Orin Azure (WIP)
Posted: Thu Jul 11, 2013 12:19 am
This is a work in progress, and details are still variable, but here goes.
Player Name: Whycolors
Name: Orin Azure
Age: 24
Race: Human
Height: 6’3’’
Weight: 142
Physical Description: Tall, with a naturally muscular build, but thin and wiry from hunger. His body is marred by very extensive scarring that glows faintly in the dark. The luminescent scars run from head to toe, and make him unmistakable at night. Unkempt hair, a dull red, hangs down to just past his shoulders, giving him a bedraggled appearance that’s further emphasized by the motley assortment of rags that are his only clothing. Piercingly clear eyes with an eerie mirror-like quality that bespeaks a great intellect, transform his otherwise beggarly appearance into a rundown sort of beauty.
Possessions: A single heavy bronze bracelet, his only memory from a forgotten childhood.
Powers or Strengths: He’s stronger than he looks, but not inconceivably so, and grasps concepts quickly with his sharp intellect. But has no real special skills to speak of.
Weaknesses: He has no knowledge of his background. No known family or friends, no wealth or possessions of any sort. Lacks even a basic understanding of social or legal custom, and is entirely ignorant in the ways of the world. He has a childlike sense of eagerness when presented with a puzzle, or a chance to learn something new, but undergoes a complete personality change when threatened or harmed, becoming cold and harsh. He actively seeks interaction with everyone he meets, out of his desire to understand other people of any race or culture.
History:
I
His past is foggy, most of the details hidden in his subconscious. All he really remembers is a seemingly endless cascade of torture, experimentation, and a very cramped cell. His earliest complete memory is of the man who called himself Meister, his perpetual tormenter. The man was explaining to Orin with a wicked sort of satisfaction that his parents had sold him into slavery, sold him to Meister, because he had been worthless to them as anything other than goods to be traded. That night, after what became a traditional daily beating, Orin was taken deep underground to a dank and cramped cell, clearly built for a child around his age, though not comfortable by any means. Even delirious from the brutal beating, he had the thought that Meister’s ‘slaves’ probably didn’t live very long.
Days gave way to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. It all passed with an agonizing lethargy, seeming to drag on endlessly. The constant torture and horrid conditions likely would have killed him if not for the fact that a dreadful sort of haze hung over everything, shielding him from the brunt of it. He was awoken every morning by a savage beating, at least he thought they were mornings, there were no windows or openings through which to see outside. But it felt around the same time every day, so he had taken to calling them mornings. After the assault, he was fed and returned to his cell. It was always the same, twice a day, every day. Beating, food, cell. He fervently wished for some change to the routine, but when it finally came it was worse than anything so far.
The first time was the worst. When Meister brought Orin out of his cell for a third time that day, bringing him out of the dungeons for the first time since he’d been there, the haze cleared a little out of shock. “Where are we going?” Curiosity mingled with a little hope, and a lot more fear, overcame his better judgment and loosened his tongue. Meister smiled, a terrifying smile that chilled Orin’s spine.
“You’re going to help me with something.” The joy with which he said it left a sour taste in Orin’s mouth, and he didn’t speak again. They made their way up to Meister’s chambers, the older man leading and Orin too frightened to run. A stone staircase led upward into a vast open chamber, furnished with cold stone tables and racks of beakers and sharp metal objects of different shapes and sizes.
Orin’s growing sense of foreboding reached a peak, absolute terror clawing at his heart. He turned and fled towards the staircase, forgetting that he had no idea of how to get out in his frantic need to escape. Meister was much older, aged even by elven standards, but he was stronger and faster than he looked. He outpaced Orin, grasping him by the neck and easily dragging him over to one of the stone tables. “Not yet boy, not yet.” He laughed as he slung him across the table, fastening icy chains around his legs and arms, the loud clink of metal on stone covering Orin’s soft sobs. “You’re the only one who has ever lived this long, I’m starting to get attached.” There was a disturbing sincerity in his harsh words.
Meister walked purposefully to one of the weapon racks, choosing a small curved blade with a serpentine hilt. “This will do nicely.” He said with his trademarked cruel smile. Laying the sinister dagger flat on Orin’s chest, he then walked across the room to another rack, of vials and beakers this time. An uncharacteristic tentativeness, almost hesitation, slowed his movements as he drew the vial. “My masterpiece…” His voice was a reverent whisper. He returned to Orin slowly, taking care with each step. The importance of the moment was not lost on Orin, who stopped struggling and simply stared. It wasn’t that the fear had abated, merely that his body would no longer respond to his will. Meister touched Orin’s face lightly, lifting his chin so they held each other’s eyes. For the first time in their many years together, he wasn’t smiling at all. “I’m going to give you a gift my dear boy.”
II
Screams rocked the chamber, reverberating off the thick walls and joining more screams. Orin thrashed about in his chains wildly, the binds biting into his flesh deeply with every seizure. Meister was unfazed by the terrible cries, his eyes focused intently as he slashed Orin again and again, the cruel dagger ripping through flesh. Skin and muscle tissue were coming off in sloughs, as the Meister kept at his grisly work. Despite the agony, the excruciatingly mind-numbing pain, Orin was conscious through it all. Either by some work of the horrible weapon, or by Meister’s own endeavors, he was clear and awake and felt every gash. When his body was torn and shredded beyond recognition, blood and flesh painting the table and the floor around it, Meister set down his blade and surveyed his work. Orin’s screams were quieted by now, replaced by the haunting gargles of a man drowning in his own blood. “Perfect.” Meister said quietly, taking the glowing bottle in hand. With an almost loving care, he poured the viscous liquid into what was left of Orin’s mouth.
After only a moment, the blood cleared and Orin’s screams were redoubled in force. Meister stepped back involuntarily, covering his ears against the severity of the pain-induced howls. Steam rose up from Orin’s body, a faint blue color swirling as it dissipated into the air. A great wave of heat emanated from the table as, miraculously, Orin’s body began to repair itself. In a matter of moments, he was whole and unhurt, the only evidence of the night’s festivities a thin lacework of faint blue scars covering him from head to toe. But Orin was already unconscious.
The experiments, or “Gifts” as Meister called them, happened regularly after that. At least once a month, he would bring Orin up to the chamber in chains and tear him apart. And always when Orin was sure he was dead, the blue liquid would come out and he would wake up in his cell with a new layer of scars. Each time was horrible, but none compared to the first. Eventually, he bore them in silence. Just another part of the routine.
III
As the years passed, Orin grew at an incredible rate. The little runt of a boy quickly became a man, standing at a lean 6’3”, though Meister was careful to limit his nutrition, to prevent him from becoming too strong to handle. Despite taking physical precaution, keeping him bound at all times, Meister made no such restrictions on Orin’s mental development. He was extremely bright, and sometimes between beatings Meister would bring Orin a book to read, promising lenience if he could answer questions about it by the next mealtime. Herb ology, biology, medicine, engineering, every science or study Meister thought worthwhile. Never politics or social sciences though, Meister kept Orin ignorant of the outside world. As far as he knew, no one else existed. There was no other way to live. His beatings and captivity, even the experiments, were a natural part of life.
But no one is perfect. Meister could not fathom the extent of Orin’s hunger for knowledge. Occasionally Meister left the tower on expeditions, never explaining his absences to Orin, but always returning with some new specimen or artifact to be studied and recorded into books which would eventually find their way into Orin’s eager hands. True to his intellect, he drew a connection between the old elf’s disappearances and new books.
Orin had been contemplating an idea for some months now, he had learned to mark the passing of time by the frequency of his beatings many years since, he wanted to see more than just his cell and the “Gift” chamber. He needed to see where Meister disappeared to, where all those wonderful books came from. “Patience.” he admonished himself often, afraid to lose his chance. Some instinct screamed at him that if the Meister so much as suspected his thoughts, he would never succeed. Besides, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. It’s not like he was going to try and escape, where would he even go? He just wanted to run to that grand book collection, grab a few, and head back down to his cell. That wasn’t really wrong, was it? Despite his excitement at the prospect, he still felt the need to justify his actions to himself. He didn’t have any desire to hurt Meister, it was just that he never had enough books. After months of such deliberations and self affirmations, Orin steeled his will and set about waiting for his chance.
It was many months still, nearly a year, before any chance came. The “Gifts” had been increasing in frequency. Meister was beginning to look tired, worn out. Age, it seemed, had caught up to him very quickly. Still, he spared no vigor in giving Orin his Gifts, making up for the tired appearance with increased savagery. But there was no doubt in Orin’s mind, whatever the cause may be, Meister was dying.
The realization was bittersweet. Orin didn't hate Meister, but he resented that the old elf kept all of those books to himself. It did puzzle him though, the sudden degeneration of his only companion. He had read the books, and elves normally lived much longer than humans. But as tempted as he was by the promise of a puzzle, his predicament loomed heavily and held his attention. If Meister died, Orin would be trapped in his cell, and soon follow in Meister’s passing. No more books. Ever. The prospect terrified him more than anything, more even than the idea of daily Gifts, which he had always feared. His plan to leave the cell became a full-blown escape plan, and it couldn’t wait any longer.
Player Name: Whycolors
Name: Orin Azure
Age: 24
Race: Human
Height: 6’3’’
Weight: 142
Physical Description: Tall, with a naturally muscular build, but thin and wiry from hunger. His body is marred by very extensive scarring that glows faintly in the dark. The luminescent scars run from head to toe, and make him unmistakable at night. Unkempt hair, a dull red, hangs down to just past his shoulders, giving him a bedraggled appearance that’s further emphasized by the motley assortment of rags that are his only clothing. Piercingly clear eyes with an eerie mirror-like quality that bespeaks a great intellect, transform his otherwise beggarly appearance into a rundown sort of beauty.
Possessions: A single heavy bronze bracelet, his only memory from a forgotten childhood.
Powers or Strengths: He’s stronger than he looks, but not inconceivably so, and grasps concepts quickly with his sharp intellect. But has no real special skills to speak of.
Weaknesses: He has no knowledge of his background. No known family or friends, no wealth or possessions of any sort. Lacks even a basic understanding of social or legal custom, and is entirely ignorant in the ways of the world. He has a childlike sense of eagerness when presented with a puzzle, or a chance to learn something new, but undergoes a complete personality change when threatened or harmed, becoming cold and harsh. He actively seeks interaction with everyone he meets, out of his desire to understand other people of any race or culture.
History:
I
His past is foggy, most of the details hidden in his subconscious. All he really remembers is a seemingly endless cascade of torture, experimentation, and a very cramped cell. His earliest complete memory is of the man who called himself Meister, his perpetual tormenter. The man was explaining to Orin with a wicked sort of satisfaction that his parents had sold him into slavery, sold him to Meister, because he had been worthless to them as anything other than goods to be traded. That night, after what became a traditional daily beating, Orin was taken deep underground to a dank and cramped cell, clearly built for a child around his age, though not comfortable by any means. Even delirious from the brutal beating, he had the thought that Meister’s ‘slaves’ probably didn’t live very long.
Days gave way to weeks, weeks to months, and months to years. It all passed with an agonizing lethargy, seeming to drag on endlessly. The constant torture and horrid conditions likely would have killed him if not for the fact that a dreadful sort of haze hung over everything, shielding him from the brunt of it. He was awoken every morning by a savage beating, at least he thought they were mornings, there were no windows or openings through which to see outside. But it felt around the same time every day, so he had taken to calling them mornings. After the assault, he was fed and returned to his cell. It was always the same, twice a day, every day. Beating, food, cell. He fervently wished for some change to the routine, but when it finally came it was worse than anything so far.
The first time was the worst. When Meister brought Orin out of his cell for a third time that day, bringing him out of the dungeons for the first time since he’d been there, the haze cleared a little out of shock. “Where are we going?” Curiosity mingled with a little hope, and a lot more fear, overcame his better judgment and loosened his tongue. Meister smiled, a terrifying smile that chilled Orin’s spine.
“You’re going to help me with something.” The joy with which he said it left a sour taste in Orin’s mouth, and he didn’t speak again. They made their way up to Meister’s chambers, the older man leading and Orin too frightened to run. A stone staircase led upward into a vast open chamber, furnished with cold stone tables and racks of beakers and sharp metal objects of different shapes and sizes.
Orin’s growing sense of foreboding reached a peak, absolute terror clawing at his heart. He turned and fled towards the staircase, forgetting that he had no idea of how to get out in his frantic need to escape. Meister was much older, aged even by elven standards, but he was stronger and faster than he looked. He outpaced Orin, grasping him by the neck and easily dragging him over to one of the stone tables. “Not yet boy, not yet.” He laughed as he slung him across the table, fastening icy chains around his legs and arms, the loud clink of metal on stone covering Orin’s soft sobs. “You’re the only one who has ever lived this long, I’m starting to get attached.” There was a disturbing sincerity in his harsh words.
Meister walked purposefully to one of the weapon racks, choosing a small curved blade with a serpentine hilt. “This will do nicely.” He said with his trademarked cruel smile. Laying the sinister dagger flat on Orin’s chest, he then walked across the room to another rack, of vials and beakers this time. An uncharacteristic tentativeness, almost hesitation, slowed his movements as he drew the vial. “My masterpiece…” His voice was a reverent whisper. He returned to Orin slowly, taking care with each step. The importance of the moment was not lost on Orin, who stopped struggling and simply stared. It wasn’t that the fear had abated, merely that his body would no longer respond to his will. Meister touched Orin’s face lightly, lifting his chin so they held each other’s eyes. For the first time in their many years together, he wasn’t smiling at all. “I’m going to give you a gift my dear boy.”
II
Screams rocked the chamber, reverberating off the thick walls and joining more screams. Orin thrashed about in his chains wildly, the binds biting into his flesh deeply with every seizure. Meister was unfazed by the terrible cries, his eyes focused intently as he slashed Orin again and again, the cruel dagger ripping through flesh. Skin and muscle tissue were coming off in sloughs, as the Meister kept at his grisly work. Despite the agony, the excruciatingly mind-numbing pain, Orin was conscious through it all. Either by some work of the horrible weapon, or by Meister’s own endeavors, he was clear and awake and felt every gash. When his body was torn and shredded beyond recognition, blood and flesh painting the table and the floor around it, Meister set down his blade and surveyed his work. Orin’s screams were quieted by now, replaced by the haunting gargles of a man drowning in his own blood. “Perfect.” Meister said quietly, taking the glowing bottle in hand. With an almost loving care, he poured the viscous liquid into what was left of Orin’s mouth.
After only a moment, the blood cleared and Orin’s screams were redoubled in force. Meister stepped back involuntarily, covering his ears against the severity of the pain-induced howls. Steam rose up from Orin’s body, a faint blue color swirling as it dissipated into the air. A great wave of heat emanated from the table as, miraculously, Orin’s body began to repair itself. In a matter of moments, he was whole and unhurt, the only evidence of the night’s festivities a thin lacework of faint blue scars covering him from head to toe. But Orin was already unconscious.
The experiments, or “Gifts” as Meister called them, happened regularly after that. At least once a month, he would bring Orin up to the chamber in chains and tear him apart. And always when Orin was sure he was dead, the blue liquid would come out and he would wake up in his cell with a new layer of scars. Each time was horrible, but none compared to the first. Eventually, he bore them in silence. Just another part of the routine.
III
As the years passed, Orin grew at an incredible rate. The little runt of a boy quickly became a man, standing at a lean 6’3”, though Meister was careful to limit his nutrition, to prevent him from becoming too strong to handle. Despite taking physical precaution, keeping him bound at all times, Meister made no such restrictions on Orin’s mental development. He was extremely bright, and sometimes between beatings Meister would bring Orin a book to read, promising lenience if he could answer questions about it by the next mealtime. Herb ology, biology, medicine, engineering, every science or study Meister thought worthwhile. Never politics or social sciences though, Meister kept Orin ignorant of the outside world. As far as he knew, no one else existed. There was no other way to live. His beatings and captivity, even the experiments, were a natural part of life.
But no one is perfect. Meister could not fathom the extent of Orin’s hunger for knowledge. Occasionally Meister left the tower on expeditions, never explaining his absences to Orin, but always returning with some new specimen or artifact to be studied and recorded into books which would eventually find their way into Orin’s eager hands. True to his intellect, he drew a connection between the old elf’s disappearances and new books.
Orin had been contemplating an idea for some months now, he had learned to mark the passing of time by the frequency of his beatings many years since, he wanted to see more than just his cell and the “Gift” chamber. He needed to see where Meister disappeared to, where all those wonderful books came from. “Patience.” he admonished himself often, afraid to lose his chance. Some instinct screamed at him that if the Meister so much as suspected his thoughts, he would never succeed. Besides, he wasn’t doing anything wrong. It’s not like he was going to try and escape, where would he even go? He just wanted to run to that grand book collection, grab a few, and head back down to his cell. That wasn’t really wrong, was it? Despite his excitement at the prospect, he still felt the need to justify his actions to himself. He didn’t have any desire to hurt Meister, it was just that he never had enough books. After months of such deliberations and self affirmations, Orin steeled his will and set about waiting for his chance.
It was many months still, nearly a year, before any chance came. The “Gifts” had been increasing in frequency. Meister was beginning to look tired, worn out. Age, it seemed, had caught up to him very quickly. Still, he spared no vigor in giving Orin his Gifts, making up for the tired appearance with increased savagery. But there was no doubt in Orin’s mind, whatever the cause may be, Meister was dying.
The realization was bittersweet. Orin didn't hate Meister, but he resented that the old elf kept all of those books to himself. It did puzzle him though, the sudden degeneration of his only companion. He had read the books, and elves normally lived much longer than humans. But as tempted as he was by the promise of a puzzle, his predicament loomed heavily and held his attention. If Meister died, Orin would be trapped in his cell, and soon follow in Meister’s passing. No more books. Ever. The prospect terrified him more than anything, more even than the idea of daily Gifts, which he had always feared. His plan to leave the cell became a full-blown escape plan, and it couldn’t wait any longer.