The shadow of the new moon cast its umber gaze upon the encampment of curiosities. The embers of the dwindling bonfire leaked warmth to those who encircled it, the dancers and acrobats basking in the summer night. Surrounding them were those in chains and shackles, coughing and shivering in their circle of the unwanted, the outcast. Beyond those freaks of nature, in a black box of obsidian with a gate ladened with mage crystal enwrapped with chains of silver and iron one creature was kept in solitary confinement. So cursed was he that even bound and caged was he kept from all.
The ringmaster and his comrades were drunk, rambling and ranting to whilst their slaves slept. They cared not for the sleep of those beneath them no more than they would for the dirt they walked upon. The masters pissed upon the remnants of the fire, casting all in cold and dark. Their hearty chuckles bellowed throughout the camp, waking all. They stampeded through the grounds, barking orders and riling all who they woke. Their hooting did not go unheard, even in the dark cell of the cursed one their hollering echoed. The beast smirked, knowing the power they had given to him.
For many a moon he had laid this plan, sowed the seed of doubt and rebellion; now, it was his time to reap. His mastered clambered to his cage, keys clinking and hands shaking as they desperately pried open the gate which held him back. They ordered the beast to put the riot down, and as he stepped forth, arcane light dancing in his hands, the beast grinned a wicked thing. He lashed forward, chains ripping from the wall and light flickering in the face of the fool who had set him free.
He threw the first of his hulking masters from the cart his cage had been left. He felt the power surge through him as he climbed free, returning as he walked, for the first time in decades - free. Fighting for freedom, at least, as his fellow slaves wrought their freedom from their iron shackles. The smoke of the fallen fire filled the camp with the sound of steel on steel, screams echoing in that midsummer night.
The beast leaped from fiend to fiend, draining them of their succulent soul essence. White mist soon surrounded him, the excess soul essence gathering around him like a storm. It was a storm, a hurricane of hatred unleashed upon those who had caused him so much pain, so much suffering. Not just him, but the others as well. The Nelfin had made many a brother and sister who were bound in chains; many who were deemed unworthy of Altalar society, yet none who were like he. What he was.
None as powerful as he was. The beast watched, blood dripping from his iron chains, as he fellow freaks were mowed down. They were losing, as the ringmaster summoned more of his minions and henchmen. A flick of his wrist sent a chain cackling across the battlefield. He raced through and past the others, sending blast of white light in the faces of would be attackers. His chains glistened with ice as they wrapped around the weapons of those who prided themselves in stealing freedom, in stealing life.
The Silver Skinwalker approached the ringmaster, summoning forth a wicked blade of golden light. It came crashing down with a thunderous clamor of chains and steel. Their fight silenced the storm around them, as the beast shifted from man to bear. Each strike that would have hit the beast was met with a whirlwind of twig and leaf. His devious grin was ravenous as he struck at the ringmaster.
That was the last he remembered, before finally being struck down. Alchemy, a woman's weapon, wielded by a pathetic man such as the ringmaster is what finally outdid the beast. It would seem even he, named for the healing properties of Saint John's wort, would fall to poison. His body seizing, weapon of light fading into darkness, the last thing he saw was the return of those cursed shackles.
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