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 Posted: Thu Jun 18, 2015 8:38 am
This Quest is for Cerith who is striving to become a Swordsman.
 OOC
||. The quest prompt must be answered with a 2000 word reply (can be more).
||. Respond to the prompt given with an adventure of your own creation as long as it meets the requirements of the specific tasks.
||. NPCs may be used as long as they advance the quest in an interesting manner.
||. You cannot include any playable characters other than the quest taker.
||. Your responses will be graded with a Pass or Fail. Those who fail will have to continue with assistance from the staff.
||. Questions about quests can be asked here.
IC
Everyone had secrets, and Cerith was skilled at listening when no one thought she was paying attention. When they didn't think they could be heard, that they might be safe to speak.
But Cerith did hear, and what she heard she didn't like. It was gossip, but it was information about her previous owner, the one who had branded Cerith's forehead. What would she do know that she had heard this terrible secret?
Quest Tasks
||. The quest should start with Cerith discovering the secret about her previous master (the one who burned her forehead when she was young)
||. Cerith may actively seek out this information, or she could accidentally stumble upon it.
||. The quest should include what this specific secret is.
||. Once she has the information, Cerith has to decide what to do with it: does she use it to get back at her old master, or does she let the past stay the past?
||. The quest should end with her decisions being played out and a reflection on her choice.
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Posted: Tue Jul 07, 2015 6:28 pm
Part I: Lady Luck
Words: 3034 of
Serr wasn’t the place that Cerith would have ever expected to see a trace of Oban nobility, and yet as Cerith and her brother neared the smaller of the import-settlements in the north of Oba, the influence of richer folk was hard to deny. Palanquins and hastily constructed kennels for large, ornately decorated familiars lined the entry road into the settlement, complete with richly clothed ‘servants’ who fluttered around, tending to the creatures and covering the silk-lined palanquins to protect them from sand and wind. Many travelers were being waylaid, directed towards small inns that were built at the edge of town, inns that were busting at the seams with the road-rough, leaving the better run inns for the nobility. And yet while Cerith noted this exchange, she shrugged it off without much thought, beyond a passing curiosity over why the nobles would be here in the first place.
After somehow acquiring a room, Cerith found it more prudent to insist her brother stay in the room, out of sight - more so he wouldn't be found trying to start a fight with one of the many Obans here than anything else - while Cerith descended back down to the main floor of the inn, which functioned as a tavern not only to those sleeping here, but also any who wandered inside for a drink. There were people of assorted background and taste here, although Cerith had seen a greater variety in her time at the capital, melting pot as it was, and so with only a glance she could pinpoint what sort of pleasure the customers here sought. Usually, in taverns or inns such as these, there were those thirsty for drink to help smooth over a rough day of travel, the regulars who sat hunched at the counters, and the soldiers who kept to themselves in their side of the bar, loud and boisterous and covered in fawning fans, usually women who clung to the soldiers like a second skin, hoping to make themselves into army wives. Now that the Matorians had been freed, however, there was another group to add to her mental roster - servants, or ex-slaves, who for the first time were able to actually come to drink in an establishment such as this. They sat with their own rough wood cups, sipping watered down ale and oozing exhaustion, staring at their cups and taking comfort in the quiet, without orders being barked their way.
On a normal day, Cerith would eye the soldiers or the more lonely looking patrons and consider schmoozing for whatever gain she could find - but those who were alone, here, had the look of someone who wanted to stay that way, and the women already loitering by the soldiers were hard pressed to actually catch any eyes - actually... Cerith couldn't remember ever seeing an entire group looking so ... disinterested. Her gaze lingered, curious, as she turned to sit with her kind, smoothing out her skirt as she sat on a wobbly stool across from an older Matori man who grunted quietly in greeting. Cerith gave the old man barely a glance - and instead watched the foibled attempts of the tavern girls - who looked sloppy and somewhat inexperienced, but still pretty, enough to normally at least receive a gaze. Instead, the men waved them off impatiently. On close inspection, the soldiers drank impatiently, bodies coiled tight and tense, One man kept glancing out the windows to the darkening outside, still aglow from dusk, though sinking rapidly into night - artificial lodestones aglow along the roads of the town, powered by magic, igniting as dark descended.
Taverns worked on a schedule that was easy to predict: daytimes were slow, spent cleaning and resting and preparing for the night ahead; come dusk, those who had been released from work came in a rush to enjoy themselves, either drinking, watching and listening to fine bar entertainment, or finding solace in those willing to heap their affections on them. It was a schedule that Cerith had found soothing in all her time as a tavern girl - and yet, here? Here the girls worked doubly hard just trying to catch an eye - many resigned themselves to playing song and instruments, mostly ignored other than an occasional toss of coin or rush of crowd approval when a popular ditty was chosen. But beyond that... it was the most sterile bar experience Cerith had ever seen. The patrons seemed to be either biding their time, or determined to drown in their cups.
Cerith chewed the edge of her lip, humming quietly in thought, but ultimately brushing it aside as not important. All she wanted was a drink, and whatever intrigues were going on in this tavern, it wasn’t her business - not anymore. Turning to face one of the tavern girls, she raised a hand, gesturing for a drink. She had closed her hands gratefully around a warm mug of mulled wine, diluted from the smell of it, when she looked up - and locked eyes with the old matori who had been seated next to her. He was old, face a mess of wrinkles, but he must have been sixty, at the oldest - aged more from hard work and sun than years. He was dressed traditionally, but well - his clothes well-kempt but not overly sumptuous. They were practical - his hair drawn back in loose braids, a sunhat settled on the table by his elbow. But, most of all, he was staring at Cerith with a look of startled recognition, drawing a hand across his jaw with the audible rasp of calloused, dry fingers against unshaved skin. “Wait… aren’t you --” He swallowed thickly and pushed his drink away, but his eyes roved over her face suspiciously, as if to look for something, - only to settle on the shell on her forehead.
Cerith wasn’t unused to such a gaze, after all until slaves were freed, an owner could choose whether or not to allow their slave to move around with their brand covered - and most opted to deny that right. Slaves with conspicuous accessories were often eyed with distrust, but she was free now - and if he thought he recognized her, it was telling that he would look for evidence of a brand without knowing its exact whereabouts - it narrowed down the list of potential people he could be. Cerith had met innumerable slaves in her lifetime, but there were few slaves who she would have been housed with that didn’t know the precise location of her brand.
The revelation made her draw in a sharp breath, eyes widening fractionally before she schooled her expression, tapping a finger on the table and pressing her lips together to alleviate the sudden slack-jawed surprise. “You -- you’re… the...” She snapped her fingers, making a sound of strained thought, until she sighed and settled on what she DID remember of him. “The gardener!” It was enough to confirm the connection between the two. The man flinched and dropped his gaze, a calloused hand closing around his mug and raising it to take a noisy slurp, while Cerith watched him, cooly, unsure how to play over this revelation.
The young nobleman, Takul… Cerith had known very little about him, when she was initially bought, but had made it her business to find what information she could in her later years. He had seemed quiet, but kind - a larger man in stature, but quiet and ultimately gentle. A husband and father… the young slave had barely interacted with him. He had owned a small host of slaves - herself, a few who handled cooking and minor cleaning, and Cerith who had been purchased as a caretaker and companion to his young daughter, a girl half Cerith’s age at the time. The small property that he had been given as a homestead by his noble father had been located in Jatine - a rich, well sought out property, being both settled in the most water-rich settlement in Oba, and spacious - two things that, put together, were absurdly expensive. Why the gardener would be here, in Serr, Cerith couldn’t know - and it seemed like some sort of divine providence that she would find herself unknowingly sitting at a table with him.
It was this little thought, floating in her mind like a tempting whisper, that smoothed Cerith’s posture and expression from the cold, detached one - and instead allowed a smile to blossom on her face, obviously taking the man by surprise. Shoving herself to her feet with a loud grunt of complaint from her chair, Cerith leaned across the table and grasps at the man’s rough hand, squeezing it underneath her own softer digits. “It’s such a relief to see you’re alright! These last few months have been…well.” She willed a shake into her voice and she swallowed, thickly, leaving her sentence ambiguous as she looked him over, before ‘remembering’ herself and once again sitting, while her arms strained across the table to maintain contact with the gardener’s gnarled hand. It may be too little too late, in some circumstances -she had been cold at first, but that could be explained away as her being careful and guarded. Which, in a way, was definitely true. “Well - how are you? Are you still with…” She cast her eyes around the place, as if looking for an Oban that would stick out, then looked back at the man, her eyebrows raising minutely in an expression that she hoped came off as worried.
Her change in demeanor was an obvious surprise, but he took the change gracefully - a raspy chuckle escaped him as his hand fell awkwardly still, as if the touch was unpleasant to him. His face, however, softened somewhat at the corner of his eyes, and his mouth twitched, suppressing a wayward quirk of his lips that, for a man his age and temperament, could be counted as a smile. He pat her hand with his free one, stiffly, then slipped it free of her own, gripping the edge of the table for some sort of stability. “Halim. Still at the old place, as luck would have it..” He answered. His voice was raspy, rough in a way that could polish diamonds, sounding like the desert sands had left his throat in tatters over years of erosion. The gardner’s voice carried a quiet pride - a loyalist, then - but his eyes cast to the side, averted from her as if ashamed, before forcing themselves back to her. A small twitch, but one that Cerith’s eyes absorbed greedily.
A slave that was proud to remain in his place as a servant to an Oban master… but who took some form of shame in that master? This was the sort of puzzling gossip that Cerith DREAMED of, back when stealing secrets from the lips of clients had been her game. She watched him, lips drawing into a thoughtful frown, her eyes once again sweeping the inn at confirmation that Takul WAS here, somewhere, which Halim noticed. His expression softened again, and he leaned forward, conspiratorially, his voice lowered. “The master has property here, and he wouldn’t be caught dead at a tavern like this, girl. Don’t look so worried.” Like this. So there was a tavern the man MIGHT be found at…?
“I’m not worried! I’m just…” Cerith flushed, playing herself as embarrassed at being so obvious, looking down at her hands, which had returned to her mug, warming themselves against the Oban night time chill, “I didn’t expect to find anyone from that place here. It was a … surprise, is all.”
“Ah, no doubt.” Halim agreed, nodding sagely and tipping his mug to that before taking a long drink. He had recovered from the surprise… or was playing that he had, but Cerith could still see him eyeing her, then the door, more concerned than he would let on. For someone who had assured her his master was far off, he still held some small doubt - held back only by a thread. Hamil was confident he knew his master’s location, but had doubts - meaning Takul, at least sometimes, strayed from where he was expected to be - so he visited taverns, but not always the same one. It would seem that Takul wasn’t the sort to retire calmly to his summer home, sipping wine - he had a more active lifestyle than that. The question was… what WOULD a rich nobleman get up to, out in a supply-depot of a settlement, that he couldn’t enjoy back home? Or… was it simply a chance to get away from his wife? If you had asked Cerith, ten years ago, she would have denied such a possibility, but anything could happen in ten years between the two to warrant such a change.
For the moment the two Matori fell into a stretch of silence, Cerith sipping at her drink, Halim chugging away with graceless, noisy slurps. Cerith took the opportunity the question her reasons for this act of subterfuge. So what, her master, she found, was conveniently in the same settlement as her - so what? He was still a rich, noble Oban - why did that concern her? The conversation with the gardener was innocent enough, full of gentle prodding to eke out what information she could, but to what end? As Hamil had intoned, the man was (hopefully) far off, and that should be the end of it. Only, it wasn’t. Something in the old man’s gestures was… stiff. His previous flash of emotion… shame, almost. Not only that. It made sense for Cerith to be wary to learn her once-master, the one who had branded her flesh, was within miles of her location - but Hamil could simply have assured her that he was far off, and let that be that. Instead, he was watching the door closely. Takul /might/ appear, however slim a chance it was, but Hamil’s on point attention didn’t match up to a man who thought his master’s presence might be stressful. It was the response of someone who thought the man appearing might be dangerous, to her. What had changed in Takul in the past decade that would make his slave worry for her safety?
Cerith smelled a secret, and considering who it was about, it only made her more eager to get her hands on it. All she needed was a test to confirm whether or not Hamil was truly worried for HER safety, and not simply hoping to avoid an awkward situation.
Clearing her throat, Cerith dropped her eyes to her mug, aware that the sound had snapped Hamil out of his silent watch of the door. He eyed her, now, outwardly relaxed and enjoying her company, but with the slightest edge of tautness to his hands and shoulders that cried that he was on guard. Maybe he knew something - more than Takul being a threat ? “Actually, the master was… the kindest Oban I’ve ever met - I haven’t had the best luck, since… but. But he was kind not to punish me more severely.” Cerith spoke, tinging her words with a somber sort of resignation, nodding as if to herself. She noted the flinch of Hamil’s expression, a sharp look of near disbelief, and sat his drink down on the table hard, as if it no longer tasted good to him. “I thought, maybe, if I ever met the master again I could… beg for his mercy, and see if he would take me back on. Maybe -- maybe as your apprentice! Or - cleaning rubbish from the house.” She continued on, as if she hadn't noticed, painting a picture of having only worked lowly jobs - reinforcing the image that she felt she lacked self worth and pride.
She didn’t have much chance more to beg or throw herself to the ground at Hamil’s mercy - at the whisper of a job at the place, Hamil held up his hands, shaking his head resolutely, “Absolutely not.” Cerith blinked in surprise, but the man caught himself - realizing his hurried denial may be read the wrong way. He softened his tone and slowly lowered his hands. “Girl, you’re free now - children your age - why, you’d be better goin’ back to your homeland and starting a life! I stayed because- because I’ve known no other way, I’m too old. But that life isn’t for you!”
“Would… would they not have me? I understand why - I ran away- but, I just… hoped that… if I came of my own choice, it might be different.” Cerith added a tremor to her tone and closed her eyes. It sacrificed the ability to see his reaction, but the need to look cowed and weak here was important. Just as she had hoped, Hamil reached and layed his hand over hers, squeezing it - hard enough for her to intone that he was genuine, and hoped his next words would be heard by her, and not disregarded. He even waited until she’d opened her eyes to look at him, ‘hopefully’, before he spoke - his tone low, gently warning, and unyielding. “Don’t look for work here, lass. It won’t be what you’re hoping for.”
Cerith inhaled a sharp breath, staring at him - her suspicions confirmed. A warning, clear as day. Now, she simply needed to find why.
But Hamil had withdrawn his hands, his expression hardened - not in cruelty, but in the shuttered look of a man who had resigned himself to not say more. When she opened her mouth, he gave an almost imperceptible, warning shake of his head, and instead picked up his drink, motioning for the waitress to come and fill it again - and Cerith took it as a chance to leave. She kept up the act of disappointment, her shoulders slumped, resigned, as if a small beam of hope at this chance encounter had been snuffed out, standing and leaving her payment for her half-finished drink on the table.
She now had homework to do.
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Posted: Sat Jul 25, 2015 7:21 pm
Part II: Stakeout
Words: 1351 of
From her conversation with Halim, Cerith could glean a few crucial bits of information that piqued her interest. The first was that, whatever it was Takul was doing here in Serr, it wasn’t something that Halim was proud to be a part of. It was likely that the old groundskeeper had traveled with his master to this settlement, rather than having been moved to tend to the noble’s property here - after all, he had mentioned that he was still residing at the old property, where Cerith had met him. That in itself was peculiar… because if Halim was still the groundskeeper at the old place, then why did his master feel it necessary to bring the old man along with him? A noble’s property was expected to be in pristine condition, regardless of whether or not the noble resided there at the time. It would have its own slaves- servants, now, that tended to it. Even if Takul had a small place here, a place no one knew belonged to him, that wouldn’t explain the need for bringing his servant all the way out here just to fix up the place.
Cerith, however, felt it was unlikely that the man was in Serr anonymously. Back in her days as a tavern wench, she’d come to realize that most nobles who wanted away from the public eye would choose to frequent the sleaziest bars they could - the large amount of common people would drown out the presence of a lord, and there was little chance of being recognized. And her confirmation for this came when she followed Halim back from the tavern, and saw him stepping through the servant’s entrance of a smaller noble estate.
Which left the question - why was Halim brought along? And why was he ashamed to be here? Why was he so certain that Cerith, or the demure version she’d presented, would be unhappy working under this man?
The second part of her investigation was watching the manor. If Jelanii had known what she was up to, certainly she’d never hear the end of his jabs - she was obsessed, suddenly, with the prospect of finding some shred of conspiracy, a whisper of a secret that she could cling to, and throw back in his face. Or.. or something. So she hunkered down, tying her hair back in thick braids and hiding it under a hood (not unusual, out here in the hotter parts of Oba), changing into rougher clothing so she could play the part of a lookout.
Her second clue came as a suspicion the first morning of her vigil, and was cemented at the close of the afternoon. The manor was empty, save for a handful of servants that either manned the property yearlong, or that Takul had brought along with him. A young slave was caught puttering about the grounds, pouring expensive water from a vase onto the plants in the garden. At dawn, another slave - an older man who moved as if his leg was stiff- wobbled off to market with an empty basket, returning with it filled with fresh cut meat and vegetables. No sundries, only practical foods for the morning meal - making it unlikely that the mistress and daughter had been brought along, if only because Cerith remembered them both favoring the taste of sweet fruit in the morning, and honey soaked bread.
Throughout the day, as she patrolled the fence as leisurely as possible, to avoid looking suspicious, Cerith watched a young servant sulkily coaxing one of the roaming pet Perzi to come down from where it lay, purring, nestled in a canvas awning by one of the windows, and realized with a start that in the hours she’d been watching, with the few faces she’d seen inside the perimeter of the building, none of them had been women. Newly intrigued, Cerith finished her walk past then doubled back to her hiding spot, climbing up the side of a building across the way (another summer mansion, it seemed, though this one was empty save for two servants that had disappeared for the evening who knows where) and watching.
It was early evening, with the sun still looming, even as the people below prepared for the night to come, that she spotted Halim for the first time since following him here. He was dressed similarly to how he’d been the evening in the tavern - but at his belt was a richly embroidered silk wallet. His shoulders were set, his grizzled face taut at the jaw, as he stalked from the building, casting one look around before disappearing off down the road. As she watched him from a distance, Cerith considered following him, but ultimately dismissed him as unimportant, and only an hour later he returned, his wallet no longer bulging. The incident seemed unimportant to her, as he continued to watch the manor, eyes partially glazed at watching the riveting sight of young servants lighting candles against the growing twilight. Until… someone new approached the gate.
From this distance, she couldn’t tell who it was - whoever they were, they had been covered in a velvet cloak that was pulled over their head - and by the time she descended down to the building to the street below to investigate, the figure had been let through the servan'ts entrance of the property and ushered quickly inside.
Now wide awake, Cerith remained across the way for hours yet, even when darkness fell upon the street, hiding briefly in the bushes as the servants from the house she’d been sitting on returned home from a night of taverning. It was later in the night, with the moon sinking in the clear desert sky, that the figure finally reemerged - nearly invisible in the dark, save from the shine of the last few lanterns on the street shining against the velvet cloak. They kept the hood up for about a block as Cerith followed, walking quickly until they were no longer in the avenue where many noble estates were nestled, and once more in the more common part of the town - at which point the hood was pulled down, wrenching a startled hitch of a gasp from Cerith, only a few paces behind. The noise alerted the matori woman (for that was who it was), who whirled around, wide eyed - tense and startled, eyeing Cerith with uncertainty. The woman was young, around Cerith’s age, maybe a bit older, and she had been surprised mid motion in removing a strip of cloth from her forehead. It was ringed in gold, shimmering thread - the band two inches of silk. Under the cloak her clothing was rich and sumptuous - but revealing in a way that could only be a woman of the night.
Her old master, Takul, was hiring Matori prostitutes. How… disappointing. All this buildup… the shame on Halim’s features, the concern for her safety, for female Matori - and this was it? He had a thing for Matori girls? As if that was some sort of shameful secret to Oban lords - certainly, it was out of character for the honorable, peaceful man she remembered from her childhood, but the woman didn’t seem to be hurt from his advances.
Her face fell, and Cerith cursed quietly, taking a step back from the woman, who had paused, tensed, staring at her. After all, Cerith had been caught following her, and she didn’t blame the woman for being suspicious of her, now. What Cerith didn’t expect, however, as she dragged a hand over her face, exhausted from a day of work that had amounted to so little, was the woman’s eyes shooting up to her forehead, where the shell that she had had since a child was settled - just like Hamil’s had. Only… this woman didn’t know her. This woman had no reason to instantly stare at this shell, knowing what it hid behind it.
“You’re her.” The woman whispered, wide-eyed.
“Her?” Cerith echoed, her eyes narrowing just slightly.
“Cerith.”
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Posted: Sat Jul 25, 2015 9:26 pm
Part III: Charade
Words: 1501 of
Cerith stared at the cup of tea that had been placed infront of her for a long second before taking it and drinking it greedily. The day had been long, and her body had been itching for something to wake it up - and this was just what she needed. However, being invited back to the brothel by the woman she had been caught stalking left an awkwardness on her shoulders that she didn’t know how to discard, though the two women on the opposite end of the table watched her with such sympathetic expressions that after the few long moments, the tension eased, and the tea set about to doing its work. Sighing in pleasure, Cerith closed her eyes, letting the scented liquid warm her to the tips of her fingers. With just a shot of a stronger alcohol, it warmed her from the belly out in the most pleasant of ways, nostalgic in a guilty sort of way. Matori women in their line of work sometimes had a sense of sisterhood between them - not always, but if you were lucky. And she’d missed knowing someone was looking out for her, if only in the smallest ways.
After a long moment, Cerith lowered the cup to her lap, and raised her eyes once more to the two women. The first was the girl she’d met in the street, only she’d dressed out of her work clothes and into a more comfortable set of clothes - a tunic and comfortable trousers with house slippers, her hair coiled back in braids, and the ribbon spirited away, given to the madame of the place - who was the second woman. An older Oban woman in her fifties, graying but still hardly wrinkled until she smiled. She was plump in the most pleasant of ways, homely, with graying hair at her temples, the rest pulled into a bun. Sitting with her hands in her lap, the Madame Sefeau watched Cerith with a motherly expression she hadn’t seen in along time from an Oban.
For a long moment no one spoke - but finally Cerith sighed and set the tea cup back on the smooth-polished table between them, crossing her arms over her chest. “Not that I don’t appreciate the welcome, but… I’d like to know what all this is about - or how you know my name.”
“That’s… a bit of a long story.” The girl, Haila, answered softly, looking sideways at her mistress. In build she was thicker and plumper than Cerith - well-fed, but not quite as muscled. Cerith grunted in agreement.
The madame took a breath, steeling herself for the explanation - but she didn’t start in any sort of place that Cerith would have expected.
“Seven years ago, I was commissioned by a nobleman to start procuring young girls from around Oba. It /was/ a noble enterprise - this patron requested that we search the slave markets for girls under thirteen or so, with no prospects for respectable places. They would be brought here, untouched, their care paid for by this man - and all he asked was that he meet each girl at least once. His servant, Halim, was his emissary - arranging all of this in the nobleman’s stead. The meetings were supervised, respectable- and… at the time it seemed like such a small thing to ask, when he was doing such good for these girls - letting them grow up without the risk of being put to work because they couldn’t afford to live, or be cared for.” The madame sighed and rubbed the bridge of her nose, while Haila shot Cerith an apologetic look.
Cerith, meanwhile, chewed her lip, looking between the two, feeling as if she had missed something. She was here, wanting to know why a woman bedding her old master knew her name… not asking for the resume of their charitable deeds. Something was off - and the way Haila was looking at her was a clue. Suddenly, Cerith thought back to the ribbon, the one that had been around Haila's forehead.
“That was enough for him for the time being, it seemed. But… as time passed, he raised the age of the girls he wanted me to find. Thirteen… fourteen. On and on … until he insisted that the older girls didn’t need a supervisor watching their meetings. With all that he had done for us - I begrudged him that. He had proven honorable, and I had no reason to believe he would misuse the girls. The stories they brought back were… queer, but not cruel. At first he would ask them questions - ask if they were branded, if they had been hurt. He seemed like he simply wanted to know what kind of life the girls came from - and the stories he heard disturbed him. He seemed such a gentle soul, that often the girls would come back pitying him.
Haila was the first who… caught his eye in a different way - she looks similar to someone, he said. Or… how he thought that someone would look.” Sefeau reached to Haila and tugged gently at one of the wavy curls that, now loose, rolled down her back. As the madame grew quiet, Haila looked to her for quiet confirmation, and at the quiet nod, she continued speaking. “I had already been in this line of work for some time - it was only two years ago that I was brought here. Seventeen.” Haila smiled, then shrugged her shoulders. “And I’ve been well cared for. I was the first, but not the last - although I seem to be his favorite. Every new girl that comes in, he still meets with - and each one of us he runs through some sort of fantasy. We cover our foreheads with the sash he gave Madame Sefeau for this purpose, and pretend as if we had been branded. As if HE had branded us. In this fantasy, we are a slave of his, come home after years of absence - and he begs our forgiveness. There have been worse fantasies to act out, so many girls have no qualm with it. He calls me back time and again because of some similarity, I suppose - when other girls prove disappointing in that regard.”
With her story finished, Haila leaned back and took a breath, eyes casting down, embarrassed. Cerith’s mouth was dry, her eyes wide - her arms slackened in their at-first tense cross over her chest, now fallen to her lap, listless and horrified. Finally, she swallowed hard, trembling, and asked the question she already knew the answer to. “And that… that name he gave you to act with… that was how you knew my name.”
Haila’s nod made Cerith snap back as if struck, closing her eyes and turning her face away in disgust. Of all the things she had imagined, this… this had never been it. All this time, her master had been paying people to look for her - for what? To apologize? To get this forgiveness from her because he FELT bad? She supposed that she should feel thankful that this guilt had been used for some good - saving young girls from the brothel life, at least until they got older and realized that the lifestyle was actually quite lucrative. They’d have been put to work cleaning the establishment, at worst, until they were old enough to sell themselves or move on to new places, no longer paid for by his patronship. It was a life she would have dreamt for when she was younger. But too little too late, for Cerith.
As if the knowledge that dozens of girls had been the subject of a fantasy, using HER name and HER life as background wasn’t sickening enough - Cerith knew what she had seen. Haila had been wearing a revealing, close cut outfit - if Takul was truly imagining some sort of scenario where Cerith forgave him, why would Haila arrive wearing such a thing? Was it to make him feel guilty, knowing that he had doomed her with his actions to that life? That looking at a woman he tried to view as Cerith, wearing revealing cut clothes, stroked his guilty conscience and let him pity himself? Or… was it more scandalous? From the way Haila averted her eyes, embarassed under Cerith’s judging eyes, it seemed likely that the latter scenario was what was happening.
Grinding her teeth, Cerith closed her eyes, inhaling sharply through her nose. She could turn around and walk away from this… or she could give him what he wanted. Opening her eyes, Cerith shot a sharp gaze at the Madame, her lips drawn into a dangerously thin line in rage. “Madame Sefeau - you should let Halim know - that you found one more girl for his master.”
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Posted: Sun Jul 26, 2015 8:58 pm
Part IV: Turning Tables
Words: 4769 of
Getting into Takul’s manor wasn’t as simple as Cerith made it out to be, but she left the finer machinations of the plot to Sefeau and Haila. As she rose from her chair, dragging a scarf around her neck against the desert cold outside, Sefeau followed her, rubbing her hands together in a slow, hesitant manner - nervous but trying her best not to be. “Cerith, you don’t know what you ask - I can’t just spirit a new girl out of thin air, we keep him up to date on every girl we bring here! And… and what do you hope to gain, meeting him?” The woman nodded her head to herself, her lips pulling into a weak smile. Deep down, Sefeau had a kind streak a mile long - it was obvious enough that Cerith could see why Takul would have used her, of all the madames in Oba, for his pet project. But she was still a businesswoman, who relied on this money for a charitable service. For every older girl who was sent off to play Cerith in a fantasy, she must have paid the way for other girls to work in safer establishments, maybe even brokered new stores entirely manned by the girls that had been rescued from prostitution. Older girls, growing up with this protection or saved from a worse place, would remain under her caring wing - Sefeau was just as much a patron of these Matori girls as Takul was, and Cerith tromping through threatened such a lucrative arrangement.
And yet, Sefeau had still allowed Haila to bring her here - to tell her about what was going on. Haila trusted her madame enough to know which path she would take - and even now, though clearly concerned for her own future, that cloak of shame weighed heavily on her shoulders, haunted her eyes. She had been profiting off a sick man’s desire to ease his own guilty conscience for nearly a decade, had grown fat and healthy and probably wealthy from the arrangement, while Cerith…
No. “You can, and you will - you owe me that, at least.” Cerith said, her voice low and sharp. It hit the woman just as expected, bowing her as if physically struck, at once mollified and disturbed by a Matori commanding her to do anything. Old habits died hard, it seemed, but Cerith didn’t let Sefeau’s personal prejudices concern her. She hoped, back at the tavern, for some rest - but between Jelanii’s prying as to where she’d gone the day before, and her own horrible thoughts when she closed her eyes, she only slept a few short, fitful hours - only to snap awake when a knock came at the door of her room. Avoiding Jelanii’s gaze, she rose and stepped into the hallway to exchange quick instructions with a girl from Sefeau’s brothel, accepting a thick, soft-leather parcel tied in twine - and bowed at the top with the ribbon that Sefeau’s girls wore to their meetings.
Cerith was to wait until the sun set, twilight, and was instructed to don the robe and tie on the ribbon, as she had seen Haila do. Once at the manor, what she did was her business. From the delivery girl’s mannerisms, however, muscles taut with tension, and eyes wavering as if debating whether or not to plead with her, Cerith knew that the girls all hoped she would withdraw - or, at the very least, do nothing that would reflect badly on them. Cerith had given them little choice but to admit their hand in this, should she make any rash decisions.
The remaining hours until dusk passed slowly, shredding her nerves - and only a trip to the bar downstairs for a shot of liquid courage steeled her for when the time finally came. With one last look at Jelanii’s bed, who had long since given up trying to wrestle information out of her and instead retreating off to ‘train’ as he often did, Cerith considered whether to let him in on her plot. It was absolutely foolish, walking into an Oban noble’s estate in disguise, even knowing what he was getting up to, but in the end … Jelanii was a loose cannon. She simply couldn’t trust him as any kind of backup, and had no excuse as to why this girl, out of all of them, would have an escort. He would be left outside, unable to aid anyway, and… besides, he would only storm in an make matters worse. It had nothing to do with hiding the shame of what this man had done to her, nothing to do with the fact that Jelanii still didn’t even know she had been branded - still thought she wore her side of the shell they’d found together as children was simply a shred of homesickness, a lingering yearning for home and family (and it WASN’T, not at all!), and nothing to do with the revelation of what he had been imagining of her for seven years.
She shook her head and headed out of the tavern, the cloak hidden in its parcel under her arm.
Just before entering the noble neighborhoods, Cerith ducked into an alleyway and pulled the soft, sumptuous cloak over her own clothes. Reaching up to her forehead, Cerith froze as her fingers closed around the shell fastened there - breathing a deep sigh before finally tugging it away, hiding her shame behind the ribbon with shaking hands. The shell she left to rest dangling from its cord as a necklace.
Getting into the manor was simple - she approached the door at the side of the establishment, a clay-walled room that intercepted the fence lining the property, both an entryway for slaves/servants, and a newly converted sleeping quarters, rapping at the door with her knuckles, and was ushered in by one of the bleary eyed young groundskeepers, the one she’d seeing with the Perzi. From there she was told to follow along a pathway through the garden and to the entrance to the manor itself, which was unlocked with a set of keys. The entrance led down a short corridor to the kitchens - and there sat.. Halim. Tugging the cloak further around her shoulders, Cerith ducked her head, her lips pinching at this unexpected obstacle which, in retrospect, was so obvious - Halim had been Takul’s confidant in this, of COURSE he would be who Sefeau contacted about a new girl.
The boy disappeared back the way he’d come, and Halim dragged himself from his chair with the look of a man with the world on his shoulders. Heaving a groan of a sigh, Halim stepped forward to her and made a small motion with his hands. “Alright, lets get this over with. I’m gunna do a quick check, it’ll only take a second, girl.” He motioned her to turn around, which Cerith did, and patted her through the cloak with the hesitation of a man who didn’t want to know what she was wearing under it, and didn’t want to check too intimately to find out - but who was clearly searching for weapons. The Matori woman’s lips stretched into a rueful grin - the search hadn’t been mentioned by Sefeau. Clever of her - if Cerith had been foolish enough to bring a dagger with her, she wouldn’t have been caught within meters of Takul, and would be removed from the equation in a manner that Sefeau couldn’t find herself guilty of.
Coming away empty handed, Halim nodded - waiting until she turned back around. “Right - off with the cloak now. I’ll keep it here, for when you leave - c’mon now.” He held out his hand, impatient and wanting to get this handled - but Cerith froze. Slowly, she rose her hands to the lip of the hood - face downturned, but eventually she couldn’t keep up the farce. She pulled back the hood and pulled the cloak from her shoulders - then, once it was deposited in Halim’s hand (he had gone stock still, rocking backwards from the weight of his surprise), she lifted her gaze and met his eyes.
He knew - he’d known back in the bar two days ago. A flash of emotions cycled in his eyes as the two Matori stared at one another - until finally Halim’s shoulders sagged further, and he faltered back a step, sinking to sit in the chair, the cloak dropping to the floor in a puddle of cloth. “I should’ve known you were acting.” He grumbled, but his voice carried no semblance of blame. Instead, he chuckled dryly and met her cold eyes, giving his head a slight shake. “He didn’t give ya no choice but to grow up this way, did he? Ya couldn’t be a pampered little courtesan like the girls he sees, not with where you would’ve ended up.” Halim closed his eyes, accepting Cerith’s silence for what it was.
Cerith simply rounded the table, fingertips dragging against the rough wooden surface of the servants’ dining table, her posture loose-limbed, preparing to spring should Halim try and raise the alarm. But the man slumped with defeat, and for a long time he sat, simply looking at her - as if trying to memorize the girl she truly was, compared to the facade she’d shown him in the bar. He knew what Takul was doing here… perhaps he’d patted himself on the back and told himself, in the past day, that at least she seemed happy. At least she had her new start in Matori, like he had suggested. But her presence here confirmed something the old man must have dreaded - that she couldn’t turn her back on what she had been turned into, by Takul of all people. “This way.” He finally grunted, standing and stepping heavily to a doorway splintering off from the kitchen - picking up a candle for light.
Takul’s estate was one level - taking up space was a show of rank, when the common people lived stacked in boxes atop one another. Higher ranking people would push this concept to its extreme, with wide and tall antechambers, cut at the top of the walls with windows to let out hot air. Cerith had seen, from outside, that the place was small- and though she was only being escorted through the servant’s corridors, they were narrow and stuffy, eventually letting out, past a locked down, into a hallway that was one-and a half shoulder spans wide. That being said, it was still a show of wealth for a lesser noble - and, being his second home in what amounted to a bachelor’s retreat, it made sense that even the decor in this main hallway was sparse, amounting to the mosaics peppered in the expensive stone floors, and the use of wood as accent pieces as support beams for the building. Halim spoke in low tones as he moved, acting now like she was any other girl brought here to his master, their quiet exchange in the kitchen unmentioned. “Madame Sefeau told you what is expected - you’re to respond as Cerith, but beyond that answer the questions as you want - surprise him, I guess.” He gave her a final look as they stopped, reaching their destination.
The door to Takul’s quarters was made of polished wood, and golden light shown from under the door - with one last look at her, Halim knocked at the door, waiting until the man within called for them to enter, then opening it for Cerith to pass through.
Once inside, Halim closed the door curtly, his heavy footsteps receding down the hall. Cerith counted - only eight paces of a twelve pace hallway - he was remaining close by. Though, for his master or for her Cerith couldn’t say. She filed this away in her mind, then turned her eyes around the room, taking in the layout in a quick stare before finally kneeling, smoothing the rich, iridescent material of her skirts around her. “No no, Cerith - come closer. There’s no need to be shy around me.” The voice said, soft and holding a kindly tone, and the echoes of a laugh within it. She stood, and finally looked back up - eyes fixing on Takul.
Back in her youth, Takul was young - five years older than she was now, cleanshaven and soft-eyed. He still retained that kind demeanor, but had matured; his hooked nose looked less awkward, now, given the thick beard he had grown. His clothing was rich in dyed colors- purples and thick, royal reds. Smoking an incensed pipe, Takul reclined on a pile of opulent pillows, his deep-red eyes watching her with a cursory notice, half turned away from her at first. Cerith dressed as she normally did - wearing the clothing she had pilfered from her tavern days, before being released, and as such they were… revealing and cut to accentuate her curves - and this he seemed to note. Perhaps he was sorrowful, if the heavy set of his brows would suggest - but under his beard his lips pursed, and he leaned forward the slightest bit - betraying his growing intrigue of a different sort. Whatever paternal feelings he had for the children he had funded, they seemed to not apply to the older girls - perhaps he even felt a gesture of gratitude was not too much to ask, just as Madame Sefeau had thought. Lifting her chin, Cerith smiled, and it took every ounce of concentration to force the cold steel from her gaze - to soften it into a glowing, gaze, her hard-set expression softening. “There we are - I’m not so scary, am I?” Takul responded, smiling back at her as he inhaled a deep lungful of smoke, exhaling it in coiling clouds from his nostrils. “Why, look how you’ve grown - if only I’d known what a beauty you’d turn out to be.”
“Would you have still branded me, sir?” Cerith suggested - her words cold even as her voice lifted into an almost teasing titter, eyes crinkling into a smile. Takul froze, giving her a double take - but then he let out a deep belly laugh and shook his head, setting his still smoking pipe down as he regarded her with a second look. “Aye - a cruel man, I was.” His tone was good natured, but her cold response had caught him off guard. Cerith didn’t see him grinding his teeth or even steeling his shoulders though, and her words hadn’t seemed to ruffle him at all - in fact, they seemed to have caught his interest even more. He motioned for her to come closer, and once just in front of him she was gestured to sit, which she did. For the first time since she entered, he really looked at her - his eyes sweeping from her folded knees up to her face, pausing there with a slight pinch of his brow. But whatever recognition he may have felt, he dismissed - after all, she had been simply a serving girl, way back when. He may not have recognized her, but her similarities must have been enough for him to really take interest in this game - how many girls had he acted this with, who shared only her race, and nothing more?
What a delicacy for him, Cerith thought dryly, her lips twitching to suppress a predatory smile. Her eyes swept sideways to the discarded pipe - the leaves within still smoking. On a stone tray only a few feet away was a smoking, embering brimstone match - which must have been lit and left to smolder, in case he wished to reignite his pipe. Her eyes tugged back to Takul, however, when he spoke again. “I was a cruel man, Cerith. What I did to you… it was cruel. I never would have done such a thing, you have my word on it - I was weak and my father…” He trailed off, pondering his past, then smiled, shaking his head. He extended his hand, fingers gesturing in a come hither motion, and fighting the repulsion in her belly Cerith reached out and rested her hand on his own, fighting back the urge to retch as he grasped her hand, tightly, in his own. “I am a man of my own good fortune, now - no longer a child pressured into cruelty.”
Abruptly, Cerith pulled her hand away, looking at him, affronted. “You weren’t a child - I was a child, back then, you were a man grown! Do you feel all this excuses you from what happened? What you ordered to happen?” His gaze softened, but within it he was pleased - far from aggravated, Cerith’s noncompliance seemed to scratch an itch that Takul had long ached from. How many girls came in, using her name and forgiving him, letting him feel he had atoned? Perhaps deep down he wanted punishment, or at least to be argued with. “No, dear girl, of course not - I did wrong by you. I don’t want to think of the horrors that you must have gone through…” He trailed off, his eyebrows hitching upwards - in his script he must expect her to list off her agonies, her hurts. But feeding him a transcript of what had happened, just so he could get a kick out of what she’d gone through, was abhorrent to her - and her horrified silence made his brow tick in annoyance. No doubt the usual girls took tales from their own sad youths as filler. Then his pity and guilt could complete his little play - and then what? He would comfort them? Getting off on their pain and memories, and fancying himself their rescuer? “What sort of places you were made to work… the people you … No. No, Cerith, there is one thing I can do for you.” He reached for her slackened hand, settled in her lap, and clasped it in both of his own, ducking down to kiss it -his beard was rough and smelled thickly of the harsh tobacco from his pipe. “You can stay here, the lady of this place! Free and unbothered, with an allowance to do with as you please - you don’t have to work another day, never again!”
“As your… what, your mistress?” Cerith replied, weakly, her throat dry. Her words had the adverse reaction - the Oban’s eyes lit up, and his lips spread into a broad smile. “Yes - my mistress. You would be your own woman - I will be your slave - we can--”
Whatever words he may have continued to say were drowned out by the sudden laughter that broke from her. Cerith tossed her head back, hand sliding out of his own to instead cover her mouth, tears budding in her eyes from the ridiculousness of it. “What sort of a fool would fall for that?! Really?! My slave?!” She gasped for breath, but her humor only lasted a short time - her wrist was suddenly grasped, tightly, wrenched from her face, and when Cerith opened her eyes Takul glared at her - finally showing anger at her words. His jaw was set, eyes no longer amused. “You go too far, girl. Your cheek was amusing, at first, but you forget yourself.”
“Do I, slave?” Cerith responded, mockingly - and perhaps she had cracked, and lost her mind for when he gave her a rough shake she only responded with another hitch of laughter. “Did any of those girls actually fall for that? Or did they just bed you because you were paying for their supper?”
“Wench, how dare you--” Takul growled - but his expression slackened, mouth falling open when, with a sure tug of her free hand dislodged the ribbon from her forehead - letting it flutter to the ground, unneeded.
Beneath the ribbon, Cerith’s forehead was marred - flesh raised where she had once been burned. The image had not swollen -rather the image of a circular eye-shape remained ingrained on her skull. Watch me, it coaxed. Back in her years as a slave, covering it without her owner’s permission would have been a death wish - she had not been free of the mark on her flesh until she was fifteen, employed at a higher ranked establishment whose patrons would have found a serving girl with such a mark garish and unseemly. Only then was she given permission to cover it - and ever since she hadn’t dared removing the cover.
Now, she found a strength in the horrified gaze as it shot up to her forehead. His hands dropped from her suddenly, and he nearly fell over himself scrambling backwards, away from her, as Cerith stood - towering over his sitting form, looming and vengeful. His hands rose as if to shield himself from a spirit. “Cerith…?”
“I should be honored, being remembered all this time later by a lord.” Cerith sneered, sinking with fluid grace to scoop up the burning brimstone match - it was made of thick Jauhar wood, rough and unpolished, soaked in sulphur. blowing on the end allowed the embers to flare to life, glowing in the sultry low-lighting of the room. Takul’s eyes shot to the match - but he didn’t seem to remember that he was a grown man, and simply standing could reassert his dominance. Despite the show he’d given earlier, now he looked at her in genuine terror - and when she came closer he scrambled onto his knees, the picture of a man in prayer, hands reaching to tug at her skirts. “Mercy - mercy!”
“Mercy! By rights, I should stick you in the bowels with this - see how you enjoy your skin burning.” The man tugged harder, a wretched sob yanked from his lungs, and as he sagged further, kissing her feet for pity, she kicked him off, enjoying him cowering far more than she should have. With the blazing wood in her hand Cerith knelt over him, pouting. “Oh ? Where are all those excuses from before? ‘Look at all the good I’ve done! I was just a boy, I didn’t know what I was doing?’” She mimicked, sneering as he looked up at her, teary-eyed. “Or even your promises? ‘I can shower you in gold, make you my queen, Cerith!’ Where are they now?”
“I -- I can! I will - all my gold, yours -- it’s yours, just - just don’t--”
Cerith slapped her hand over his mouth, gesturing at her mouth with her glowing hand, waiting for him to shush his weak whimpers behind her hand before pulling away. “Don’t? Don’t what?” He whimpered again, and she shook her head, grinning. Slowly, her smile fell as she regarded him, rage bubbling up inside her. “You had them torture me. You had me thrown to the dogs, knowing what would happen with that mark on me. You waited four years until you suddenly felt guilty enough to do something to make up for it. Even that you couldn’t do right! Did those other girls ever actually matter to you, beyond letting you tell yourself you were a good person?! Was it all just to try and find me, and when that failed you… what? Imagined this stupid romance with me? I was just a child, you sick f--” She cut herself off, shaking her head. Finally she stepped back from where she’d stood, staring down at him - the sobbing mess of a man, nodding along with her words at her feet.
“I want gold - give me gold. You’ve fantasized all this time about me, I might as well get paid for it. You’ll keep paying that brothel to find girls - but you’ll not meet them. Not ONE.” She threw the match at his feet, and he scrambled away from it, moving to dig gold from a polished wooden cabinet a few feet away. Shaking her head, Cerith ground her teeth, feeling it just wasn’t enough. “And you’ll go home - you’ll tell your family about what you’ve done. That you romance Matori girls and gave away all this money. That you fund brothels. If you don’t, I’ll hear about it.”
Takul froze, but slowly nodded, turning back to her and shakily holding up a carved wooden container hanging from a cord. Unhooking it, Cerith saw more gold coins than she had ever held in her entire life - but closed it and hung it from her belt with a satisfied nod, turning away from him with finality.
“And then… and then, you’ll forgive me?”
Cerith paused midstep, considering. Half turning, she met Takul’s eyes, looking at him. She should pity him - pitying him would make her the better person, but instead all she felt was hatred, and that lingering feeling that she hadn’t punished him enough for what he’d done to her. “No - you’ll never be forgiven for what you did to me. Never.” He let out a wretched sob, but Cerith simply turned away, stepping back to the door. She pushed it open - and stepped into the hallway, closing it behind her. It barely drowned out the sounds of the miserable man. Further down the hallway, Halim leaned against the wall, watching her. They walked quietly back to where the cloak remained, and with only a few short words of instruction, Cerith swung it around her shoulders and disappeared back the way she’d come.
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Cerith had hoped she would come out of this adventure with some measure of closure - some pleasure in knowing that at least her old master was miserable. But the next afternoon, back in the inn room, dressed richly in her new clothes and waiting for Jelanii to come back from wherever it was he’d disappeared the day before, Cerith could only feel hollow. Killing Takul had crossed her mind, but she had ultimately pushed the thought aside - the potential consequences for such a thing were simply too harsh, given the fragile balance between Matori freedom and Oban pride. Without knowing the state of Takul’s home life, her instructions may prove useless - if he upheld some honorable vision to his family, it would shatter it just as she wanted - but if his depravity had been public then such a thing would mean nothing.
Tempting though it was to ask Halim about the kind mistress and the daughter from her memories, she couldn’t make herself ask - the extent of her contact with the man upon leaving had been instructions to tell her if Takul didn’t do as she had told him.
In truth, she held nothing over Takul’s head - it was only his own warped sense of guilt that could coax him into action - and for all she knew he would come to realize he had been swindled, and that he had every right to call soldiers out for her head. Better they leave town, fast, she thought.
Cerith rolled her fingertips over the smooth side of the seashell she had worn on her forehead for years - raising her hands finally to tie it back on - but she paused, considering. Slowly, she reached past her face and fastened it, instead, as jewelry to her tied back hair, taking a deep breath.
After all this, the idea of covering the brand up again made her feel sick to her stomach. For all that had happened, her vengeance had amounted to little more than a wallet filled with gold and a sick feeling in her stomach. But what was done… was done. Drawing her hand across her face, willing the nausea in her belly to settle, Cerith could only hope that, with time, her reactions to this whole affair would settle. She could only hope.
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Posted: Sun Jul 26, 2015 8:59 pm
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Posted: Thu Jul 30, 2015 1:30 pm
Class Quest Result
Pass!
Cerith has passed and received a rank of Swordsman!
Congratulations Cerith!
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