The first day she assaulted and took note.
The second day she memorized and resisted.
The third day she commenced to yield.
The fourth day she degraded herself to fit.
The fifth day she stayed deferential and registered new entries.
The sixth day she struck tacitly back without an utterance.
The seventh day the Leviathan they devised was unrestrained.
<><><><>
The day that she arrived, already broken as is. Her body scared with the claw marks and bites of what seemed to be a feathered creature and a dog. They did not question it. The dark figures that had from the moment they received her chains, left the blemishes of days to come on her physique. She called them the Tormentors of the Pneuma. They placed her in an all too familiar cell telling her of lectures that would start the very next day. Their words were clouded to her, by hate and agony. All she could hear was a fog of sharp cut words. "You are here because you deserve it." The silven craned her head eerily, the silver eyes vigorously darted from wall to wall in an inspection of the confinements. Her hands writhed in their shackles, her fingers jerked to that sound of silent misery. A Tormentor stepped forward, towards the unnerved Half-Elf, who denied them of any sound. The room soon filled with the agonized cries of Cael. The smell of blood entering the hall for the rest of the evening.
<><><><>
The second day, they dragged her out of the chamber. Forcing her along the dirty floors and into another room of dark walls and lowly emitted light. They began their chanting, as Cael'ellia preferred to call it. Their chorus of the one true god of this world. The one who held all the power and how he shunned her, for all her sins. The mage, however, did not heed the wailing calls that seemed to rejuvenate off the walls around her. Her perfectly shaped head hung back to stare blankly at the ceiling, her eyes closing as she went to give a very cold seer. "The one with the talons of passion will pay, The one with nothing to obtain will be drained, The one who thinks they will not fall will be broken most of all." Before another word could echo around the walls of the area, all one could hear was the silent drip of blood and tears onto the stone and the broken wails that joined all the other souls of the night. That night as they hurled her onto the cracked pebbled bricks, the Silven swept herself slowly as she could onto her knees. Her head throbbed as her body wept blood. That night she thought of the one with the Talons. The one with the branches that lent up like horns, with those brown voids of the enigma. How he had followed her into a puzzling work of feet and wind, how she had grown to take some of his small terms to the walls around her heart. He would pay first, with the very leaves that built up his existence. @Caelamus
<><><><>
The third day they hauled her out once more, across the floor in a trail of gore. Hanging onto the piece of edge that could slip away into nothing with the touch of a digit. They took her to the same room, trying again to instruct the twenty-two year old. She listened, hunched over herself, exposing what they had deformed her body into. The Tormentors seemed not to pay any mind, they barked on about their one true soul. She stayed silent for hours, daring not to flutter shut her tear-stained eyes and bring herself to rest. For she was afraid to slip into the crossroad if she did. She bided her time and then chose the time to strike. "Pick and chose as you might, power leads to no fright, The mind is a twisted thing, the heart existents to wall it in." Again, the words that dripped out of her mouth soon glazed with the sound of cracking bones and salt filled water pinging off the floor. It was shorter this time, behavior seemed to play a role as she figured it did. That night she found herself barely holding herself up on her knees. The enclosure let out soft crackling echoes as the mage leaned her head back to stare vacantly up at the ceiling. That night she thought of the one with the pain that she felt. The betrayal that she had caused for him and the anger he received. She thought on how much pleasure it had given her, to see him squirm. He would be drained next, though he had nothing left she would find a way to tear him from his very reality. @Pastellanar
<><><><>
The fourth day she awaited the now accustomed tug on her hair, towing her to that room she now had memorized all the curves and grooves of. Her hands felt the stone under her scared palm. Muttering words that the Tormentors drilled into her skull but in a different order. "Bane the empire so, destroy the peace and punished the spirit under the eyes of the conjurers." Her hands folded as they always did, her head inclining to listen to the unmeaningful words they tried to get her to accept. The lesson went on with the garble of time. The silver eyes burning holes into the Tormentors void driven eyes, that so seemed to peel away from what they tried to teach. Obedience it seemed to them. A test it seemed to her. They concluded late, the dragging of her locks dusting the floors back to the winding paths she had yet to truly archive. "massacre for you and assassination for me" The sound of cracking air soon followed by the drop of limp life into a chamber of demise. She awoke from the soreness and ache a few hours into the mid of night. She didn't even try to get up she just closed her eyes and thought of the next one. The one with the beautiful blue eyes, the one that had much patience with her. She liked him, she hated to admit that she liked him. He had gotten to her head this time, he had twisted his way into her heart. She hated the black swig of his hair that curled just so perfectly over his demanding icy orbs, the way he gave her that disappointed crinkle of his nose. He would plummet the farthest down, into the dark abyss that he might learn to call his abode. @Percuriam
<><><><>
The fifth day she was taken silent and obedient to all command. Was the mind broken, had they found success? Had they broken her like the rest? The brilliance of this wench was not to be assessed, however, for one might find them to be vested with the burden of her undermining psychotic demeanor.
<><><><>
The sixth day, they dragged her out once more, in that hall draped in bloody bandages. Gathering strength she silently cursed the guards, with a little help from her slippery fingers the dangle of gold pressed against her skin. She sat through the long lesson of the day. That night, her eyes draped across the memorized floor and walls. She slipped the dangle of gold out onto her olive palm. Her palmed opened to stare down at the charm she had stolen. The eye seemed to ogle back at her with a disgruntled glare, she dropped it onto the floor, with a clatter across the walls. She had to scramble to slip it back into her garments before the stomp of the guard's boots clanked, reflecting in her mind as a sound of a silent alarm. She curled together and waited for the smell of her own flesh to incase the chamber and halls.
<><><><>
The seventh day, was the end. They dragged her to one last session and torment as the name she had picked for the cults alignment fit them so. They lured her to the outside environment the harsh winds bashing against her torn flesh, causing it to sting. The rhythmical pattern of dripping blood only worsened as they flung her into the carriage that would take her to what she could only at this point hope was the crossroad.
<><><><>
The silven was greeted by the man who had recreated her. She greeted him with those sweetly poisoned lines, of sickly innocence as he gave her a new jewel for her neck. Her hand nimble and quick added something to the man's wear of that day. The very thing she had stolen but had made slight adjustments too. She left him a message too, in her own blood and soft whispers of the wind.
She was back.
The first day she assaulted and took note.
The second day she memorized and resisted.
The third day she commenced to yield.
The fourth day she degraded herself to fit.
The fifth day she stayed deferential and registered new entries.
The sixth day she struck tacitly back without an utterance.
The seventh day the Leviathan they devised was unrestrained.
<><><><>
The day that she arrived, already broken as is. Her body scared with the claw marks and bites of what seemed to be a feathered creature and a dog. They did not question it. The dark figures that had from the moment they received her chains, left the blemishes of days to come on her physique. She called them the Tormentors of the Pneuma. They placed her in an all too familiar cell telling her of lectures that would start the very next day. Their words were clouded to her, by hate and agony. All she could hear was a fog of sharp cut words. "You are here because you deserve it." The silven craned her head eerily, the silver eyes vigorously darted from wall to wall in an inspection of the confinements. Her hands writhed in their shackles, her fingers jerked to that sound of silent misery. A Tormentor stepped forward, towards the unnerved Half-Elf, who denied them of any sound. The room soon filled with the agonized cries of Cael. The smell of blood entering the hall for the rest of the evening.
<><><><>
The second day, they dragged her out of the chamber. Forcing her along the dirty floors and into another room of dark walls and lowly emitted light. They began their chanting, as Cael'ellia preferred to call it. Their chorus of the one true god of this world. The one who held all the power and how he shunned her, for all her sins. The mage, however, did not heed the wailing calls that seemed to rejuvenate off the walls around her. Her perfectly shaped head hung back to stare blankly at the ceiling, her eyes closing as she went to give a very cold seer. "The one with the talons of passion will pay, The one with nothing to obtain will be drained, The one who thinks they will not fall will be broken most of all." Before another word could echo around the walls of the area, all one could hear was the silent drip of blood and tears onto the stone and the broken wails that joined all the other souls of the night. That night as they hurled her onto the cracked pebbled bricks, the Silven swept herself slowly as she could onto her knees. Her head throbbed as her body wept blood. That night she thought of the one with the Talons. The one with the branches that lent up like horns, with those brown voids of the enigma. How he had followed her into a puzzling work of feet and wind, how she had grown to take some of his small terms to the walls around her heart. He would pay first, with the very leaves that built up his existence. @Caelamus
<><><><>
The third day they hauled her out once more, across the floor in a trail of gore. Hanging onto the piece of edge that could slip away into nothing with the touch of a digit. They took her to the same room, trying again to instruct the twenty-two year old. She listened, hunched over herself, exposing what they had deformed her body into. The Tormentors seemed not to pay any mind, they barked on about their one true soul. She stayed silent for hours, daring not to flutter shut her tear-stained eyes and bring herself to rest. For she was afraid to slip into the crossroad if she did. She bided her time and then chose the time to strike. "Pick and chose as you might, power leads to no fright, The mind is a twisted thing, the heart existents to wall it in." Again, the words that dripped out of her mouth soon glazed with the sound of cracking bones and salt filled water pinging off the floor. It was shorter this time, behavior seemed to play a role as she figured it did. That night she found herself barely holding herself up on her knees. The enclosure let out soft crackling echoes as the mage leaned her head back to stare vacantly up at the ceiling. That night she thought of the one with the pain that she felt. The betrayal that she had caused for him and the anger he received. She thought on how much pleasure it had given her, to see him squirm. He would be drained next, though he had nothing left she would find a way to tear him from his very reality. @Pastellanar
<><><><>
The fourth day she awaited the now accustomed tug on her hair, towing her to that room she now had memorized all the curves and grooves of. Her hands felt the stone under her scared palm. Muttering words that the Tormentors drilled into her skull but in a different order. "Bane the empire so, destroy the peace and punished the spirit under the eyes of the conjurers." Her hands folded as they always did, her head inclining to listen to the unmeaningful words they tried to get her to accept. The lesson went on with the garble of time. The silver eyes burning holes into the Tormentors void driven eyes, that so seemed to peel away from what they tried to teach. Obedience it seemed to them. A test it seemed to her. They concluded late, the dragging of her locks dusting the floors back to the winding paths she had yet to truly archive. "massacre for you and assassination for me" The sound of cracking air soon followed by the drop of limp life into a chamber of demise. She awoke from the soreness and ache a few hours into the mid of night. She didn't even try to get up she just closed her eyes and thought of the next one. The one with the beautiful blue eyes, the one that had much patience with her. She liked him, she hated to admit that she liked him. He had gotten to her head this time, he had twisted his way into her heart. She hated the black swig of his hair that curled just so perfectly over his demanding icy orbs, the way he gave her that disappointed crinkle of his nose. He would plummet the farthest down, into the dark abyss that he might learn to call his abode. @Percuriam
<><><><>
The fifth day she was taken silent and obedient to all command. Was the mind broken, had they found success? Had they broken her like the rest? The brilliance of this wench was not to be assessed, however, for one might find them to be vested with the burden of her undermining psychotic demeanor.
<><><><>
The sixth day, they dragged her out once more, in that hall draped in bloody bandages. Gathering strength she silently cursed the guards, with a little help from her slippery fingers the dangle of gold pressed against her skin. She sat through the long lesson of the day. That night, her eyes draped across the memorized floor and walls. She slipped the dangle of gold out onto her olive palm. Her palmed opened to stare down at the charm she had stolen. The eye seemed to ogle back at her with a disgruntled glare, she dropped it onto the floor, with a clatter across the walls. She had to scramble to slip it back into her garments before the stomp of the guard's boots clanked, reflecting in her mind as a sound of a silent alarm. She curled together and waited for the smell of her own flesh to incase the chamber and halls.
<><><><>
The seventh day, was the end. They dragged her to one last session and torment as the name she had picked for the cults alignment fit them so. They lured her to the outside environment the harsh winds bashing against her torn flesh, causing it to sting. The rhythmical pattern of dripping blood only worsened as they flung her into the carriage that would take her to what she could only at this point hope was the crossroad.
<><><><>
The silven was greeted by the man who had recreated her. She greeted him with those sweetly poisoned lines, of sickly innocence as he gave her a new jewel for her neck. Her hand nimble and quick added something to the man's wear of that day. The very thing she had stolen but had made slight adjustments too. She left him a message too, in her own blood and soft whispers of the wind.
She was back.
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