Flashback Map of the problematique

[Achenar]

Winter 21st 510AV

“Say it, slave,” the harsh, ashy voice demanded. The grip in his hair was vise-like, as he was shoved further into the bench with a harsh jerk. The ragged gasping emitted from the slave did not seem to appease the master.

”Say it.” Pain shot up his back side, and a yell tore from his mouth.

“P-pain… is pleasure, master,” the ethaefal shouted hoarsely. His wrists, bound with a chain behind his back, ached viciously where they strained at the joints. But it was every inch of his flesh that was on fire. He could hardly breathe; he could hardly think with the master’s breath behind his ear. He could feel his sinister smile, and those gloved fingers that danced along his collared throat and tilted his chin.

“Good, pet,” he purred, and suddenly released him. Achenar felt the weight shift off of him, but he had not the strength to move, let alone turn his head. Deliberate incisions wept blood and inhaling brought about sharp, agonizing pain. The ethaefal trembled where he lay, bound and collared, drenched in sweat and blood. His mind was in a state of chaos and confusion. What he felt throughout these play times was something that he sought to bury deep in his mind; to smother behind a wall. Exhaustion took him, and his eyes became lidded as he listened to the debaucheries that permeated the room.

“Take him to the carriage, see to it he is mended by sunrise,” he heard his master relay to another. Hands followed. They were unfamiliar hands, and they loosened the chains around his wrists, and donned him in loose linen pants, gripping him by his underarms and lifting him up in unison. The ethaefal’s head hung, half lidded eyes watching as the ground shifted beneath him, his legs trailing as they carried him toward the carriage. The breeze that struck his wounds sent a rumbling groan from Achenar’s lips. He was cold. So petching cold.

“The Cottonmouth did a number on this one,” he heard one of the handlers smirk. Words boiled on the ethaefal’s tongue, but the only thing that came out was a vague whimper. He was heaved into the back of the carriage, and the door slammed shut.

As the carriage began its shudder into motion, Achenar attempted to steady his trembling arms and lift himself onto the seat, but the effort made him collapse into a heap, agonizing pain shooting up his ribs and backside. He left bloodied marks in his wake as he fumbled, but ultimately resigned himself to the floor of the carriage, listening to the rolling wheels and the creaking of wood. They came to an abrupt stop, and after a chime, the door was pulled open, and the ethaefal was tugged outside by way of his aching arms once more. “Up you get, pet,” one of them jeered.

The word made him swallow the lump in his throat. Pet. That was all he was in this petching world. Even if he had a voice to retort the man’s jibe, his gut told him where his place lay. He was nothing and no one. He was an object. Chattel.

The handlers half-carried, half-dragged the ethaefal to the steps of the establishment and promptly rapped the door, waiting with visible impatience until their summons was answered. “We’ve a slave in need of mending,” the straw-haired man explained briskly.

[Verena Lorak]

It was a quiet night, Verena thought as she gazed out the window. There was something soothing about gazing out into the usually busy streets of Kenash only to find it empty. She watched as the moonlight painted everything silver for a chime before returning her gaze on her book.

A yawn stretched through her, but Verena knew the bliss of sleep would not come once she lay down. She would simply toss and turn until she was too agitated to stay in bed. It was a routine she experienced at least once a week. Besides, the healer was tasked with night watch and it was better for her to stay awake, lest some emergency came up.

Deciding that she couldn’t stay still any longer, Verena stood from her seat and pulled on a robe over her thin nightgown.

The guards that stood as sentries outside her room immediately snapped away from their sleep as they hear her door opening. Verena could tell that they were exhausted, but since she was Dynast they didn’t want her to see them neglecting their duty.

“Lady Verena, where are you going?” one of them asked.

“I want to walk around the building.”

At her words, they eased back to their posts and started talking to each other in low voices. These guards had spent enough time with the sister of the Head to know that she would not want to be followed around.

So, for the hundredth time, Verena explored the place that was the Lorak’s base for healing in the city.

It was a simple, unnamed building used as a small hospital for Kenash. The place didn’t even have a name. The room she was in was a bland one, with concrete as floor and bricks as walls. With no current patient, the fireplace was cold with ashes, letting the darkness in. For her, the place did not promote healing the slightest bit. It was slightly depressing.

Mentally, the Lorak started to imagine what she would do to the place once she had full authority of it – which would only take a few more years. She had learned all she could in theory, but her family still wanted her to have some experience before leading a hospital all by herself. Nowadays, she was still under the supervision of a mentor and the only time she was left alone was for the night watch since no one wanted it.

The familiar sound of carriage suddenly rolled into the night, turning her head towards the door and sending her guards into alert once more. Instead of passing through, she could hear the noise settling into a stop just outside their building. There were rarely any patients that came in the middle of the night, but she imagined it couldn’t be good if someone was rushed for healing at this hour.

Rather swiftly, Verena headed back to the main room as someone banged on their wooden door. “We’ve a slave in need of mending,” a masculine voice said. She started moving forward, but one her guards – the taller one – beaten her to it.

When the door swung open, the Lorak instinctively knew to look pass the blonde man. The first thing that caught her eyes was the amount of blood coating the slave. Even his pants were soaked with red. The slave was clearly in a deep pain. What she noticed next was just about as surprising. It was the elegant horns curling around his head. So, he was not human.

With little thought, the Dynast knelt down in front of the injured man, practically shoving past the people that brought him in. Her fingers immediately sought the pulse on his neck. Under her touch, she felt it beating weakly.

“What happened to him?” she demanded. Then on a second thought, she added a command for her guards. “Bring him to the healing room. Gently. I do not need anyone injuring him further.” Verena stood up, now her violet eyes piercing the two men. “Tell me exactly what happened to him.”

[Achenar]

oocShort post, so sorry. ):

The cold, blistering air stung his wounds, and the ethaefal twitched in the men’s firm grips. He heard their distinct, deep raspy voices, but he could barely distinguish the words. The abrupt touch to his neck forced a reaction from him, and his head jerked upright. Where he’d thought to see the face of his cruel master, instead he saw the face of a girl, though blurred by the sweat and tears that clouded his vision. He mumbled something incoherently under his breath, and his head hung once more.

He felt another pair of hands on him, and a shift of weight. The ethaefal didn’t know where he was and his mind refused to settle from its tumultuous state to allow him to think properly. The handlers were thoroughly bemused by the Lorak’s question, however, and they glanced at each other with a smirk.

“What happened?” The straw-haired man returned. “What do you think, happened, Lady?” He jutted his chin toward the ethaefal. “This wretch displeased his master, he was taught a very thorough lesson.”

Achenar heard the man’s voice trail after him as he was moved. He wanted to answer, to say something, anything at all, but his voice refused to manifest. He was pathetically petching weak. And the thought of that boiled his blood. Zaelsen hated the weak. He hated those who bent quick and cowed too soon. He was a man of challenges, and the ethaefal, though he feared every waking moment with the Radacke dynast, played his game too well.

“You needn’t bother so much with the details, Lady Lorak,” the man continued, eyeing the healing room. “His master wants him mended by sunrise. Gots more work to do.”

[Verena Lorak]

As the slave was led past her, Verena spotted the suspiciously roundish wounds on his back and it was leaking blood. She would have to treat that before the man can properly lie on his back. “Just sit him down,” the young woman added for her guards.

The Lorak’s guard would let the slave sit on a bed and went to light the fireplace as their lady spoke to the strangers. Lanterns were burned, giving the room the much needed warmth and lighting.

“I am asking what was done to him so he could be so severely injured, not why he was injured,” she replied impatiently, her tone as close as she could get to snapping. The two men looked like Freeborns, Verena thought, taking a glimpse of the dark scars on the back of their hands.

Their utter lack of empathy in seeing another being in pain was disturbing. Verena could feel the slave’s hurt so vividly and here the two men acted like everything was funny, sparking annoyance in the healer’s mind. Oddly enough, people say she was the crazy one.

“You needn’t bother so much with the details, Lady Lorak. His master wants him mended by sunrise. Gots more work to do.”

At the man’s words about finishing by sunrise, Verena looked back at the wounded slave who was now lying on a bed. Her guards, finished, then returned to her sides, eyeing the two men. She would have to deal with him right away, lest his condition worsened. “I will finish when I decide so,” the healer replied plainly. “You may wait outside.” As soon as the healer said the words, her guards would lead the two men out of the healing room, even if they refused.

She headed directly to her patient as not to waste more time.

As she stood beside the bed, Verena took in the slave’s physical appearance. She was convinced the man was an ethaefal, though she had only read about their kind and never actually seen them. Still, his unearthly beauty and horns was enough to convince her. Unfortunately, it was not a time to study him.

His shimmery skin was deadly pale and she wondered just how much blood he had lost before being taken here. He was shivering, Quickly, Verena made a mental list of the physical injuries she could see so far as she walked around the ethaefal. About five shallow slashes on the chest. A few small, round burn marks on his arms. Two surprisingly deep holes in his back. Bruises covering most of his skin. She didn’t miss the splotches of dark blood decorating his pants, but the bleeding didn’t seem as severe as it did on his torso, so she’ll return to that later.

Even if the men refused to tell her what happened, Verena at least could know who the slave belonged to. As she brushed away his hair, she spotted the raised scars that resembled a hammer on the slave’s temple. Radacke. Of course, she should have guessed. They were a Dynasty known for their particular cruelty to their slaves, along with the Rajor.

Suddenly, she felt a hesitation taking root in her mind. This was the first time she would have to deal with someone so severely wounded all by herself. What if she made a mistake? Pressing her lips together, Verena steeled herself. Never hesitate, just figure out what do you have to do next.

Earlier, her touch seemed to have an effect from him, focusing his mind enough to look at her. So, Verena placed her hands on the slave’s chest lightly, enough for him to feel the pressure, but not enough to hurt his broken rib too much. The cuts on his chest was clearly made by a blade of some kind, its shape precise and deliberate. Her stomach churned as she imagined a person dragging a knife over the flesh deliberately, breaking the skin. What kind of cruel person did this? With difficulty, the young woman pushed the thought away.

Instead, she thought of the strings that were tugging inside her mind, insisting to ease the man’s pain. Verena let herself get pulled as the gate that let her healing powers flow opened. Underneath her touch, she could feel the skin started to knit together.

“Can you hear me? Can you understand me?” asked the healer, her voice strong. She hoped he was aware enough to answer her.

[Achenar]

“Well, m’lady,” the man answered back, shoving his calloused hands into his pockets. “We wouldn’t know what was done to him on account of us not being there, y’see.” His tone was almost insufferable, but before he could respond to the young woman’s prompt declaration about keeping the slave as long as she had to, they were unceremoniously dismissed.

The ethaefal had been listening to the voices from where he had been laid on the bed. With his back momentarily tended to, the sharp, agonizing pain had dulled by a fraction. But even that was a blessing he would count, even if it was temporary. He was not lying on a hard, padded bench, but in a bed, and he sank in the mattress with an exhale, his fingers curled around the clean sheets.

He heard the footsteps of the men as they departed, and felt the subsequent shadow that was cast over him. His eyes, still heavily lidded and glassy from exhaustion, remained transfixed on the wall. The surface danced in front of him, like a stream or a river. Like something he could reach out and pluck if only these chains didn’t hold him down. He didn’t want to cry, but he felt the hot tear on his cheek before he could smother it. He swallowed hard, and felt a hand touch his mussed hair.

He remembered those hands. The girl. His mind wracked for the words and his eyes flickered when those same hands pressed onto his chest. They were like a fire to his ice, as his forearms trembled where he gripped the sheets with bared teeth. He felt the warmth fill his chest like an inner hearth. His breathing became erratic, and he inhaled more in a panic than in any insistence of pain.

His eyes finally focused with a clarity he had found difficult to maintain until now. I hear you. His mind had sought those words, but he realized his mouth had made no sound.

The ethaefal’s silver gaze found hers, and he licked his chapped lips. The dark haired girl. The mender. Healer. Lorak. Dynast. His eyes were wide, and the creature suddenly lurched to a seated posture, the effort making his joins scream. “…My…my lady,” he croaked. “I’ve… no need to waste your time…” She had done something to him, he could feel it in his heart where the warmth had flowed like a river. His fingers reached toward his chest, fingers curled into a tight fist, and his eyes found the blood that soiled the bed. “I’ve… made you too far a mess,” he insisted hoarsely.

[Verena Lorak]

When the slave’s breath hitched, the healer’s hands fluttered. Did she hurt him? Or missed some sort of internal injury? Maybe she should have given him some alcohol to dull the pain. But another part of her wasn’t sure if it was a good idea. The slave was having a hard time focusing on things. Yet, what if he was in too much pain?

In the corner of her eyes, the healer saw the ethaefal crushing the sheets in his hands. “Calm down. I am not going to hurt you.” Unfortunately, her voice didn’t come out the way she wanted it to. She had hoped that she sounded reassuring, yet it was bland even to her own ears. At least she tried. Or maybe . . . “Did I hurt you?”

Verena was an utter failure in calming people down, it seemed.

Out of nowhere, the ethaefal jerked up so quickly that she found herself jumping in surprise. Though he hadn’t answered her questions earlier, there was a renewed light in his eyes. Verena noted his pupils focusing on her - a good sign. At least it meant he did not suffer any significant head injury. He must be in some sort of shock from his injuries.

Despite the slave’s rambling, Verena kept her hand on his chest and placed the other on his shoulder, hoping to prevent any more outbursts. “I do not consider work as a waste of time. And the only mess you are making for me is that if you make more sudden movements.” To prove her point, one of the cuts on his chest that she had started healing reopened and bled. She moved her hand over it again as a bead of sweat trickled down the side of her face. A part of her wanted to push back the hair she had forgotten to tie in the panic of seeing someone so beaten in front of her, but her hands were already covered with blood.

For now, the Lorak did not heal his chest wounds entirely. She turned her attention to his back once his the cuts were merely angry red lines across his stomach and pectorals. There were still a lot of injuries she needed to deal with.

“Take a deep breathe.” If the slave did as she ordered, Verena would ask a few more questions. “Does it hurt when you do it? Where does it hurt most?” The injuries on his chest was not deep enough to puncture a lung, but she couldn’t be so sure with the holes in his back. She couldn’t come up with anything that would cause such things yet.

For once, the healer was worried that she had to deal with a patient alone. Verena had been trained for this all her life, but she couldn’t stop the small fear in her mind that she might just hurt someone even more. But this was not the time to feed her doubt.

“Tell me what happened to you.”

[Achenar]

The ethaefal eyed the room warily, now that he was in a sufficient state to do so. Though his wounds throbbed like an erratic heartbeat, and his body felt tender and damaged, the young woman held truth to her words. This was no dungeon and he was lying on a bed that was likely not made with slaves in mind.

He glanced at her hands as they remained insistently on his chest and shoulder. In such a shaken state, he dare not touch her for fear of an irrational response. “No,” he answered with some effort. “You… didn’t hurt me.” She sounded disinterested, and that brought about a mixed reaction in the ethaefal. He had to wonder how many slaves she must have seen in his similar position to become so apathetic.

Once he’d settled into a calmer mood, he did as she commanded and inhaled, feeling the strain in his lungs as the broken rib became agitated. His wince was a tell-tale sign, and he grit his teeth to avoid expelling a sound. “Yes,” he answered in a near hiss, lifting a shaky hand to touch the general area on his chest that radiated pain. “Here.”

Her next demand made him look at her like she’d deliberately split open a wound herself. His gut churned and the grip on the sheets returned with full force. The slave turned his head away in a resounding look of shame and self-loathing. She didn’t know, and he feared what telling her might result with his master. But what did dynasts care for slaves? Even doctors and healers of such low scum only did so out of obligation to work.

What pride had he left? None.

“I was… hung with hooks,” he answered truthfully. “Whipped and cut… and burned with a cigar.” He didn’t elaborate further than that, as he wanted to avoid the assumption he was looking for pity. A slave knew better than that. “I deserved it, my lady,” he added hoarsely. “For what I am.” Cursed. Forgotten. Forsaken.

[Verena Lorak]

“What?!” Verena snapped in surprise, her head whipping up as she rounded the bed to observe hi back. For the first time since the slave came in, distress could be seen very briefly in the healer’s features. Hung with hooks? Burned? What kind of person did that to another living being? Did he not know what kind of pain he was causing. And what sort of nonsense the slave was talking about? That he deserved it? “No one deserves to be hurt in such a way.”

On a closer inspection, Verena breathed a sigh of relief as she realized the wound seemed to only pierce through his muscles. Still, the slave had at least a bruised rib from his reaction earlier. One by one, Verena, the young woman reminded herself. She grabbed a clean cloth from the bowl of water her guards had thoughtfully prepared. It was fortunate some Lorak’s guards were familiar enough with medical procedures to help on occasions.

“This might hurt,” she warned as she pressed the wet cloth on the wound on his back, starting in the center before cleaning it gently outwards in a circular motion. Verena could only imagine what kind of filth was brought underneath the slave’s skin when he was hooked. Her body still shuddered at the thought. Just to be safe, she pressed her hand on the wound and let the blessing of Rak’keli cleanse it from infection. The wound was small enough for her to close, but too deep for her to entirely heal. She rather have it heal by itself rather than only sealing it on the outside.

“What is your name? Who’s your master?” the young woman asked rather abruptly. Truth be told, the Lorak wanted to know who was capable of such a cruelty. It was rather sickening to think that the Radacke could be out there doing the same thing to another slave.

After scrubbing her hands clean, Verena grabbed a roll bandage placed it over the puncture wounds. It should be enough to keep the wound clean until it healed as long as it was changed regularly.

Once she was finished, Verena cleared her throat rather uncomfortably, her eyes flicking at the blood spots on the slave’s trousers. She had been taught over and over on how to ask a person to undress politely, always chastised about how she came out rude when doing so. “I’ll need you to remove your pants now, will that be alright?” It certainly sounded better in her mind.

[Achenar]

Her outburst thoroughly confused the ethaefal. Why would she give a petch what injuires a slave had acquired? Let alone the reason for them? Had she no slaves of her own? Had he been wrong to assume she was experienced with cases like his? The slaves’ eyes searched hers, trying to glean some information from her demeanor, but it was her next comment that stunned him.

No one deserves to be hurt in such a way.

If someone had told him a dynast would utter these words, the ethaefal would have laughed bitterly in their faces. But he was wrong, and the young woman had. He remained quiet as his mind sought to register this perceived, unwarranted stroke of luck. Trust did not come easily to Achenar, whether it was slave or dynast. Too easily could a single comment or action be used against him, and the games begin again.

At her admonition, the ethaefal inhaled slowly, and waited. Compared to the agony of the Radacke’s halls, this was a trifle, but the slave said not a word. He closed his eyes and worked to steady his rapid heartbeat, and when the question arose concerning his name and his master, he took a chance to glance at her, finding it a shame to see a thing so lovely be stained by blood.

“Achenar, my lady,” he answered after a pause. “I am owned by Zaelsen Radacke.” Uttering his name alone brought painful memories, but he was quick to smother them as the Lorak cleared her throat and indicated his pants. Despite the frequency of the things he’d been subjected to, the ethaefal couldn’t stop the tidal wave of shame that threatened to drown him. He almost protested, but he ultimately understood she was here to do one thing.

The slave exhaled. With his back having been tended to, he could shift on the bed with relative ease, and with his jaw tense, he hooked his fingers on the waistband of his soiled linen pants, and pulled them down. He was perplexed with how sheepish he felt around the young woman, discreetly covering himself with a portion of the sheets. “I’m sorry,” he growled, without thought for what he was apologizing for.

[Verena Lorak]

Zaelsen Radacke. Verena turned over the name in her head, but nothing came to mind. She did not recognize him, but then again, she had never spent the time remembering Dynasts’ names. After all most of them barely interacted with her. “Those two said you displeased your master and he taught you a lesson. Did he do this to you often?”

Whipping was common back in Whitesnake Plantation, but as far as she could tell, no slave of the Loraks had ever been disfigured to this extent. Most of her families were healers and it was one of the reasons why they kept their treatment of slaves as civilized as possible. If a slave did make a major mistake, Zorane told her they were simply executed or banished into the swamps. But what happened to Achenar made no sense. Why hurt a slave so bad that he would not be able to do anything afterward?

Unless . . . Zaelsen bought the slave for this sole purpose. To torture him.

Out of nowhere, as he took of his trousers, the ethaefal uttered an apology. Verena looked up at the slave with confusion, even if it didn’t entirely show on her features. “For what? You have never wronged me.”

The first thing that caught her eyes was a startlingly red burn mark on Achenar’s pelvic. It took her a beat to realize that the whitish parth formed two letters: ZR. His skin had started blistering and Verena could only imagine how painful it was. In addition to that, Verena noted the familiar crisscrossing bleeding red lines that indicated some sever whipping. Lastly, she saw that even his groins were sporting cuts and tears. By Rak’keli’s grace, this Zaelsen is a monster.

Swiftly, Verena turned her back to her patient as she realized her hands were starting to shake – from anger to disgust to fear for this slave’s life. Her mentors always told her not to get to emotionally involved when looking at a patient. She couldn’t show him her doubts or her worries

For a brief chime, the young Lorak just stood there, trying to compose herself. What next. What next. What is the next thing she should do? The burns. Yes, that should be her priority. Burns were always the one that was most vulnerable to infection. Finally, Verena moved to a shelf and opened it. Her eyes skimmed across the rows of jars until see the one she wanted.

Alright, she could do this. Just . . . do your job, the healer thought to herself.

“How long ago was all this?” asked the young woman as she returned to the side of the bed and placed the burn salve on the table near them. All things considered, Verena was still quite impressed by the fact that Achenar was somewhat conscious after everything that was done to him. “Did they bring you from the Whiplash Plantation?”