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- Character Biography
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It was dark.
It seemed, come day or night, the shanty town of Cerak that cowered below the dark tower sat in eternal twilight. The town itself wouldn't have been complimented by the sunshine anyhow. Every home was barely that, built of driftwood and whatever could be scavenged from the Black Bay. It stunk of fish and blood. The streets were rampant with grime and bodily fluid, the people not having the resources or money to build any sort of sewage system. Any sort of infrastructure that was left by the people who built Cerak At'Thul had fallen into disarray and disorder.
When you walked in the street, each step was a slodge, the cobble that had originally been laid was layered with dirt and sludge and rain. It was saturated. The whole town was thick with fog that drifted in from the ocean, but the smoke that rose from bonfires didn't much help the situation, making it hard to breathe, making even the simplest of tasks a labour. But they weren't the ones labouring.
They were.
In a large holding cage made of cast-iron, sat 14 young boys. Some were younger than others, ranging from 7 year olds to adolescents. Their names had been stripped away from them, with the punishment of being flogged in the streets if they were to refer to one another by their first names or otherwise.
Maho sat in the corner, staring up at that hopeless sky, through the bars of slavery.
They all sat silently, the only sounds that rung in their ears were of the Masters shouting or screaming, their hounds giving low growls, showing their teeth to the scared children, as if they weren't terrified enough. Maho scratched at the sores on his arms; he'd been asked to tow a field for one of the traders, strapping leather buckles to his elbows and shoulders to make sure he couldn't run away. He'd be out there for days, the only sustenance provided to him was unclean water and slices of month-old bread. But he carried on at his work. When you weren't bought in Cerak, you had to make yourself useful. And those who didn't make themselves useful, didn't live very long.
Maho, however, had been blessed with a skill in Cerak that hadn't been seen in years. Magic. Most of the slave-children had bad-blood and terrible lineage, but he was one of the lucky ones. In one sense, he would always be useful, whether it be for conjuring up food or lighting fires. He was, however, made to fight in the Flame-cages.
A brutal game devised by the wealthiest in Cerak. The older boys and young male slaves would be made to enter an arena, and made to fight, often, to the death. Since he had a talent for Telekinesis, which he would later specialise in in Elbion, every evening he was made to fight. Always to the death.
The other boys sat far away from him when they were in their holding cage. They knew that if they befriended him, that they would be chosen next to face him. The men paid good money to watch, he later learned. Moreover, their lack of any sort of education led them to be terrified by his abilities; the boy that could lift things with his mind.
Every time he refused to kill one of his fellow slaves, they were flayed.
He was never made to watch, so he never learnt what that meant. Until later, of course.
All he knew was that, when they left that cage alive, they never came back.
Human nature scared him, and it would forever scare him. Watching someone you knew, someone who suffered as much as you had, wielding a knife, running at you with the upmost intent to kill you, knowing you'd do the same. He'd go to bed on the same floor, if you could call it that, sodden with hail and rain. And he'd look up again, at that hopeless sky.
Through the bars of slavery.
It seemed, come day or night, the shanty town of Cerak that cowered below the dark tower sat in eternal twilight. The town itself wouldn't have been complimented by the sunshine anyhow. Every home was barely that, built of driftwood and whatever could be scavenged from the Black Bay. It stunk of fish and blood. The streets were rampant with grime and bodily fluid, the people not having the resources or money to build any sort of sewage system. Any sort of infrastructure that was left by the people who built Cerak At'Thul had fallen into disarray and disorder.
When you walked in the street, each step was a slodge, the cobble that had originally been laid was layered with dirt and sludge and rain. It was saturated. The whole town was thick with fog that drifted in from the ocean, but the smoke that rose from bonfires didn't much help the situation, making it hard to breathe, making even the simplest of tasks a labour. But they weren't the ones labouring.
They were.
In a large holding cage made of cast-iron, sat 14 young boys. Some were younger than others, ranging from 7 year olds to adolescents. Their names had been stripped away from them, with the punishment of being flogged in the streets if they were to refer to one another by their first names or otherwise.
Maho sat in the corner, staring up at that hopeless sky, through the bars of slavery.
They all sat silently, the only sounds that rung in their ears were of the Masters shouting or screaming, their hounds giving low growls, showing their teeth to the scared children, as if they weren't terrified enough. Maho scratched at the sores on his arms; he'd been asked to tow a field for one of the traders, strapping leather buckles to his elbows and shoulders to make sure he couldn't run away. He'd be out there for days, the only sustenance provided to him was unclean water and slices of month-old bread. But he carried on at his work. When you weren't bought in Cerak, you had to make yourself useful. And those who didn't make themselves useful, didn't live very long.
Maho, however, had been blessed with a skill in Cerak that hadn't been seen in years. Magic. Most of the slave-children had bad-blood and terrible lineage, but he was one of the lucky ones. In one sense, he would always be useful, whether it be for conjuring up food or lighting fires. He was, however, made to fight in the Flame-cages.
A brutal game devised by the wealthiest in Cerak. The older boys and young male slaves would be made to enter an arena, and made to fight, often, to the death. Since he had a talent for Telekinesis, which he would later specialise in in Elbion, every evening he was made to fight. Always to the death.
The other boys sat far away from him when they were in their holding cage. They knew that if they befriended him, that they would be chosen next to face him. The men paid good money to watch, he later learned. Moreover, their lack of any sort of education led them to be terrified by his abilities; the boy that could lift things with his mind.
Every time he refused to kill one of his fellow slaves, they were flayed.
He was never made to watch, so he never learnt what that meant. Until later, of course.
All he knew was that, when they left that cage alive, they never came back.
Human nature scared him, and it would forever scare him. Watching someone you knew, someone who suffered as much as you had, wielding a knife, running at you with the upmost intent to kill you, knowing you'd do the same. He'd go to bed on the same floor, if you could call it that, sodden with hail and rain. And he'd look up again, at that hopeless sky.
Through the bars of slavery.
