• PM To Join • what maketh man

[Kaelrik]

70 Vhalar 718

“Let all ye who have gathered here give solemn praise to our Lord!”

Kaelrik stood, as did the other slaves, with his head bowed. His broad shoulders were slumped as though in defeat and in a way, he was. A defeated man cast adrift to wander the tides of fate. His gaze cast downward, the brands of a slave tattooed into his forearm, living now only for the entertainment of men and women who cared not whether he lived or died. They cared only for the blood that was shed.

“Kneel now, all ye who would give sustenance to Him!”

Kaelrik lowered himself to one knee. He gently placed his longsword on the dirt beside him. His shield was laid flat upon the ground opposite of that. Both within reach, both easily grasped for when the time came. The voice of the Herald rang sharp like a booming cascade of thunder. The Theocratum had chosen the Master of Ceremonies for this fight very well.

“If it must rain, let it be a downpour of blood.”

“Our life for the God Who Yet Lives.” Thetros give me strength.

Kaelrik spoke the mantra as was expected. But his heart ached. It ached for open fields. It ached for an ancient forest. It longed for the sanctuary of a home now too far away.

“If you must die, let your death give praise to He Who Will Rise.”

“Our bodies for the Beloved Who Is Not Broken.” Thetros be with me.

In his mind’s eyes, Kaelrik could see the Herald, dressed in his priestly attire sweeping his arms out over the crowd as though to embrace them in his bosom. A father guiding his forlorn flock. None of the nobles cared. This was carnage. Plain and simple. This was a vice made to sate the most basic of mortal needs: violence. How many had Kaelrik skewered on the end of a sword? How many had sliced open his flesh with glee or desperation? How many more fights before, like those before him, he too joined the dead? Kaelrik didn’t know. He couldn’t be bothered to care. This was what he knew now. This was the life that he now lead. One fight to the next. One moment hoping he could shuffle through the daze of another day. Everything outside the arena was a blur but inside? Inside he was alive again. Inside the arena he was the Hunter. He was the Jeger. He was Lotharro.

And that was what he clung to. The last vestiges of his sanity were found in the bloody haze of battle.

It was all he had left of himself. The fight was his last refuge and he would not be denied this last sanctuary.

“If there must be a victor, let your victory be proof that the blood you have shed, has made strong your worthiness before Our Master!”

“We bleed for the Wounded, Most Holy.”

“Let this blessed sacrament of Blood, of Body and of Soul commence!”

Thetros forgive me.

Kaelrik grabbed his sword, lifted his shield and rolled away from the group of slaves that immediately sprang into action. The crowd roared to life. The ring of blades meeting blades began their deadly song. Men screamed. Men were already dying.

The bloodbath had begun.

[Alistair]

Within the Fortress, it was known to Alistair that the nobility were allowed - if not encouraged - to partake in bloody battles between slaves and myrmidons as spectators. What was suggested, by at least one or two talkative nobles, was that the more impressive combatants - save for the survivors - could be purchased by Necromancers after the fight, for reanimation or experimentation. Or perhaps a formation of both. Though initially the thought of rebreathing life into someone else's conquest disturbed him, he realized the incredible selection that such a market could offer him. He thought, perhaps, that he could even find a warrior superior to the Axton brothers for his arsenal.

And so... he attended the event, and took a spectator's seat overlooking the blood pits. They sat in a circular, almost bowl-like citadel with risen seats, elevated by high platforms of stone. On the four corners of the citadel were towers, which held stairs leading outward - or inward - diagonally. He could not tell specifically how many men could be seated here, but he was certain that it ranged at least around a hundred. Though the thought of this event was peculiar. He wondered the efficiency of throwing away the bodies - er, lives - of good artisans and soldiers merely for the entertainment of the already invested bourgeois class. He supposed the great expense of these games was a part of the appeal to the haughty nobility, but Alistair personally felt unsettled by the wastefulness.

"Bet on the Lotharro," the man beside him nudged. He was young, with curly black hair and regal, black attire. Certainly a fellow noble - albeit a lesser one. "You know what that is, my good fellow? A hulking, brutish man from the far West. I heard they once conquered all of the Northern World," he stated, rather incorrectly. Alistair decided to humor him. And correct him.

"They did not, in fact, do so. They conquered the majority of the Western Continent, that is all. Eventually, they were driven back by the Dead King of Hiladrith. But - yes. They are fine warriors; it is usually unintelligent not to bet on them. But common men can surpass them by exploiting their volatility. During their adrenal rage, a truly skilled warrior can easily oust them. Their judgment becomes impaired; they are inspired only by one thing. Brutality." As he spoke, he focused on the man the other had recommended him to wager on. The Lotharro, large among men, though not too colossal for his own kind. Instead, among them, he was rather lean - not a Terrendyte wielding skullbasher, but something more fleet of foot. A hunter, perhaps.

He felt that he recognized him, but from afar and through the confusion of the battle, he was uncertain. Even as keen as he thought his eye to be, it was impossible to make out his features through the fluctuation and violence of the ring. He bit his lower lip bitterly, a sort of suspicion gnawing at him.

"You describe them well. An admirer of their kind?" the other noble questioned, breaking the disquieting gaze of the Necromancer upon the Lothar.

"I was married to one," Alistair said. "I lived in Gauthrel, their homeland. I spoke their language; fluently. I was as Lothar as any other - I could even, somehow, feel a connection to my past self. The life-bond inspired that in me. The people... and their culture... are truly a remnant of beauty that has long since gone from this world. I hope that this man lives." He spoke almost sentimentally, which was odd, for him. But the odd, prying sense of familiarity and the kinship he felt with Kaelrik's kind brought into him a desperate hope for the man's safety. Suffice to say, he was rooting for him, and continued to observe once again with that disquieting, soul wrenching anticipation in his eyes.

[Kaelrik]

Kaelrik let out a sharp cry of pain as the sting of steel cutting through the flesh of his right flank reverberated across his nerves. With a ferocious snarl, he whirled on his attacker swinging his sword in a wide arc while raising his shield up to protect his other flank. His assailant barely had time to bring his own blade up in defense but did so successfully. Kaelrik grunted and shoved forward bringing the both of them within inches of each other. Their swords were locked in a test only of strength. The muscles of Kaelrik’s arms bulged, veins standing out as he practically growled at his opponent. His attacker was panicked. The way his nostrils were flared, from the unsteadiness of his footing and the way he held his sword more like a shield than a weapon, Kaelrik gathered that much.

For the briefest of moment, Kaelrik felt pity for the man. This was no warrior. It was just an unfortunate soul thrust into a pit of blood, death and gore for the amusement of others. That pity evaporated as soon as the man shoved back, unseating their deadlock of blades. Kaelrik would have been sent sprawling backwards had he not been putting his weight into the deadlock. Instead he simply let his weight carry him and fell to the side, away from the swipe that would have gutted him. Landing in the dirt, Kaelrik tucked himself into as tight a ball as he could as he rolled away from the lethal edge of his opponent’s wildly swinging sword.

“Die!” The ring of steel singing through the air only to impact the dirt. “Die!” Again, the bladesong that foretold the coming of its lethal edge only followed by the dull thump of it slicing through more blood caked earth.

“Just die!” Almost desperate in his plea, the man swung wide and in that moment, as Kaelrik found his footing he saw his chance. Ignoring the throbbing in his side at having skidded across rough earth, Kaelrik sprang forward. He raised his shield as the sword of his attacker came down, glancing the blow. Bringing up his sword he thrust it forward…and into the chest of his opponent. The man’s eyes went wide. All breath whooshed out of his lungs from the jarring impact of being impaled by Kaelrik’s sword. The Lotharro simply leaned forward and spoke softly.

“Die well.” Bringing up a boot, he kicked the man off of his sword and immediately went on the defensive as another slave-gladiator saw an opening. Seeing a chance to even the odds, another joined his newfound attacker. Kaelrik went on the defensive. He hunched behind his shield matching their footsteps carefully. He kept his eyes trained on their movement even as another fight came to a close next to them.

That left only four slaves in the blood pit. Three of whom, decided that their best chance was to kill off the one who seemed to have a modicum of skill in battle. Kaelrik’s heart picked up.

Kaelrik had skill. He was no stranger to battle. But he was far from skilled enough to take on three opponents at once. But if he was going to die he would do so fighting with everything he had. Reaching inside of himself, Kaelrik caressed the spark inside of himself. Sweaty. Bloody. Muscles twitching with too much adrenaline and the beginnings of fatigue, he turned to the one gift he had that might see him through to another day.

Winds. Come, dance with me.

He felt the stirrings. He felt the echo of the winds in this area at least hearing him. But he had to convince them he was worthy of them. He had to earn their trust. He did not give up. He continued reaching for the winds that they might come to his aide.

“Ready to die, Lotharro?” Kaelrik’s only answer was to take his stance and grip his sword more tightly. He narrowed his eyes at the speaker. A dark skinned man with muscles that were lean but strong. He moved with more confidence than the two beside him. The others were skittish. They were relying on their numbers to overwhelm him. Kaelrik bared his fangs, glaring at the man in front of him. The winds, he felt them stirring. He felt them beginning to turn their attention to him. But still he needed more time.

This is it. This is the day I die.

[Alistair]

It did not take long, as his eyes quietly peered from above, for him to realize that the man he witnessed was - in fact - someone he remembered. He observed his form, his musculature, his frame and stature. The edges of his face, each angular movement conducted bringing notice to the rather defined jawline he bore. Alistair remembered him, and immediately, he grew... afraid. Somehow. His emotions had grown more and more muted of late, but in the hollow mausoleum of his humanity laid a recognition of doubt. He realized that he would not be ambivalent to the passing of such a man - someone he knew from... fonder times. Someone who he had grown with; connected with, even. Even in disparate ventures, long since passed by.

"Kaelrik," he spoke, his lips meeting in a worried anticipation - as his eyes honed on every strike, every lunge and slash. The man fought admirably, and bravely, for the dear life that he had every desire to cling to. It was a desperate situation, though . . . and after he culled the men who faced him initially, the remainder of 'gladiators' decided to join arms to take him out. It was their only chance of survival - or so they believed.

He decided... to watch closely, and do nothing else. He contemplated splintering their weapons from afar, but such an action would be noticeable, and he was certain in a city so open to the domains of arcanists that there would be prohibitions and other measures set in place to regulate such deeds. To rupture their weapons away would be, certainly, altering the outcome of the match - useful to one who wagered his funds on a warrior.

He could only observe, and nothing else. Scarcely did he ever feel so powerless.

"Say," Alistair turned his gaze to the man beside him - who'd struck their initial conversation. "What are these men? Paid warriors, mercenaries? Something else?" he asked.

"Slaves, many of them," the man spoke. "Why else would they risk everything? For glory? Few men truly care of such a prospect. They fight because they are commanded to - because victory is their only assurance of freedom. But none of these men will be free - even if they win. They will remain bound," the Noble spoke.

"Do you own any of them?" Alistair inquired.

"Yes, actually," he replied. "Why do you think I recommended you wager on the Lotharen man? He's mine. And it seems my investment may have been poorly placed," the slaver spoke, his fingers fuddled together as he awkwardly glared upon the center of the coliseum. "No matter what, he'll die, even if he wins. The wounds he's already acquired will fester; this is... an unhealthy city. It's a shame. So... valiant," he lamented.

Alistair grimaced. His red sash, worn over his left shoulder, was unfurled and drug onto his lap, as his fingers dexterously unstrapped a small rope-braid, tied to his shoulder, that held within it a small coin pouch. It was an odd place to conceal his wealth, but he was not fond of pickpockets. "I'll buy him from you," he said. "Even if he's wounded... worse. How much do you typically sell your corpses for, slaver?" the mage asked. He was... forward. Even if Kaelrik died, Alistair would want to keep his corpse. He would make... a fine Revenant. A companion and memory, a warmth; a candle unmarred by winds.

Or, even better, he could save him. He did not mind that prospect.

"Noble, in this setting," the man corrected him. His expression was... irritated. "Two hundred gold nels - that's all I ask. He's quite a fine man. It's certainly less than I paid. Do we have an accord?"

"Yes," the Necromancer replied. "We do. Two hundred gold nels."

"Fine, then," the man responded. He turned his head to the ring - and without looking back to the other noble, accepted the gold that came his way. In return, Alistair was handed a sort of... stick, with a slot for a chain on the end, to be bound to. A leash, for a slave.

He would not need it. The title of ownership was all he required. Though hopefully his own investment would not, equally, fail him this trial.

[Kaelrik]

When it came, it came with fair warning. The poor sod on his right, believing he had a fair opening, lunged toward Kaelrik haphazardly with a wild cry. Kaelrik side-stepped him. The man’s eyes went wide. He tried to pull back but it was far too late. With a vicious thrust, Kaelrik shove his sword through the man’s open mouth and out the back of his skull. The man’s body twitched and Kaelrik tried to pull his sword out. His movements though were far too slow and he realized his error.

The second slave rushed forward swinging a heavy looking mace. Kaelrik raised his shield as his sword slid out of the dead man’s skull. He screamed in pain as the mace shattered the wooden shield. He was certain that the blow had broken one of the bones in his forearm. Staggering back, Kaelrik swung his sword in an arc, fending off the swings of the charging madman.

Winds, please, be with me!

Kaelrik sent as much pleading and desperation into that ethereal cry. He urged the spark of his Defiance into motion…and the winds answered. A gust of wind swept outward from Kaelrik buffeting up against the attacker wielding the hammer. What would have been a blow that landed squarely on his chest turned into the assailant careening off course landing a glancing blow across Kaelrik’s shoulder. Gritting his teeth through the pain, forcing himself to move through his weariness he brought up his sword and plunged it into the man’s gut. Wasting no time, Kaelrik shoved the man away from him sending his attacker stumbling back with his innards spilling out onto the dirt. Kaelrik raised his sword, adrenaline pumping through his body, every sense in him screaming at him to duck, dodge, roll and attack only to find the third fighter bearing down on him.

Kaelrik’s eyes went wide. He raised his sword to parry but his movements were too slow. He only managed to divert the course of the blow from his chest to his left leg. He screamed in pain as the blade sunk completely into the meat of his thigh. Kaelrik dropped his sword and fell to the ground. The dark skinned warrior shoved him back, dragging his blade out of Kaelrik’s leg. Kaelrik let out another cry of pain. He collapsed onto the ground, chest heaving, pain ricocheting through his body. His head throbbed. His every muscle ached. His head fell and he let out a gasp of breath as he pushed himself away from his looming killer.

“How does it feel? You fought. You fought well. You killed but in the end…it wasn’t enough.” Kaelrik took a deep breath. Gritting his teeth he pushed himself up onto his knees. He cast about looking for his sword. It was in the dirt near the corpse of one of the other slaves. It was too far away to reach. To dive for it would be a stupid move. He’d put his back to the last warrior and in doing so, death would be certain. Kaelrik took a steadying breath.

His left arm throbbed. There was a bone broken there. His left leg was bleeding. He’d probably die of blood loss if he didn’t receive attention soon enough. He felt exhausted but he wasn’t done. This fight. This battle. This testament to his last ounce of strength, this was his sanctuary.

And he would not be denied the only freedom he had.

“So, what do you have to say Lotharro?” The dark skinned man grinned bringing up his sword gripping the hilt in both hands as though to plunge the blade into Kaelrik’s chest. Kaelrik met his gaze. He took a deep breath and spoke proudly.

“Die well.” The warrior struck and Kaelrik swerved to the side. Instead of rolling away from his attacker however, the Lotharen surged forward. He let out a roar of fury grabbing his attacker, opening his mouth and sinking the sharp points of his fangs into the man’s neck. The man screamed and Kaelrik bit down with every ounce of strength he had left. Blood gushed into his mouth. The sick iron and coppery tang washed across Kaelrik’s tongue and coated his mouth. With a vicious shove, Kaelrik ripped through the flesh of the man’s neck and sent him sprawling back, blood gushing from his throat.

Kaelrik dropped his arms and slumped onto the ground. The man stumbled. He raised his sword. He dropped it. He stumbled again before collapsing onto the ground.

The earth grew darker as it drank in his blood. The man did not move.

Kaelrik closed his eyes. He took in a deep breath. With a grunt, he pushed himself up to his feet. He stumbled, nearly falling flat on his face but he managed to rise up to his full height. Chest heaving. Blood oozing from wounds. Sweat, dirt and who knew what else covering his body, Kaelrik opened his eyes and regarded the crowd.

Mouths were open. He was certain that people were screaming, shouting. They were doing whatever it was that people of these sorts did at blood sports. Kaelrik couldn’t hear them. His head was throbbing. His ears were ringing. The only thing he could hear was the sound of his own heartbeat and his own breathing. But as his eyes settled upon the crowd, his deep indigo eyes came to rest upon someone. Someone he knew.

“Alistair?”

And then the world went black.

[Alistair]

What followed, rested upon the stony seats, was a display of brutality that he hadn't seen before. In war, particularly the wars of Rynmere, men fought with tactics - with honor, and coordination. Discipline. They did not engage in the rash savagery of men - slaves - seeking only to survive; to witness it in clear view was... both appalling, and enthralling. He could not contest the truth - that the blood curdling screeches, and the sobs of anguish, were somehow innervating his senses. His eyes, and all manner of senses, were honed only to the fight. He, too, could not hear the crowd nor their screams. He viewed the world before him as if through a doorway - leading only to Kaelrik, and the power and valor of his actions.

He... was a true warrior. With true potential. He fought not like Fridgar, who bore down wrath and vengeance. He was a soldier, one placed against impossible odds . . . which he subsequently demolished. Even the lunge of his teeth - fangs, in that moment - was precise, and necessary. He fought with efficiency. Observing him, a wallflower upon those seats, Alistair felt that he knew true grief once more. The thought of such a man passing into the unknown... it troubled him, invoking a numbness wallowing through his core. He felt sick to his stomach as each injury was added on, or extrapolated by the rashness of his desperate movements. As the final man passed onto the floor, dying, Alistair spared no moment. The announcer began to prepare his proclamation of victory, but he would not wait.

He thought on the gnawing of his teeth into the man's flesh. The desperation, the hunger to survive. It unsettled him even now, the plea of a man so voracious for life. The magister shut his eyes, and focused. Meditated, forging an ingress before the fallen form of the warrior, and an egress within the halls of the Ashvane Estate. A portal opened, booming outward with a reverberating cry, as the tidal vortex ripped through the space surrounding it. Alistair blinked onto the soft dirt that made up the flooring of the ring, effectively maneuvering a grip around the less-injured portions of Kaelrik's body. And then, he brought him up, risen to his feet. His eyes were still shut, and his consciousness remained a quagmire, with death lurching forward within him.

Alistair exhaled as he kept him steadily above ground, before pressing his body forward, his weight moving through the ingress of the portal and... away. Far from the bloodshed.

Home; they were there, and quickly. Kaelrik's blood trickled from his tattered clothing and onto the floor, the tile of the hall moist with the crimson fluid. He was injured... everywhere. Alistair did not even know where to begin.

"Kleine," he called upon his aide. "Kleine, please," he called again. "He's going to die. He's going to die. We can't let him die."

Immediately, the man urgently pressed through the doorway of his half-shuttered room, responding to the urgency of Alistair's call. A patient; but, no. Someone he recognized. Immediately, he remembered the man, and his name. Kaelrik, a Jeger of... it didn't matter. He needed to live; the two were at an accord. Immediately, he ran to Alistair's practitioner's room, grabbing all manner of tools; a scalpel, bandages, a sewing needle, alcohol as an antiseptic, scarf rot and armored crocodile blood, and...

Everything. Everything at their disposal.

But first, sewing the wounds. Setting the broken bones properly. Right. Alistair's hands worked dexterously, as Kleine handed him one tool after the other, an array of needles set within a small basket, with cloth beneath. They were lightly drenched with antiseptic before being sewn in, and doused similarly afterwards. Alistair could not bandage the wounds until they were all sewn; the bloodloss was too immense. Anything he could not cover, he called upon his Revenants to place pressure upon, keeping the blood from flowing freely outward. Four, five men worked on Kaelrik. Each wound was addressed, whether by sheer pressure or with Alistair's dexterous procedures. When finally he felt secure, he moved to bandage him. The broken bones would have to wait; he could not risk more trauma, and they would likely need to be reset.

"Kleine, the scarf rot," he commanded. The Lothar complied.

"Icarus," he called upon his Revenant, "Medical Reagent, Bloodloss, Three." A simple enough command. Fist Nut was immediately handed to Alistair, mashed up. He could mix it into the Acid Crocodile Blood, which --

"Got it," Kleine, seemingly reading his mind, handed him the liquid. Alistair immediately broke open the cork and drizzled the Fist Nut into the drink, before stirring it and forcing it down Kaelrik's throat. Most seemed to flow through easily, and his throat even reacted, which was... a good thing.

"Good. I think he'll live," the man spoke, nodding affirmatively. "The Fist Nut and Acid Crocodile Blood will do the trick. What else do we need to do?" he questioned, Alistair's mind numb. He was asking himself aloud; his focus had broken.

"I don't... think anything else. We should let him rest. Perhaps not on the floor, though," Kleine stated, rather obviously.

"Well," Alistair grit his teeth, "I won't let him lay on the hard ground. Let's get him a cushion and a blanket, at least. Adequate rest is essential for healing. Come on," he tasked his 'men'. And they followed him, three willingly through their state of undeath, and one simply desiring to ensure that the man... that he was alright.

And Alistair continued to linger, over him, for some time. Staring with a sort of haunting disquiet. Occasionally entering Kleine's bedroom to view his child, and ensure his safety. And often nothing else. A day became wasted, but not quite. He found himself astoundingly jovial in that he decided to take part in that game. Somehow, all of this felt like a blessing, but he did not know from whom. He could only watch, and wonder, and imagine. And imagine he did.

[Kaelrik]

In the darkness there were no dreams. Only a weightlessness that brought with it a blessed silence. A reprieve from memories he cared not to remember. Better forgotten than constantly on the fringes of his awareness. But the darkness would not last. Already Kaelrik was becoming more aware of himself. More aware of his surroundings.

Soft.

He was lying on something soft. It covered him and surrounded him making all of the aches and pains that were slowly coming back into awareness less harsh. That was a surprise. Normally they just dumped him into the stone cell and he somehow managed to crawl his way to his cot.

Warmth.

Again, another surprise. To be warm when normally there was only the bitter cold of his cell was a luxury that compelled him to plunge back into the dark of dreamless slumber. He furrowed his brow and tried to move which caused a sharp spike of pain to slice through him. He groaned and moved to prop himself up unsuccessfully. His left arm was bound and immobile. The rest of his torso sent sharp reminders of the most bloody fight in the arena he’d been in. Kaelrik fell back onto the soft warmth of what he was laying in and let out a cough. He couldn’t dive back into the dark of sleep. He was too awake now. If he opened his eyes though…he was afraid that what small comfort he was feeling in that moment would vanish, revealed for the dream that it no doubt was.

So he simply lay there for a moment before taking in a deep breath and slowly opening his eyes. The sting of light made him wince. No matter how soft, he had been unconscious and was thus hyper-sensitive to even the softest glow. Deep indigo eyes cracked open. The room was blurry, the details of which were lost to him in his sluggish mind. But one thing he didn’t miss was the presence of someone seated nearby. Other than to make him aware of the person, Kaelrik made no movement toward or away from the person. It wasn’t until his vision came into focus that Kaelrik went wide-eyed.

Starlight.

That was what Kaelrik thought he was seeing. For a moment, Kaelrik thought he was looking into the night dotted with glistening jewels of light shining against the velvet black canvas of the sky. Then the colors shifted and the person’s face, the man’s face, came into focus.

“Alistair?” Kaelrik’s voice was a hoarse croak. From screaming, from disuse, from weariness. For a moment, a desperate hope flared to life inside of Kaelrik. It had all been a dream. None of those horrors had happened. He was back in Ne’Haer and---his leg twinged in pain shattering that hope. The embers of it scattered into ashes in Kaelrik’s eyes almost as soon as it soared to life. None of it had been a dream. It was real. This was all real. What he’d done in the arena had been real.

[Alistair]

He... was alive. It was no wistful dream of his, nor any tempered illusion. Kaelrik survived the onslaught of the men - the five who had wished to fray him beneath the eye of the crowd. If any act of soldierly heroism was his greatest, it was perhaps this one. For him to survive... truly changed everything.

At first, he barely moved. He couldn't, really, as he struggled far too much in doing so. He only triggered painful reactions, spurring the aching onslaught of his fractured bones. What was his hope was quickly met with a tribulation, though his mind quickly enough became grounded in the reality that it was in. Alistair had seen this before - in lesser men, and even among equal warriors. The first moments were always the same . . . the shock that became apparent, the ragged breathing.

His voice was weak, but Kaelrik's curiosity was considerable, and his eyes sure enough scanned the visage of the man who had procured him from the bloodied soil. Their eyes met, an indigo upon a vortex of color not much unlike the portal he had cast upon the field. Alistair's eyes were something of an ingress for Scrying, and so they appeared . . . odd. Unlike anything else.

Kaelrik remained mostly unmarred. The spark remained mostly dormant within him, unready to bloom. Alistair always forgot that he was speaking to a mage, when he spoke to Kaelrik. He was attuned to the arcane, but... in a way that spoke from within, rather than without. On the outside, all that he could see was a man. A brave, soulful thing.

The mage narrowed his eyes, and exhaled a shallow sigh; he did not wish to seem discontented. Alistair had simply been... worried. And now, witnessing the dysfunction of his form, he was uncertain as to how he should feel. He'd observed his empathy leave him for some time, yet that feeling lingered upon him. Words spurred by its pull clung to the backside of his tongue, as he tried to formulate something concrete to speak with. But he didn't know.

"Kael," he began, with a low voice. His tone was not quite assertive, but it was not weak. It was a... plea to be heard, for the sake of one's own understanding. A voice of worry, and confession. "Two things. You... are not free, still. But - in lieu of one master, I have deigned to purchase you." That was simple enough, though it bore heavy implications. Implications that he did not wish to immediately explore, as they led to dark pathways, of malcontent and fury. Kaelrik was still enslaved. Alistair had made no actions to free him. That was, to a man desirous of freedom, an appalling truth.

"The second thing is that, well, you were injured rather grievously in that brawl. Certainly no revelation that I'm offering you. I barely managed your life, and fortunately I've prevented festering in any of your limbs. However, as your--"

He paused, his expression growing... tangled. His eyes glanced upward, only to quickly drop. "...as the master of this house, I must insist that you remain resting for some time. I will need to reset some of your injuries, and have already had a mattress prepared for your... rather, extended visit. You are not to leave without myself attending you - not for at least a fortnight. To even be alive at all is a blessing. To be freed from the capricious grasp of that 'Nobleman' is another. I only ask that you continually bless me with your presence, in exchange," the Venora teased, rolling his eyes as his lips curved into a faint grin.

"Do we have an accord?" he questioned. The mage's grin dropped, afterwards, almost unsettlingly. "If so, then... there is much to discuss. Far beyond this injury, or my spectating. I can only wonder how you arrived at this slope."

[Kaelrik]

Kaelrik studied Alistair’s face. It was different from what he remembered. The powerful lord seemed weighted down by things that did not trouble him before. Kaelrik saw an edge to the man’s features that hadn’t been present in that unforgettable first meeting. Even in the midst of his fear and paranoia, Alistair had seemed almost happy. At the very least he had seemed to be content with his lot in life. That was not the image of the man in front of him. There was a forlorn melancholy that seemed embedded in the mist that swirled in Alistair’s ethereal eyes. It was mesmerizing and unsettling at the same time. Kaelrik resisted the urge to shiver.

Then Alistair sighed. He spoke and immediately Kaelrik felt his heart grow heavy. Then he said the words that confirmed what he had begun to suspect. Inwardly, Kaelrik felt too many things to truly categorize into singular emotions. He felt what had begun as hope upon seeing a familiar face, turn to ashes. He felt anger. He felt despair. He felt rage. He felt impossibly weary. He felt…well…he didn’t really know what he felt.

Outwardly, Kaelrik cast his eyes downward and away from those nebulous eyes that captivated and terrified him. He listened as Alistair explained that he was to rest. He listened as the powerful mage explained how he’d rushed to save his life. With every word, Kaelrik felt the links of his chains grow tighter. The brand tattooed into his forearm almost burned with the weight of what it meant. Kaelrik was brought fully out of his wishful thinking. He was wrenched away from any hope of peaceful dreaming. Kaelrik found himself once again faced with the stark and harsh reality of who and what he was now; an object, property, Slave. What he was had been thoroughly beaten into him. It had been branded onto his flesh.

How many days had he spent in darkness for his defiance? How many days had he gone hungry for fighting back? It was all a blur. He’d taken it. He’d taken their beatings, their degradation of him, their torture…until they started making others suffer for his refusal to bend. He’d fought until he could fight no more, until they had stripped away all he had been leaving only what they found agreeable. In the end, he’d broken. Not for himself but for the sake of another.

So when Alistair spoke, Kaelrik listened and answered.

“Yes, Master.” His voice was flat and inflectionless. None of the fire from when they’d first met. Yes, he would obey. Yes, he would do as Alistair commanded. Yes, he would answer every question. For that was what he was now, whatever it was that his master commanded of him to be. For in this life of chains he had found only one freedom: the fight. Now even that was beyond his reach…for now.

[Alistair]

Before his eyes, he witnessed as the man - perhaps overjoyed at being rescued by the mage-doctor - crumpled into a small, unwieldy thing; his eyes dropped, all joy in his look was foiled, and Alistair could visibly see his heart fall low into his chest. The look of compliance that he offered, as he said 'yes, master' was shrouded equally in a veil of solemnness. To see his actions invoke such a feeling upon another, was... saddening. Yet unlike in the past, his emotions would not move him whimsically to the outcome easiest upon his heart. Alistair had wanted to become stronger. Perhaps, in some way, keeping this man he so desired to see free within a cage... was an attestation of discipline.

Even though it bore so heavily upon him.

"I see," the mage spoke in reply. The echo of Kaelrik's compliance reverberated through him. Yes, master, again, sounded in his mind. No Alistair; no feelings of warmth or fondness. They had truly broken him.

"It is a shame to see you act like a slave. I had hoped you would outwear that status, at least in spirit; lash out, scream as weakly as you may. Challenge my ownership. But, certainly, you can call me 'master' if you so desire. Or you can refrain from doing so, equally, if you desire. I will not treat you appallingly like that man. I hope that can provide you with some degree of solace." He said this without considerable kindness attached to his tone, nor empathy, nor vice or cruelty. The mood was only somber, as perhaps both of their expectations of one another were dashed - Alistair was keen on owning him, and in a way, Kaelrik appeared keen on being owned. Yet somehow, this quickly became a source of unsettling discomfort for the mage. Was that wrong? Did he want his plaything to resist, only to inevitably be pulled back into his collar and leash?

The man... sighed. "You know, I'm a Jeger, myself. A Hound. I joined the Path some time after we met, and... even encountered Gamlen, and the others. All the many faces of that order. I can only ask -- how did a man of such a prestigious group as ours become enveloped by chains? What lurid world have you walked upon since we last met, Kaelrik?" he inquired. Alistair's gaze was fixed on his, unsettling vortex or not. The tidal pool of his eyes sought answers, always; so scarcely could one discern what he was viewing, and so often it was the case that his gaze caught theirs, chancing at his. They did not even know that he was looking back. They could never tell. Perhaps that was what scared them.

Kneeling beside the man, with an expression both stern and commandeering, his eyes spoke his inclinations well enough. He was to rend him open - to divide through the husk, and pull on the image of the man he once remembered. Kaelrik would provide him the opportunity to see where it had all gone wrong.

"Tell me, Kael. I need to know. I may be to you a specter of that lost world, but I am no phantom. I'm here, now, and I want to see that man again. So tell me. I will not allow you to refrain... as master, and Alistair. Your friend, or so I was."