Private Tales Where Even the Stones Scream

A private roleplay only for those invited by the first writer
"Killing?"

The Anirian man frowned and pulled back.

"I don't understand."

Idle fingers found his harp and toyed with a string there, plucking the note over and over softly, creating a discordant noise.

"Does killing make you evil? I suppose I am too then. I think everyone on this island might be."

Who on Cerak At' Thul had not killed before?

"Didn't you just kill three people?"

Keres
 
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“Yes.” she snapped, the sound sharper than she had intended and her brow knit tightly.

“Thank you for reminding me,” she added bitterly, as if he’d scraped a fresh wound open.

“I didn’t want to kill them…” she muttered, as though saying it aloud might wash some of the blood from her hands. Surely that had to matter. Intent had to matter. Didn’t it?

Her gaze flicked away, jaw working. “I don’t make a habit of murdering people,” she said, quieter but no less tense. “Not before this place. Not before him... I don’t want to become like them.”
 
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“Like them… you mean monsters?”

The door suddenly thudded with the sound of a fist hammering into it over and over.

“No…” whispered Threnody, eyes wide. He got up off the bed and backed into a corner of the room, holding the harp tightly to his chest.

Outside the door could be heard muffled voices, “Agravayne why are you bothering with her, she’s just some slave. Ravenna put you up to this didn’t she?”

The voice was reedy and thin.

“Shut up,” came the reply in a bright tenor.

“You’re drunk.”

The door burst inward, nearly torn from its hinges as a huge dark elf entered the room. He was shirtless and the dark ash skin of his well muscled-chest gleamed where he’d spilled wine from the flagon in his hand. He wore a short sword at his waist and loose pants. His lavender gaze swept the room, passing over Threnody before falling on Keres.

“There’s the bitch,” chuckled the tall warrior called Agravayne.

Behind him came a thin, shorter elf with a scar beneath one eye and an awful haircut. He at least was fully clothed in blacks, with gloves as well. He tugged at one glove now, glancing Keres up and down.

“Well at least she’s pretty,” he sighed, and it became apparent that he was the owner of the thin, reedy voice, “I guess we should bring up Xun and-“

“Already here, Raith.”

Behind them came a man in scale armor, the one she’d seen at the execution in the morning. His face bore scales as well and his eyes were a horrible, acidic yellow with slitted pupils.

The three of them made Keres’ room claustrophobic.

“Guess we should get started,” Raith turned to Keres, “Sorry, but Ravenna says you have to go. Don’t make this worse than it needs to be.”

The spymaster of the Fortress smiled thinly.

Keres
 
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Keres flinched at the first heavy slam against the door, her breath catching. She was on her feet before she even realised she’d moved, backing away, palms seeking something solid until her shoulder blades collided with the cold stone wall. The draft from the narrow window played through strands of her hair, but did nothing to cool her rising panic.

The door exploded inward. Agravayne’s massive form filled the frame, and Keres startled visibly, her spine pressing harder into the wall as though she might push straight through it. Her gaze flicked from one to the other as they stepped into her room. The way they made the space shrink around her made her chest tighten.

Ravenna says you have to go.

Her stomach dropped. Her fingers twitched at her sides, curling, uncurling, useless.

“I—” She swallowed hard. Her lips felt numb. “I don’t belong to Ravenna…”

Her voice was quieter than she wanted, but steady enough to hide the tremor in it. Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms. and she lifted her chin just slightly, because shrinking wouldn’t keep her alive.

“Don’t you think you should discuss it with him first,” she arched a dark brow, “before you lay a hand on his property?”

She hated the word property, she hated saying it, hated how easily it came, hated that she was right. But it was all she had. The only shield that might mean anything here. He had bought her, had spent his time and coin on her, needed her for something. Surely he wouldn't allow this?

Her dark eyes moved across the three of them, weighing, searching for any flicker of hesitation amongst the intent. Her pulse thuded against her ribs like a trapped bird. She could feel her magic like a coiled thing in her ribs, but she knew with icy clarity that even if she reached for a soul, even if she found the strength to rip one free, shed never make it through the other two. These three were not immobilised by stockades.

There would be no fighting her way out of this.
 
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“Hah!” Agravayne’s barking laughter drowned out the unsettled expression Raith bore at her words.

The best swordsman in Cerak At’thul stepped up until he stood chest to chest with her. She didn’t even reach his chin.

“Sure, let’s ask him…” Agravayne looked around as if searching, then leaned closer, breath reeking of alcohol. “Oh. He’s not here.”

Raith appeared behind the shirtless warrior, he’d pulled free a small knife from his belt and was using it to clean his nails. “He hasn’t said anything to us about you, slave. As far as we’re concerned, you’re disposable.”


The swordsman grunted, then lifted his flagon and up ended it over her. Red wine gushed out and onto her head.

Keres
 
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She couldn’t argue. He wasn’t here. And yet she wanted nothing more than for him to stride through that doorway right now.

But she was alone, always, and perhaps she was a fool for thinking he'd actually 'care'.

Her breath quickened as the brute stepped into her space, the shadow of him swallowing her whole. She made a small, involuntary sound as the wine flowed over her, cold and sticky, trailing down her face, her throat, her chest. The scent of sweet, rotting fruit filled her nose.

Was this really her life? An endless cycle of rejection, humiliation, and the slow decay of whatever self worth she had left?

Why was she still running? Fighting?
Because she was infuriatingly and stupidly stubborn, and it would take more than wine to break her. She licked the bitter droplets from her lips and raised her dark gaze to meet his. Then she moved.

Her knee shot upward toward his crotch, fast and vicious and with every ounce of strength she had left, all instinct and desperation. Any attempt to distract him for the brief moment she took to go for the blade at his hip.
 
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