Sollunta kept her head dipped low as she sifted through a pile of stones, rolling some to one side, and hefting others in her maw (with a wince each time) to set in another area. It was dull, pitiful, painful work, but she was glad for it. At least at this menial task no one was needed to keep an eye on her or the other slaves. The other slaves also had long since learned that she would not speak to them--not out of a sense of superiority, but out of fear. She was not like the others.She was not a slave to the pride, no. She was the personal slave of Blackbeard. The wicked son of the leader of the pride. She was his sole property, and on the rare instances he allowed her to be used for general labor (such as in this instance) she dared not do anything but work. Pain or threats were sure to come if she did anything else. She was certain of it, though she had never even tried, and thus couldn't know for certain.
The task before her was to separate out the stones. In one pile, the round ones. Smooth stones that could be rolled or lobbed at invading forces. In the other, sharp stones that could be used for cutting or scraping things against. And in a third pile, stones that were good for neither function. It was insanely dull work, but in some small way the lioness felt she was helping the pride. Helping keep her master safe. Not that she cared for his well being--but ever the fear in her was that if something happened to Blackbeard, an even worse lion might take up the lash of her yoke. A shudder coursed unbidden through her. No, no. Best to simply obey, and pray that rescue came soon.
But it was not a benign god that heard her whispers for salvation, oh no. A much darker creature heard her words on the wind, and intrigued, came seeking. Any pride that kept slaves was known to Neltharion, the dark God of Hate. Breeding grounds of anguish and rage, they were banquets for the beast. And his immortal, powerful ears had caught the desperate pleas of a lion near breaking. With out a second thought the monster veered from where he was soaring, incorporeal and formless through the aether, towards the siren call of unanswered prayers. Perhaps he would find something worth his while in the pride by the sea.
In the form of a pitch black cloud he rolled over the horizon, blowing against the wind coming off the sea to hang low and ominous over the pride. Any suspicious sorts would be in fits over that, he thought with grim satisfaction--but that was not what he had come to see. He turned his gaze down down down, to the hunched back of a lioness bound in vines, picking over stones.
Sollunta below felt a quiver race through her fur. It was as if someone had walked over her grave...no, no, best no think of how soon she might find herself in that grave. Sooner rather than later if she didn't get this work done. She toiled on, unaware of the scrutiny of the god above, who looked on as if judging her for the slaughter. Instead she sought what joy she could. Fading memories of her parents, her siblings. Where had they gone? She had never learned, nor would. More anguish lay that way, and again she forced her thoughts back to brighter days.
In her mind she began a quiet hum (for she dared not sing aloud before the other slaves and those of the pirates who came walking by) of an old prayer to the gods of her Mistweaver ancestors. None had come in answer to her prayers so far, but to give up hope would be to give up her faith, and to cast aside any chance for freedom. And if she did that, she was not worth being saved.
On high the dark cloud roiled with thunder. Pitiful mortal, seeking assurance from the gods. Already a dark plan was forming in the wicked God's mind. How to break this fallen priestess of the wind and the mist. How to make her a vessel for his own fierce appetite. That he had done so before with mortals he had long since forgotten to harvest mattered not to him. This lioness would be his.
For the rest of the day and into the fading night the god-cloud lingered overhead, though the wind was strong across the sea. His rumbles of promised rain sent mortals running for dens, and a flash of lightning (or was it the great eyes of some monster of a being?) made cubs burst into tears. He watched as the slave finished her meaningless work, and found some small scrap or other of food to eat before being shunted roughly into a tiny hole in the side of a rock face, and bound in tight vines to a spire to spend the night. He would come to her in her dreams, find the hate that surely burned inside, and help it to grow. Yes, that he would do.
Until he felt the lioness drifting to sleep he continued to mimic a vicious brewing storm with pleasure, until at last the pride turned in. A would-be-smile curled a tuft of cloud in lieu of his maw. He had fond memories in this place. Pain and fear and terror sown in youth and adult alike.
He did so love seafood.
He could feel the slave lioness now, slipping into a deep dark sleep, full of troubled dreams. Pitiful, sad thing. He had no mercy to give, but instead took pleasure that even in her sleep she found no respite. It was a perfect night to strike. And so the god sat high above in the sky, waiting for nothing, but enjoying the thrashing of the dreaming slave none the less.
And the lioness' dreams turned even darker than usual. In her sleep came muttered prayers to gods that had long since abandoned her to her fate. But it was not those gods that heard her, or came to her. No. It was the God of Hate who sat upon his dark cloud listening to her cry out in the night.
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