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Post by Jennycallie on Apr 29, 2016 14:28:59 GMT -6
The Silence of Stars
A roleplay between Cael and Eila
Spring of 1699 New Valore, the Crucible Mid-morning training
Red-tipped ears twitched at the dull sound of hooves hitting flesh, but Eila suppressed the urge to flatten them entirely. It was second nature of course to any slave, to smooth signs of discontent from their body- second nature at least to any successful slave. Yellow eyes flickered to the side, resting for a moment on mangy, beaten-down form of a labor slave as he worked, hauling stone for maintenance on the Crucible walls. Eila looked away, smoothing the wrinkles that threatened to form on her muzzle. She knew perfectly well how close she had come to a similar fate, and the threat loomed ever present on her mind. She could afford no mistakes, not even now. Constant vigilance: it was the mantra of every slave. Even those leading lives of relative idleness and comfort, like herself. Ever since she'd been given to Simeon. Golden eyes softened as they lighted upon the rosey-grey coat of Simeon, the pit-fighter's booming voice carrying easily on the mild breeze as she traded blows with a partner. A smile tugged at the corner of Eila's lips as Simeon scored a touch and her laughter filled the pit, infecting even Eila's measured neutrality. Simeon chafed under her bridle as much as any slave, if not more, but you would never know it, to watch her. She wasted precious little time sulking, or wishing on silent stars. She lived, even with her life taken from her. Perhaps Simeon simply had too much life burning in her soul to be extinguished. She burned bright, despite all that had happened. In spite of it, more accurately, Eila amended to herself. The pits suited Simeon as well as any place on this cursed rock could, afforded her passions a safe outlet. Could she have done as well? Eila rolled the gilded bit across her tongue as she repressed a derisive snort, recalling her own ill-conceived years training to be a pit fighter. With her bright coat, angry eyes, and a sort of "rough, War Forged-esque" build, she had been bred to, unbelievably, compete among the likes of Simeon. Perhaps she would have, perhaps she would be laying her ears back not in distaste at the thudding of hooves, but in vicious anticipation- but for her club hoof. Eila adjusted her weight, easing the stiffened hoof where it rested in the warm sand. Instead Eila had received a scant cluster of years of training before she was booted from the pits in disgust, and a servile slave she became. A cool breeze whispered through the arena, stirring Eila's heavy forelock, and she closed her eyes briefly, letting the wind dissipate her thoughts. She knew better than to allow her brooding to turn inward, a deepening spiral of "what ifs" that served no good. Yellow eyes opened once more (constant vigilance) and Eila tensed; while she had been mulling over the past, another horse had moved within her sphere of awareness. Wary, Eila lowered her eyes at once. He was another slave, but as a pit fighter, he not only outranked her, but likely had a wealthy, connected Noble for an owner, and Lord Isador would have her hide if she offended a political rival. Eila remained still; perhaps he would pass her by. |
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Post by DawnsComing on Nov 29, 2016 23:51:20 GMT -6
Cael | Pit Fighter
Ignacio's sun stretched over New Valore as if the God himself touched the earth, the flames of his life searing every inch of Eithne in an effort to proclaim what was his. The fabled Kirin would have basked in such glory, scaly hides glimmering in a light so magical it would have set the mortal's ablaze.
The mare snorted at her own whimsy, as she tried to shake the heat from her dark pelt. It was indeed un-godly hot for a spring day, one that may have rivaled even Sedo's soaring tempurtures, and with the rains being late this year, it was only meant to get hotter. Cael itched with irritation as her own discomfort began to unease her mind. She despised working in such conditions but even as a pit fighter, a slave had little to no say when the master wanted to flaunt his ego.
Golden eye's swept the crucible, now empty aside from a few lingering slaves and their masters who insisted on training beneath the ever rising sun. The clash of hooves echoed through the stone structure as two fighters collided in friendly competition, each step sending waves of sand and dirt into the air. Suppressing a cough, the dark mare scanned the arena, searching for a familiar face within the empty seats but could find none. Aaron must have found a new way to preoccupy himself; either that or he was grabbing more liquor from the nearest tavern. Whatever the case, it was enough of an excuse to remove herself from the ring.
With a light turn of the head, her gaze fell upon a quiet corner beneath the overhang of seats. It was a beckoning call that drew her there, beneath the cold stone walls hidden from Ignacio's gaze. If she had not been so tutored in servile life, she may have even flopped down in the cool dirt for a quick nap. But eye's were upon her all to quickly, the form of a small servile slave shadowing the wall. As Cael approached, it almost seemed as though her presence startled the mare but her composure was well ingrained and her figure remained unmoved.
A small smirk crossed the dark mare's lips but she said nothing; simply shaking the dust from her coat.
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Post by Jennycallie on Jan 24, 2017 19:55:06 GMT -6
Eila | Servile Slave
Watchful from beneath her heavy forelock, Eila was quite aware that the pit fighter had slowed, and was not in fact going to move past her. Resigned to some level of conversation, most likely mockery, the servile lifted her head slightly, acknowledging the other's presence with a terse nod. The pit fighter was smirking, she could see- yes, mockery then. Eila was not unused to such treatment; the pit slaves, despite their status, were still slaves, and thus enjoyed taking out whatever authority they could flaunt on the other, lesser slaves, sometimes culminating in attacks. It was not unheard of for a pit fighter to bloody a passing servile, and claim that they had thought the unfortunate soul a new "bait" horse. Eila, at least, felt reasonably safe. Even if she weren't owned by Lord Isador (a horse few were unaware of and fewer wished to cross), she had Simeon. Even engrossed in her training, Eila knew the massive mare would be at her side in a moment if needed. So, instead of beating a hasty retreat, Eila allowed her gaze to touch the other's.
She was a mare, Eila realized suddenly; it was Cael. Simeon spoke of the chestnut with irritated respect; the firey mare was swifter than her height would suggest, and a formidable opponent. But she didn't have a reputation for cruelty, and Eila relaxed minutely, her red tail flicking.
"Cael," Eila said quietly in greeting. She offered nothing more; although Cael would be within her rights to make a request of Eila's services, Eila was certainly not going to invite it. Isador wouldn't be pleased to find his servile running lackey for another's slave, and of course it would be Eila's fault, despite her inability to refuse the order. So, the fjord returned her eyes to the training, but with one ears carefully on Cael while she rolled her gilded bit over her tongue.
318 words
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Post by DawnsComing on Oct 3, 2017 8:40:55 GMT -6
The mare's ear perked at the mention of her name, and Cael allowed her gaze to fall upon the servile slave for a moment. It was rare she talked to anyone outside the pit, Aarron would not allow it, so she knew few serviles by name. Had they met before and she had simply forgotten the encounter? Unlikely. When it finally downed on the mare that others may know her through the glory of her rank, it was already to late to take back the moments she had spent staring at the poor girl.
A flick of her tail was meant to hide her embarrassment and quickly she turned her gaze back to the fight in the ring. This servile slave likely belonged to either one of the fighters or the one's that owned them. It was not unheard of for Masters to assign their fighters a personal servile slave, a hand to keep them groomed and well conditioned. That or she was a bait horse, but the lack of scars on the small mares hide said that was rather unlikely. In slave life, it was all about presentation and it was quite easy to tell a lot about a slave from their initial appearance.
The fighter cleared her throat, hoping she didn't come off as too callous. "Do you belong to one of them? The fighters, I mean."
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