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<blockquote data-quote="Aristoi" data-source="post: 2506361" data-attributes="member: 32975"><p><strong>Crimson Menagerie: Act 1</strong></p><p></p><p>S'lanneneth dragged his feet, resisting the enchantments that held all of them fast in obedience and allowed them to do whatever they wanted. He sighed slightly, not even able to sigh heavily for the enchantment kept him from being disrespectful even by himself. </p><p> </p><p>His body hurt, oh how it hurt. As it had hurt hundreds of times prior and would hurt every time following until their Master tired of him. His voice, his forms, his skills had kept him from that fate already for he was such a weak creature, the Pits had proven no entertainment at all. Certainly not for him and definitely not for Bloodtwist and his guests. </p><p> </p><p>He stumbled slightly as he entered the quad, feeling weakness tugging at him, He needed to eat and even "The Sludge" was better than nothing and would nourish him, if not pleasantly. ~It is almost time~ he thought, knowing how his body reacted and what it's little twinges said to him. He'd been here all of his life and known nothing else, though he had heard or and sensed the thoughts of others who had seen and felt "grass" and "wind". Here is the dim corridors and hateful enclosures, he had never seen "outside" even once. </p><p> </p><p>Maybe, just maybe if the Master had been pleased this time, there might be a treat in his trough. He nearly tumbled through the opening of his enclosure, returning as he had been ordered. The compulsions kept him from disobeying and he always knew, intuitively, how to get back to the smelly den that was where he spent most of his time. He collapsed a moment after he bent to make it inside, falling to his knees at the trough, waiting. A moment later the trough filled with a thin gruel, gray and tasteless. Except for the roaches in it, which the Master had added as a reward for his performance this time. Eagerly he started to scoop up the wriggling crunchies, sucking down the tangy bitterness of their insides as the shells crunched between his sharp teeth. In his fervor to eat as much as he could and get the treats down his infernal nature began to assert itself and the features of the think elvish boy darkened and flowed, his bat-wings emerging from the flesh of his scarred back, his horns emerging through the skin of his scalp, his hair whitening from the roots and losing their curl. </p><p> </p><p>Until he heard the coarse laughter and the footsteps.</p><p> </p><p>He froze and turned like lightning, back pressed against the trough and his tail whpping around his legs defensively, his body flashing back to the vulnerable boy-shape he wore most of the time. </p><p> </p><p>Thuzzar and his cronies were coming down the corridor. </p><p> </p><p>That meant one of two things and the Master couldn't want him now, so soon after his efforts. He looked at the wall to his right sympathetically, knowing Adama had heard and knowing what was coming. If he had been free to he would have wept for his fellow victim and instead swallowed hard, fighting the bile that rose in his throat. </p><p> </p><p>Just within sight of his opening a peg hung the remains of a shredded and tattered purple tabard; that of a Squire-Knight of Cormyr. It was much covered in stains of blood and other less savory things. It had been torn, rent, clawed and nigh-shredded and yet one could just make out the dragon-rampant. </p><p> </p><p>Movement at the corridor caught his attention and his eyes fixed on it, like a prey-animal sensing a predator and freezing, trapped.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Aristoi, post: 2506361, member: 32975"] [b]Crimson Menagerie: Act 1[/b] S'lanneneth dragged his feet, resisting the enchantments that held all of them fast in obedience and allowed them to do whatever they wanted. He sighed slightly, not even able to sigh heavily for the enchantment kept him from being disrespectful even by himself. His body hurt, oh how it hurt. As it had hurt hundreds of times prior and would hurt every time following until their Master tired of him. His voice, his forms, his skills had kept him from that fate already for he was such a weak creature, the Pits had proven no entertainment at all. Certainly not for him and definitely not for Bloodtwist and his guests. He stumbled slightly as he entered the quad, feeling weakness tugging at him, He needed to eat and even "The Sludge" was better than nothing and would nourish him, if not pleasantly. ~It is almost time~ he thought, knowing how his body reacted and what it's little twinges said to him. He'd been here all of his life and known nothing else, though he had heard or and sensed the thoughts of others who had seen and felt "grass" and "wind". Here is the dim corridors and hateful enclosures, he had never seen "outside" even once. Maybe, just maybe if the Master had been pleased this time, there might be a treat in his trough. He nearly tumbled through the opening of his enclosure, returning as he had been ordered. The compulsions kept him from disobeying and he always knew, intuitively, how to get back to the smelly den that was where he spent most of his time. He collapsed a moment after he bent to make it inside, falling to his knees at the trough, waiting. A moment later the trough filled with a thin gruel, gray and tasteless. Except for the roaches in it, which the Master had added as a reward for his performance this time. Eagerly he started to scoop up the wriggling crunchies, sucking down the tangy bitterness of their insides as the shells crunched between his sharp teeth. In his fervor to eat as much as he could and get the treats down his infernal nature began to assert itself and the features of the think elvish boy darkened and flowed, his bat-wings emerging from the flesh of his scarred back, his horns emerging through the skin of his scalp, his hair whitening from the roots and losing their curl. Until he heard the coarse laughter and the footsteps. He froze and turned like lightning, back pressed against the trough and his tail whpping around his legs defensively, his body flashing back to the vulnerable boy-shape he wore most of the time. Thuzzar and his cronies were coming down the corridor. That meant one of two things and the Master couldn't want him now, so soon after his efforts. He looked at the wall to his right sympathetically, knowing Adama had heard and knowing what was coming. If he had been free to he would have wept for his fellow victim and instead swallowed hard, fighting the bile that rose in his throat. Just within sight of his opening a peg hung the remains of a shredded and tattered purple tabard; that of a Squire-Knight of Cormyr. It was much covered in stains of blood and other less savory things. It had been torn, rent, clawed and nigh-shredded and yet one could just make out the dragon-rampant. Movement at the corridor caught his attention and his eyes fixed on it, like a prey-animal sensing a predator and freezing, trapped. [/QUOTE]
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