[Flashback] Hopeless (Solo)

by **Trente** on June 10th, 2012, 7:25 am

77th, Autumn 498

Trente tried to remember it was that the shadows, dark and sullen, became safe again. When reality had become so horrify, when he had become so lost, that the unknown shroud of darkness became safe haven. He couldn't grasp the time, and he had no idea what time it was. What day, what season. He knew the weather grew solder, the muggy summer head had left him, and he now woke up chilled in the morning, when Syna came to shed her deadly gaze upon him. For most she was life, radiance. To Trente she represented nothing but searing hot danger. He managed a shit in the days before, but still many Svefra seemed to know. He didn't know how, but many of those sea dwellers could sense it in him, on him. That dreadful mark, carved deeply into his flesh.

The boat creaked eerily as it tipped north, and Trente bided his time as it cycled south, then pitched back. Waiting, then as the creak began he felt forward with his foot, smooth wood. Quietly, and quickly he shifted forward again, then froze, waiting in silence for the next creak as he attempted to listen out for noises. There was a murmur, distant, and displaced, somewhere in a side cabin of the narrow under deck of a rather large Svefra vessel. His ears had grown more accustomed to those nightly sounds, those whispers, amplified by the dark. Hit wits were still weak at times, however. He was sunken, sickly, but stronger than he had been, and this made him bolder, bold enough to explore larger ships, look for more resources to survive.

Creak, step. The process continued for a while, carefully balancing himself in the darkness, letting one hand touch on the wall he skirted to remind himself of balance as he delved through the cool darkness, while the other wielded the cool steel of his dagger. Stealth was paramount, going unnoticed was paramount; violence was last resort, for due to moral inhibition, but do to safety. Had the stakes not been so high, had his stomach not been so demanding, he may have enjoyed the thrill. Instead, however, all he felt was fear, pounding in his chest, trying to drown out the subtler noises about him.

Time did not exist in the darkness of that boat. Under that deck was a perpetual challenge. Stepping, breathing with the creaks, listening for warnings. A fourth the way down the hallway he discovered the origin of the quiet murmurs, along with a terrifying sight. Sight at all. A dim, and flickering light shown from an opening. Several voices petered out in drunken time, and Trente could only assume the room the galley. Smells wafted from it, partial disgusting to his weak stomach, yet tempting as all Mizahar could offer. He hungered, but had eated that morning, and reminded himself, and his salivating mouth, to fight its gluttony. Wit, and awareness. He had begun a code for himself, not a checklist, so much, as a set of ideals.

Time had allotted for this, and the disturbing assistance of his possessor had padded his mind with the knowledge needed for clothing, for sustenance. So dark his existence had become, that his greatest ally, was the curse that had damned him. He very slowly, very careful leaned his boney back into the wall, just beside the galley's opening, and put one hand out close to the door, and one farther way. He had embraced the curse, embraced the clairvoyance it offered him.

The hand farther away grew colder, aching and throbbing to the bone. Don't go, was the message. He waited, patiently, breathing with the creaks, and listening to the murmurs from within, now audible.

Fravata, it had been growing on him, and his desperation had taught him to read it quite well, with the assistance of his youthful mind allowing the words to fall into context with surprising efficiency. The hunger had hindered so much learning, so much awareness, but it had helped in this, in the survival.

"Petching tragedy, I tell ya'. She was young too, heavy with babe." The women's voice was harsh, and she spoke slowly, quietly. There was sadness in the air, depression, not of tragedy as the statement implied though, more like boredom. Trente though of his ghost, she had been pregnant, she had wanted for more, before death took her. Or, perhaps it would be more accurate to say she took death. "Kirt left too, wit' just a letter."

"Gone?" Another women's voice asked, and a grunt of a third that one a man could be heard along with it. Trente's hair stood on end, so many people. Crowds were dangerous, very much so. He left hand still froze with chill. It wasn't time. "Wife dies and he runs off, leaves his mot'er? Selfish."

The second voice chimed back in. "No, he plans to return. The wife, you see, she wudn't ready to, you know, move on." Another grunt from the man, and Trente frowned, trying to pay more attention tot he conversation, the majority of the words slipping unknown past his dazed head.

A clink of wooden mug against wood, a hollow sound and a high pitched, wet sound. Trente wasn't sure what to make, but suddenly his right hand was inundated with coolness, aching. He took a deep breath when the creak hit, and leaped from one side of the open threshold's exterior to the other, in a single jump, which left his weak legs in protest. He wavered on the opposite side, almost fell as the darkness sent him for a nauseous twirl of confusion. With a hand on the wall, he managed to steady himself, and lean against it.

"...if he even survives. Tis a long trip, dat. And, to such a bleak place." Th second women's voice, then followed by the first.

"I think tis sweet. Help'n 'er rest like that. She was troubl'd, you know, before she died." Trente's eyes flew wide, and he questioned if he was understanding them right. What place did they speak of?

The mans voice came in with a cryptic grunt, and a saying augmented by swearing, and a slurr Trente's understanding couldn't permeate.

The women gave no heed, and continued with their talk. "Perhaps we should have gone with. Is there any trade in-" A louder grunt this time, stealing the word's from the women's mouth. Trente fought the urge to swear, as he willed through the sound of shuffling for the women to continue her sentence. He had to know where they went.

He was distracted, however, by throbbing throughout his body. A warning, the spirit urged him on, to keep moving, and was threatening to take over. Trente glared, and bat uselessly at the darkness in front of his face, as if waving the influence away. The ghost had grown strong enough to take him beyond his will, when it wanted. But, something was different this time, the ghost reared, to push Trente forward, ands tubournly Trente resisted. He needed just one more word.

"Night, hubby." Wet sound of healthy kisses, jealousy sturred in Trente, then fear as feetsteps came. Maybe the man wouldn't see the boy shrouded in darkness? "Anyway, as I was saying-"

"Husbands, so distracting." Trente hated this women, he really did.

The questioning one gave a shallow laugh, as Trente gritted his teeth against the bone chilling cold which attempted to take him. "What is the trade like in Black Rock?" The word struck Trente was earth moving, iconic, inspiring. Truthfully the first word of hope that Trente had felt in nearly a year. It made him want to cry, followed by a sensation that made him feel like pissing himself.

Gruff and uneven the inebriated sound of thick and heavy vowels cracked into the cut, from the Svefra man, wielding a candle in one hand, and a mug in the other. He was a giant, brute of a man, and he stood within arm's length Trente.

"Shyke." Trente let escape, in true Fravata fashion, the frozen fight within his bones faded with a sudden lack of pressure, as if the spirit too was shocked by what had happened.

Trente's mouth hung open, frozen, then in a rush of wits, he turned and ran down the hallway. Voice inundated him, crashed around him. Slurred Fravata shouts, a torrent of footsteps, firs this own then the others. Everything seemed to suddenly awaken, burst to life, and the shadows suddenly seemed shallow, weak. They would not protect him now. He passed two doors before he realized the run to the stairs was too far for him in his state, he never had a strength for running, he would be caught. So he crashed into a door to his right, praying there was nobody inside. By the grace of fate itself there was no one, he turned in a panic and slammed the door shut behind him. There was a lock.

"Petch!" He let out, more a croak through his dry and cracking throat than a true yelp. His chest began to glow. She was coming. He knew what he had done, and when he saw her horrid face glaring he knew full well that torment he was in for. He had disobeyed her, had fought her, and now she was weak, unable to possess even for mere moment. And, it might be the death of Trente. She took no time for petty outbreaks at the boy, that would come later, she quickly stepped through to closed door to the other side, insighting a series of surprised screams from the Svefra running toward the door.

Trente gripped his cold dagger firmly in his small, aching palm, and cast a wild look around the nearly pitch black store room. Shaped int eh shadows, cargo? Then a window, yes. But it was closed, and there wasn't time. Would he have to fight? Fight at least three grown adults? Two were women, one was very drunk, but surely it would only take one armed adult to kill him. He knew that, in his state they could likely break him unarmed. Frantic, chaotic mind. Then suddenly, a solution flowed into his mind, a gift from the darkness itself.

Not wasting time he put his free hand forward, groping for the door, his feet threatening to stumble at the floor dipped back and forth beneath him. It hit hard, knuckles first against the door, and he nearly bit his tongue. Knowing how close the door was, he leaned into it, bracing himself, trying for leverage, then with as much force as his frail body would muster he thrust the dagger into the door frame, attempting to leave the hilt in interference of the door's operation. Just the tip went in, at first, he he ignored the blunt pain it caused, and banged on the dagger til it stuck deeply and firmly plunged into the ship's frame.

The sound of a heavy, meaty, weight hitting the door startled him, and he fell away from it,s tumbling and falling. The dagger held, but wouldn't for long. Trente gathered himself up and went to the circular window, mourning over the loss of his only tool as he did so. Bangs and soon to b bruises erupted about him as he moved through what seemed to be a sea of invisible corners, caused by the cargo boxes, and tangle of roped and nets at his feet. He refused, however, to slow, and within moment found himself below the window. The climb was not easy, he had to position himself between two rows of large crates, and hoist himself up. The first time he slipped, and skinned his palm on a box, ignoring that he made it the second, pushed the window open and pushed himself through, facing up.

The water churned threateningly below, and above the climb up to deck seemed exhaustively far. He decided right then, that he hated large ships, and would keep to the much smaller ones from then on. Then, the boat tipped, and into Trente's narrow awareness came a large object. Another boat. It came steadily, tipping toward Trente, and it threatened not to stop, to just continue on into him, breaking him between it and this ship he was aboard. Trente was forced to duck back in the window, almost falling back in to the ground, but clumsily, and painfully held on. Creak. The creaking, it was the boats rubbing together.

The thug of a Svefra began pounding, with intimidating heaves at the door, and having a strong of words Trente was all too familiar with into the cargo room. There was no time.

Trente, without hesitations stuck his head back out the window, and studied the neighboring boat. Another big one, but its deck dipped down from some large room perches above. The large room ducked towards him again, and he looked carefully at the part that dipped down into a lower deck. He felt another swear was in order, but hadn't the time to decide which one, before he cramped his feet firmly into the window's rim, and wriggled his shoulders out of the boat.

Closer, closer, closer. The gap between the two boats closed, and Trente jumped when he could stand it no more. The large cabin clipped him, in mid air, and he grabbed in panic at the side, as the boats grew to nearly their full apex. Then, he gave a pathetic, frantic leap the rest of the way to the side. A single step might have done, but Trente was afraid, and he paid the cost as his ankle twisted. He let his weight fall without objection, the creak came, then reseeded. The ankle had been saved, both between his light weight, and lack of resistance. He now lay sprawled on the rim of the smaller ship, and wanted to stay there. However, adrenaline, and survivalism, did not allow. Painfully he hoisted himself up, starting to sweat, and heart nearly leaving his chest, he clumsily ran across the deck, knowing the noise of his arrival would soon summon the residence from below deck to investigate. He would need to sprint for a while, jump, and sprint, boat to boat, and hope to get luck enough to find a public boat soon. He hated doing this, because more often than not, he was not lucky. Not at all. It usually ended in being very wet, and very cold. And, at best, ended in extreme dehydration and exhaustion.

His legs carried him, reluctantly, to the edge of the boat. There was a ramp to the next, and he took it. Three ramps later he felt safe, but more importantly saw cover. A small raft swung by roped from the side of a larger ship, covered by a thick tarp, and Trente wasted no time yanking and tugging on the knots, trying to gain access. His fingers were clumsy with fatigue, and Trente ended up having to bite at the knots to pull them loose. He had gotten better with knots, but still in times of crisis they posed a distinct threat against his life. Once the knot was loose he couldn't even remember climbing into the raft. It was hard, and comfortable, yet more inviting than anything. His muscles ached, and throbbed, his heart just felt like a numbed rotation of beats within him, and he could literally hear the blood pumping through his hears. It hurt, the dryness, the hunger, and he tried to cry, but had not the moisture. He licked at his sweating skin, but the salt deterred him. Huddled, sweaty, and cold, he slipped into a slumber within minutes. Minutes usually plagued by thoughts of fear, and hunger, but this time Trente had one glimmer of hope. Black Rock. He slumbered taking what rest he could before the next day came to challenge, having a reason to get stronger.

Only later after his possessor's verbal assaults would he notice how far away Black Rock was, how impossible it was for one marked as he to escape from his prison, the dread Flotilla. How hopeless his only hope was.

by **Cascade** on October 27th, 2012, 6:12 am

Adventurer's Loot

Trente's Loot :

I'm rooting for Trente to get to Black Rock! Great thread, as per usual. If you have any questions or concerns, feel free to PM me!