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Crimson Menagerie: The Legend Escapes
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<blockquote data-quote="Aristoi" data-source="post: 2675004" data-attributes="member: 32975"><p>Adama moved through the postures of war, practicing with an imaginary sword only he could see, his awkward legs bent to give him space and to keep them strong. This work kept him focussed, kept him strong, it gave him purpose so one day- oh yes, one day....</p><p></p><p>Dimly he was aware that S'lanneneth had returned, hours after he had left and several cycles through the battle practice Adama had run through. He was wounded, as he had been expected to be and on some dim level Adama felt for him. But the rest of his mind, that which raged and screamed in madness and fury, remained desperately focussed on his posture and balance and the imaginary longsword in his hand. </p><p></p><p>The one his father had given him. The one the mage had broken when... when... </p><p></p><p>He stopped, his mind blanking in the grips of a terrible rage, a gibbering madness that had nearly broken him entirely and had made his mind retreat to a safe place. Oh he obeyed the enchantments on him, he followed the orders and he did as he was expected and he even fought when ordered but he never forgot and never gave up. </p><p></p><p>He could not forget. He wasn't allowed to.</p><p></p><p>Without being aware he had done so, he found he had turned and was staring at the tabard hanging upon the peg outside his tiny prison. His eyes saw it as he stared blankly, remembering when he had gotten it, the pride his parents and siblings had. He himself had been near to bursting with it and yet, he had scampered off to attend the banquet in the honor of the Squires. </p><p></p><p>Dimly, he remembered the Court and the Plots and those who he had been brought into the confidences of. And of their mistake in believing he would support a plot against the Queen. </p><p></p><p>Their vengeance against him was not so clear, only awakening under the hand of the Slavers and finding his body a parody of his former self. What had been done, how it had been done; he couldn't even guess. But it had been powerful magics indeed to wreak such a change on him. </p><p></p><p>He had been lost in his reverie for a moment, justa monent only, when he heard the coarse laughter and the steps of the Handlers. And in a moment he felt the enchantments take over, sinking to a kneeling position, a position of supplication, of vulnerability. </p><p></p><p>His world shrank away as his mind shut down, screaming.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Aristoi, post: 2675004, member: 32975"] Adama moved through the postures of war, practicing with an imaginary sword only he could see, his awkward legs bent to give him space and to keep them strong. This work kept him focussed, kept him strong, it gave him purpose so one day- oh yes, one day.... Dimly he was aware that S'lanneneth had returned, hours after he had left and several cycles through the battle practice Adama had run through. He was wounded, as he had been expected to be and on some dim level Adama felt for him. But the rest of his mind, that which raged and screamed in madness and fury, remained desperately focussed on his posture and balance and the imaginary longsword in his hand. The one his father had given him. The one the mage had broken when... when... He stopped, his mind blanking in the grips of a terrible rage, a gibbering madness that had nearly broken him entirely and had made his mind retreat to a safe place. Oh he obeyed the enchantments on him, he followed the orders and he did as he was expected and he even fought when ordered but he never forgot and never gave up. He could not forget. He wasn't allowed to. Without being aware he had done so, he found he had turned and was staring at the tabard hanging upon the peg outside his tiny prison. His eyes saw it as he stared blankly, remembering when he had gotten it, the pride his parents and siblings had. He himself had been near to bursting with it and yet, he had scampered off to attend the banquet in the honor of the Squires. Dimly, he remembered the Court and the Plots and those who he had been brought into the confidences of. And of their mistake in believing he would support a plot against the Queen. Their vengeance against him was not so clear, only awakening under the hand of the Slavers and finding his body a parody of his former self. What had been done, how it had been done; he couldn't even guess. But it had been powerful magics indeed to wreak such a change on him. He had been lost in his reverie for a moment, justa monent only, when he heard the coarse laughter and the steps of the Handlers. And in a moment he felt the enchantments take over, sinking to a kneeling position, a position of supplication, of vulnerability. His world shrank away as his mind shut down, screaming. [/QUOTE]
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