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Post by Moose-On-Ice on May 8, 2017 15:25:00 GMT -6
"You There!"
Closed RP
Omar | Servile Slave
Jacelyn Junior | Pit Slave
Strolling through the streets of Valore one late afternoon, JJ finds herself stumbling across another slave, a servile slave stallion by the name of Omar, who appears to be trying to take off his bridle and collar with a great deal of difficulty. Is it to begin an escape attempt, or is it for another reason?
To help him, or to turn him in, that is the question for JJ now...
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Post by Moose-On-Ice on May 8, 2017 16:18:35 GMT -6
"This was the face of slavery. To have nothing, and still have something more to lose."
Gods... Damned bridle! No matter how much he rubbed, scraped, and pawed at the thing, it would not come off. He had already been rubbing his head along the brick wall to push it off for nearly ten minutes without a single wiggle from the leather straps.
Omar stepped back, huffing and breathing a bit heavily from the attempts to rid himself of the leather on his head and the metal in his mouth. He'd tried multiple times already. In the past, and today. But, even if he got the bridle off, what good would it do? The enchantment to cut off his telekinesis wasn't in the bridle, no, it was in the collar that sat around his neck.
The metal bell rang viciously when Omar shook his head. He grit his teeth, pinning his ears at the sound. Oh he hated that sound. It ground on his ears and brain, and he had to hear it every single day. Sometimes he could tune it out, but like now, it was impossible to rid himself of the mocking jingle. The damn slave traders locked it on him twelve years back, and he didn't think he had once had it removed.
He didn't blame them. His telekinetic strength had been impressive, and a great danger to the traders. This just... Made him easier to handle. Easier to cage and control. That was why he was so desperate to remove it... Somehow. If he could find something sharp to rub against, something to cut through the leather... It didn't matter if it would cut his flesh, as long as it got rid of the blasted thing. He had to get rid of it if he ever wanted to get out of this hellhole.
And if if came off, he would need to try and escape right then, right there. Who knows what else he might get in place of the leather collar if he cut it apart? He flattened his ears, blue eyes flicking between the leather on his muzzle and the brick wall he had been trying to use. Damnit, he needed to hurry up, or he'd run out of time for the day... The lone alleyway wouldn't be empty for long.
With a string of War-Forged cussing, he lowered his head and returned to the task at hand, pushing and shoving the top of his head against the wall to desperately rub the thing off.
405 Words; Post 1
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Post by striaga on May 10, 2017 1:14:45 GMT -6
JJ
"I am
Smelling like a rose that somebody gave me
On my birthday deathbed"
Hells. JJ had won a fight off the clock, and she'd won it stunningly. It'd been a matter of minutes after that, and her master had informed JJ that there were errands to be done. JJ hated doing errands. Especially hated them fresh out of the pits, when the slaves Andalo let her spend time with got up to their tussling, and so she was often a little bloody. Not that JJ minded; the fighting was what really kept her mind off the other bullshit that she was going through.
And that was the thing. It was bullshit. JJ couldn't wrench her mind off of this and that. This: the Crucible attack. Being there. Seeing her father,
and then not seeing him sense--something had happened, and the brutish mare couldn't put her hoof on it, and that bothered her to no damn end. No end at all. That: the brand. That stupid, stupid dragon mark. JJ clenched her teeth even harder than she was already clenching them at the thought of the brand. She had been nothing but loyal.
Some stupidass kills some rich ass and this is what we get. We; the ones down here! Hah! These rich bastards... JJ sucked her breath in, felt the rise and fall of her sides. The hate gave her something to hold on to that wasn't the anxiety. And there was anxiety. No end of it. Never an end. When JJ was alone at night, she could feel the fear in her body. Tense stuff; is-my-father-dead stuff. Hard stuff to stomach. There was a lot about her life that JJ didn't mind, but that not-minding slowly changed over time. Ever since the bombing, since she'd fought her own, struggled to remain a slave, remain a slave! So much had changed in her head.
So much.
JJ didn't believe in a God. She knew they were there. Of course she did...but...
She wanted something from one of them. A sign. Something. Something to say, hey, JJ, your life hasn't been a waste, sorry you feel like dead-alive on your feet when you're not fighting.
But there was nothing.
The cursing was something, though. Definitely something. The sort of something that JJ cared about, because typically, in her decades-long experience as an Aodhian slave, the ones doing that kind of cussing were slaves. Her kin. The mare tried to keep herself quiet as she slipped into the alleyway, hopefully not recognized by anyone. JJ doubted that she and the cusser would have privacy for long, primarily because JJ was recognizable, and some horse most definitely had seen that, but, ah, oh well-
"Cussin' like that's only gonna call some Chevalier," JJ grunted, her voice a special kind of harsh (but it wasn't unfriendly.), while the mare approached, listened to the bell. "...not a chevalier, though," JJ continued, then squinted, wished that her own bridle was off of her, then she could help. Maybe he'd know who she was.
Maybe not.
Whatever.
"...let's get that off. Or try."
-511 words, post 1 ; Moose-On-Ice |
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