In that case, our connection might be limited. We should—
[ Before he can finish what he means to say, shadows envelope the two of them and immediately plunge them into the middle of a horrific scene.
cw: slavery, branding mention, murder, slight descriptions of gore
The sickening crunch of a skull caving in resounds across the arena, echoing off the high walls of what looks to be the inside of a long and twisted maze. Manacled wrists raise high into the air, bloodied chains wrapped around both hands as they come down once more to deal another blow to the mangled face below.
The culprit crawls off the body on his hands and knees. Blood soaks every part of him, most of it concentrated around his hands, clumps of hair and bits of other organic matter stuck in the gaps between iron chains. He comes to a stop only a few feet away from the body, and he slumps to the ground, breaths ragged as he waits.
He doesn't wait long. The sound of approaching footsteps can be heard, but he doesn't stir. He stays where he is, overgrown golden bangs obscuring his eyes and making it impossible to tell if he's conscious or not. The people who arrive pick him up by the arms, and his head lolls to one side, revealing a scorched red brand on the side of his neck.
And then the scene shifts. The blood and gore have been cleaned off of him, and he's been changed into cleaner, yet still ill-fitting rags. The manacles remain in place. He sits in a cell, the iron bars casting shadows across his form.
"Look at that. All thirty-four slaves dead, and only you, No. 35, made it out alive. You are the real deal."
The cell door opens and a man steps inside. His face is obscured, but his garish and loudly decorated outfit says everything about him. The man reaches out with a hand, a ring on each finger, to grab at the slave's hair, yanking his head up to reveal a boyish face and a myriad of colors in his ringed eyes. Those very dead, dead eyes.
"My lucky Sigonian hound. The plans I have for you. But in the meantime, take it. You've earned it."
With his other hand, the man produces a small pile of red coins, dropping them over this young Aventurine's head. They bounce off of him, clattering to the ground, and roll into the corners of his small cell.
no subject
In that case, our connection might be limited. We should—
[ Before he can finish what he means to say, shadows envelope the two of them and immediately plunge them into the middle of a horrific scene.
cw: slavery, branding mention, murder, slight descriptions of gore
The sickening crunch of a skull caving in resounds across the arena, echoing off the high walls of what looks to be the inside of a long and twisted maze. Manacled wrists raise high into the air, bloodied chains wrapped around both hands as they come down once more to deal another blow to the mangled face below.
The culprit crawls off the body on his hands and knees. Blood soaks every part of him, most of it concentrated around his hands, clumps of hair and bits of other organic matter stuck in the gaps between iron chains. He comes to a stop only a few feet away from the body, and he slumps to the ground, breaths ragged as he waits.
He doesn't wait long. The sound of approaching footsteps can be heard, but he doesn't stir. He stays where he is, overgrown golden bangs obscuring his eyes and making it impossible to tell if he's conscious or not. The people who arrive pick him up by the arms, and his head lolls to one side, revealing a scorched red brand on the side of his neck.
And then the scene shifts. The blood and gore have been cleaned off of him, and he's been changed into cleaner, yet still ill-fitting rags. The manacles remain in place. He sits in a cell, the iron bars casting shadows across his form.
"Look at that. All thirty-four slaves dead, and only you, No. 35, made it out alive. You are the real deal."
The cell door opens and a man steps inside. His face is obscured, but his garish and loudly decorated outfit says everything about him. The man reaches out with a hand, a ring on each finger, to grab at the slave's hair, yanking his head up to reveal a boyish face and a myriad of colors in his ringed eyes. Those very dead, dead eyes.
"My lucky Sigonian hound. The plans I have for you. But in the meantime, take it. You've earned it."
With his other hand, the man produces a small pile of red coins, dropping them over this young Aventurine's head. They bounce off of him, clattering to the ground, and roll into the corners of his small cell.
And that's where the memory ends. ]