on duty- lifted his shaggy gray head after leaning over to collect the coins scattered on the floor. Their friendly dice game had passed most of the night shift away, he'd even managed to nearly bankrupt his junior partner. Holding up a meaty hand, he motions for a moment of silence, halting the young one from reaching into his ever-dwindling wallet. When the brief
pause passes without interruption, old blue eyes glance from the younger man at his side to the locked door nearby.
" 's gotten awfully quiet in there. Think he's finally asleep?"
"Might be. Want me to go check?" There was less apprehension in the young man's voice and face now than there had been while they were securing the prisoner to the floor in the first place. It was obviously disturbing for him, having a murderer as his first charge under her Majesty's duty. Batog, thinking he was doing a fine job of overcoming such an obsticle, nodded his permission to carry out that idea.
The larger man leaned back on his heels to stand, less agile than his young companion. There was a reason for the pairing, he should follow and make sure even such a minute operation as this went smoothly. By the time he had adjusted a heavier coin purse on his belt, the junior guard had already entered the scullery.
A harsh smack reverberated through the dimly lit room, wet and metallic echoes dying slowly in both the doorway and passage.
"Tiralian? What was that? Are you well?" Batog eased up just outside the stone jamb, suddenly hesitant. He fervently hoped that his partner hadn't stepped too close to the prisoner... that would be supremely ignorant.
As he leaned further inside the doorway, he caught a glimpse of the torch Tiralian had carried into the room, sizzling against the still-wet floor where it fell. Another few cautious inches around the corner and he could see the feet of his fallen comrade.
With the hiss of metal, Batog withdrew the short baudelair at his waist. Visions of the prisoner chewing happily on Tiralian's head floated up from the depths of his adrenaline-ridden imagination, he quickly tried to dismiss the ghoulish thought. He could easily imagine their prisoner capable of doing that and worse after hearing the list of charges in the audience hall. He should go for help, and would, after he made certain of his partner's
safety.
The floating apparition of Beck's bloody face quickly dissolved from his mind as Batog moved around the corner enough to see Tiralian's chest, which still stirred with breath. Even if that had only been a figment of his fear, he should still get Tiralian as far from the prisoner as possible... lest it become a reality. Another delicate step and turn, he should be able to see exactly where they left the prisoner secured.
In the flash of sight just before it hit, he saw the bottom edge of a metal plate, missing its bolt, filling his vision impossibly quickly. Another harsh clamour rang through the damp room as the missile rebounded off Batog's forehead, dropping him across the other unconscious guard like a boned fish.
Beck's thin fingers quickly pull on the chain that once bound him to the stone floor, but now serves to reel in an uncanny weapon. The bolt that he'd managed to unscrew rang a tinny cadence as the plate it once secured was yanked past, sending the small, bent pin skittering across the floor to rack up against the empty washing tub.
From: Beck Weller
Batog- the larger, older, and senior ranked guard on duty- lifted his shaggy gray head after leaning over to collect the coins scattered on the floor. Their friendly dice game had passed most of the night shift away, he'd even managed to nearly bankrupt his junior partner. Holding up a meaty hand, he motions for a moment of silence, halting the young one from reaching into his ever-dwindling wallet. When the brief
pause passes without interruption, old blue eyes glance from the younger man at his side to the locked door nearby.
" 's gotten awfully quiet in there. Think he's finally asleep?"
"Might be. Want me to go check?" There was less apprehension in the young man's voice and face now than there had been while they were securing the prisoner to the floor in the first place. It was obviously disturbing for him, having a murderer as his first charge under her Majesty's duty. Batog, thinking he was doing a fine job of overcoming such an obsticle, nodded his permission to carry out that idea.
The larger man leaned back on his heels to stand, less agile than his young companion. There was a reason for the pairing, he should follow and make sure even such a minute operation as this went smoothly. By the time he had adjusted a heavier coin purse on his belt, the junior guard had already entered the scullery.
A harsh smack reverberated through the dimly lit room, wet and metallic echoes dying slowly in both the doorway and passage.
"Tiralian? What was that? Are you well?" Batog eased up just outside the stone jamb, suddenly hesitant. He fervently hoped that his partner hadn't stepped too close to the prisoner... that would be supremely ignorant.
As he leaned further inside the doorway, he caught a glimpse of the torch Tiralian had carried into the room, sizzling against the still-wet floor where it fell. Another few cautious inches around the corner and he could see the feet of his fallen comrade.
With the hiss of metal, Batog withdrew the short baudelair at his waist. Visions of the prisoner chewing happily on Tiralian's head floated up from the depths of his adrenaline-ridden imagination, he quickly tried to dismiss the ghoulish thought. He could easily imagine their prisoner capable of doing that and worse after hearing the list of charges in the audience hall. He should go for help, and would, after he made certain of his partner's
safety.
The floating apparition of Beck's bloody face quickly dissolved from his mind as Batog moved around the corner enough to see Tiralian's chest, which still stirred with breath. Even if that had only been a figment of his fear, he should still get Tiralian as far from the prisoner as possible... lest it become a reality. Another delicate step and turn, he should be able to see exactly where they left the prisoner secured.
In the flash of sight just before it hit, he saw the bottom edge of a metal plate, missing its bolt, filling his vision impossibly quickly. Another harsh clamour rang through the damp room as the missile rebounded off Batog's forehead, dropping him across the other unconscious guard like a boned fish.
Beck's thin fingers quickly pull on the chain that once bound him to the stone floor, but now serves to reel in an uncanny weapon. The bolt that he'd managed to unscrew rang a tinny cadence as the plate it once secured was yanked past, sending the small, bent pin skittering across the floor to rack up against the empty washing tub.
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Re: "Putting a stitch in time."
Date: 6/3/2000 10:33 PM Central Daylight Time
From: Beck Weller
The castle slept ... as much as it ever did. Those inhabitants that would enjoy playing into the wee morning hours were out in the gardens on such a glorious night as this ... the cries of triumph, pain, glee and passion echoed throughout the pillared halls.
On quiet feet Beck pattered from the shadows cast from one column to another. He could taste the cool air of this brisk spring evening like frozen spiderwebs on the tip of his tongue, now freed from the cruel leather band. He paused on the stone porch overlooking the hedge maze courtyard, listening to the moans and cheers drifting on the breeze. In his mind's eye, he could see the scenes of the garden enacted ... he'd served as both refreshment
and entertainment at such banquets before.
Beck had left the chains and weapons back in the scullery, the former to buy him time, the latter because he was already a killer once over, he didn't relish the idea of becoming a repeat offender on that count. There was a clear path to the outer bailey just below his current position. From there a short sprint could bring him to the portcullis which had never been closed in his lifetime. He would likely be able to escape from the castle entirely
with little effort right now, the queen's denizens wouldn't even know he was gone until the guards woke and removed themselves from a small taste of his slavery experience.
However, he knew from various tales from other attempts that no castle slave ever made it through the town spread just outside the gates. There was always someone awake and waiting to capture a fleeing fugitive, either for their own personal use or to collect the massive standing bounty.
With a last look spared to the sparkling alabaster gravel of the path ... yet another countermeasure against the bare feet and knees of the subjugated ones ... he turned inward to the castle, disappearing through one of the gauzy sheets of white silk that served for curtains on nights like this.
From: Beck Weller
The castle slept ... as much as it ever did. Those inhabitants that would enjoy playing into the wee morning hours were out in the gardens on such a glorious night as this ... the cries of triumph, pain, glee and passion echoed throughout the pillared halls.
On quiet feet Beck pattered from the shadows cast from one column to another. He could taste the cool air of this brisk spring evening like frozen spiderwebs on the tip of his tongue, now freed from the cruel leather band. He paused on the stone porch overlooking the hedge maze courtyard, listening to the moans and cheers drifting on the breeze. In his mind's eye, he could see the scenes of the garden enacted ... he'd served as both refreshment
and entertainment at such banquets before.
Beck had left the chains and weapons back in the scullery, the former to buy him time, the latter because he was already a killer once over, he didn't relish the idea of becoming a repeat offender on that count. There was a clear path to the outer bailey just below his current position. From there a short sprint could bring him to the portcullis which had never been closed in his lifetime. He would likely be able to escape from the castle entirely
with little effort right now, the queen's denizens wouldn't even know he was gone until the guards woke and removed themselves from a small taste of his slavery experience.
However, he knew from various tales from other attempts that no castle slave ever made it through the town spread just outside the gates. There was always someone awake and waiting to capture a fleeing fugitive, either for their own personal use or to collect the massive standing bounty.
With a last look spared to the sparkling alabaster gravel of the path ... yet another countermeasure against the bare feet and knees of the subjugated ones ... he turned inward to the castle, disappearing through one of the gauzy sheets of white silk that served for curtains on nights like this.
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Re: "Putting a stitch in time."
Date: 6/4/2000 12:00 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Beck Weller
He truly hadn't even considered the ramifications of what he'd done yet ... he only knew the feral need to escape clawing about in the pit of his stomach. As so many other times in his life, his common sense and intellect found themselves playing second fiddle to impulse and instinct. There would be plenty of time to think later, either when he made it clear of this place or he was permanently affixed to one of the
palace walls.
Only a couple of patrols had passed by, he watched them walk past while he remained tucked into an alcove above one of the statues in the rectory foyer. After the second pair of female soldiers disappeared from view, he slid down the massive marble chest of the monolithic god he'd hidden behind, bare feet making barely a whisper as they contacted the polished floor.
Passing down the aisle marking the center of the pews, he made a sharp right just before the altar where many innocent lives had met their end in sacrifice to the powers that fed Her Majesty's ambitions. He walked along the hammered gold bas-relief wall, absently running his fingers across the raised figures poised in supplication and domination, as he had so many times before on his way to the portal chamber.
The chamber itself was probably his favorite place in creation. In the center of the room was a well as far across as he was tall, ringed with cut verdant marble. An eternal light shafted upward from the hole, reflecting off the angular faceted dome of the ceiling, which was cunningly mirrored to focus a predetermined amount of that illumination onto a set of archways carved from the living limestone of the walls.
He took the second portal to the right, going straight on until morning.
-----------------
Amidst silken sheets and alabaster limbs, Launna separated herself from the bodies surrounding her, muzzily blinking sleep from her eyes.
"Mistress?" Dawn's voice called with concern from the tangle of the bedclothes around Her Majesty.
"I'm well Dawn, everything is well ... so very well... " Launna's thin-fingered hand softly strokes the auburn locks of her chancellor, her voice gently cooing the woman back to sleep. A secret grin perks the queen's lips as she also lays her head down once more, allowing herself a brief shiver of satisfaction before returning to dreams.
From: Beck Weller
He truly hadn't even considered the ramifications of what he'd done yet ... he only knew the feral need to escape clawing about in the pit of his stomach. As so many other times in his life, his common sense and intellect found themselves playing second fiddle to impulse and instinct. There would be plenty of time to think later, either when he made it clear of this place or he was permanently affixed to one of the
palace walls.
Only a couple of patrols had passed by, he watched them walk past while he remained tucked into an alcove above one of the statues in the rectory foyer. After the second pair of female soldiers disappeared from view, he slid down the massive marble chest of the monolithic god he'd hidden behind, bare feet making barely a whisper as they contacted the polished floor.
Passing down the aisle marking the center of the pews, he made a sharp right just before the altar where many innocent lives had met their end in sacrifice to the powers that fed Her Majesty's ambitions. He walked along the hammered gold bas-relief wall, absently running his fingers across the raised figures poised in supplication and domination, as he had so many times before on his way to the portal chamber.
The chamber itself was probably his favorite place in creation. In the center of the room was a well as far across as he was tall, ringed with cut verdant marble. An eternal light shafted upward from the hole, reflecting off the angular faceted dome of the ceiling, which was cunningly mirrored to focus a predetermined amount of that illumination onto a set of archways carved from the living limestone of the walls.
He took the second portal to the right, going straight on until morning.
-----------------
Amidst silken sheets and alabaster limbs, Launna separated herself from the bodies surrounding her, muzzily blinking sleep from her eyes.
"Mistress?" Dawn's voice called with concern from the tangle of the bedclothes around Her Majesty.
"I'm well Dawn, everything is well ... so very well... " Launna's thin-fingered hand softly strokes the auburn locks of her chancellor, her voice gently cooing the woman back to sleep. A secret grin perks the queen's lips as she also lays her head down once more, allowing herself a brief shiver of satisfaction before returning to dreams.
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"Garden of Dissolution."
Date: 6/19/2000 3:54 AM Central Daylight Time
From: Launna Kithainis
The lope was an easy one as they rounded the corner to the garden's inner core. The transportation the two women had chosen for the morning's ride had deep red roses laced within the shiny black hair of one, and delicate pink for the blonde hair of the other pony.
The ponies were indeed men laced only with the necessary ropes conducive to holding the sewn winged-backed back supports taut, and the 'tails' that floated behind them. The only other cover the men received was the bridle bit and the coat of shimmering sweat that gleamed on well tanned and toned bodies.
With honeysuckle vines and blossoms braided within her own long hair, Launna pulled absently on the silken rope in her hands. Quickly yet gracefully the black haired pony turned to face the fountain and lowered himself to lay flat upon the soft grass. The red headed rider prompted her own to fall in place next to her Mistress.
Absently dropping her hand to coddle the man's side beneath her, she drops her head back and lets out a relaxing breath. It was always nice taking the morning ride through the garden as the dew drops melted beneath the knees of the men. She adored the way the sun filtered through some of the weeping willows that were meticulously placed about and the sound of the fountain splashing its endless waterfall in cadence with her heartbeat. Her favorite
part of the ride however, was the lulling side to side motions as the man-pony strained muscles to maintain as graceful a ride as possible.
Green eyes dipped casually to the men so elegantly laid out in T formations and fit together as the women required closeness, the gaze then spattered to the gardens surrounding and beyond in her minds eye. The maze garden was just another small accomplishment among the myriad of victories Launna had endured.
"I think it's time to hold another fair on the grounds, just to boost moral of the commoners once more. What do you think Dawn?"
Blue eyes blink sharply over to the speaker both in high regard and slight worriment, "I think I still don't understand about the slave that you foretold of losing."
"Longer than I expected yet with the slyness I've come to count. I must say I'm both disappointed and pleased in the same." She paused again to enjoy the moment, her many years of life had taught her patience albeit she knew that it slightly annoyed Dawn. It wasn't really an intentional action, she simply had her quirks, and that was one of them.
"A flame should be given fuel to consume and burn hotter, however if you keep the fire in one place it never fully combusts to it's pure energy form. A fire allowed to roam free and find food among the forests and other varieties of places will indeed grow stronger as it utilizes all within reach."
Dawn was beginning to understand a bit and she shifted lazily in the soft chair, her ankles crossing as she settled in to listen.
"Freedom is something that when given properly, can be a drug. A very powerful drug that will devour the seeker quicker and faster each time. He gets out once, he timidly explores.. he learns to like what he sees and feels and the power over himself. The power feeds upon his mind until he gains confidence. He then gets contained again yet the taste of freedom is already engraved upon his pallet. The ferocity upon which that power eats at his
soul creates a craving that makes him explore quicker, faster, and with more efficiency for fear of recapture again. It increases each time in an exponential rate until the powerlust finally drowns him and the fire explodes. Beck will forge himself simply by learning and wanting."
The youth had remained quiet while absently twirling her own fire-kissed strands of hair in contemplative thought. She was indexing and sorting the information in her own way, yet another thing Launna loved about the woman.
"So what's the next step?" Her distracted tone was not enough to dislodge her, Launna knew she was calculating and gauging while listening.
"I'll send Kira's men out after him in a few days. Once he gets comfortable again he'll learn that I'm not the only one out there. I have a favor to call upon, and I'm sure Beck will like his new place." The smile that graced her lips now was poison indeed, berry lips set upon well aged features. Every muscle of her body reeked power and the hard edges could even be softened by the violet material she wore. She knew exactly what she was doing.
"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."
J. Joplin
From: Launna Kithainis
The lope was an easy one as they rounded the corner to the garden's inner core. The transportation the two women had chosen for the morning's ride had deep red roses laced within the shiny black hair of one, and delicate pink for the blonde hair of the other pony.
The ponies were indeed men laced only with the necessary ropes conducive to holding the sewn winged-backed back supports taut, and the 'tails' that floated behind them. The only other cover the men received was the bridle bit and the coat of shimmering sweat that gleamed on well tanned and toned bodies.
With honeysuckle vines and blossoms braided within her own long hair, Launna pulled absently on the silken rope in her hands. Quickly yet gracefully the black haired pony turned to face the fountain and lowered himself to lay flat upon the soft grass. The red headed rider prompted her own to fall in place next to her Mistress.
Absently dropping her hand to coddle the man's side beneath her, she drops her head back and lets out a relaxing breath. It was always nice taking the morning ride through the garden as the dew drops melted beneath the knees of the men. She adored the way the sun filtered through some of the weeping willows that were meticulously placed about and the sound of the fountain splashing its endless waterfall in cadence with her heartbeat. Her favorite
part of the ride however, was the lulling side to side motions as the man-pony strained muscles to maintain as graceful a ride as possible.
Green eyes dipped casually to the men so elegantly laid out in T formations and fit together as the women required closeness, the gaze then spattered to the gardens surrounding and beyond in her minds eye. The maze garden was just another small accomplishment among the myriad of victories Launna had endured.
"I think it's time to hold another fair on the grounds, just to boost moral of the commoners once more. What do you think Dawn?"
Blue eyes blink sharply over to the speaker both in high regard and slight worriment, "I think I still don't understand about the slave that you foretold of losing."
"Longer than I expected yet with the slyness I've come to count. I must say I'm both disappointed and pleased in the same." She paused again to enjoy the moment, her many years of life had taught her patience albeit she knew that it slightly annoyed Dawn. It wasn't really an intentional action, she simply had her quirks, and that was one of them.
"A flame should be given fuel to consume and burn hotter, however if you keep the fire in one place it never fully combusts to it's pure energy form. A fire allowed to roam free and find food among the forests and other varieties of places will indeed grow stronger as it utilizes all within reach."
Dawn was beginning to understand a bit and she shifted lazily in the soft chair, her ankles crossing as she settled in to listen.
"Freedom is something that when given properly, can be a drug. A very powerful drug that will devour the seeker quicker and faster each time. He gets out once, he timidly explores.. he learns to like what he sees and feels and the power over himself. The power feeds upon his mind until he gains confidence. He then gets contained again yet the taste of freedom is already engraved upon his pallet. The ferocity upon which that power eats at his
soul creates a craving that makes him explore quicker, faster, and with more efficiency for fear of recapture again. It increases each time in an exponential rate until the powerlust finally drowns him and the fire explodes. Beck will forge himself simply by learning and wanting."
The youth had remained quiet while absently twirling her own fire-kissed strands of hair in contemplative thought. She was indexing and sorting the information in her own way, yet another thing Launna loved about the woman.
"So what's the next step?" Her distracted tone was not enough to dislodge her, Launna knew she was calculating and gauging while listening.
"I'll send Kira's men out after him in a few days. Once he gets comfortable again he'll learn that I'm not the only one out there. I have a favor to call upon, and I'm sure Beck will like his new place." The smile that graced her lips now was poison indeed, berry lips set upon well aged features. Every muscle of her body reeked power and the hard edges could even be softened by the violet material she wore. She knew exactly what she was doing.
"Freedom's just another word for nothing left to lose."
J. Joplin