Linsarei.
Talking to Pyra and Kyo the other day made me remember how much I miss my character, Linsarei, one who got retired due to a huge fallout between me and the player of his lover/Master. This began to pop into my head, as if I needed to give the character some closure. He hasn't had a happy life. Well, enjoy.
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I wake up. I think. My brain is muddled, like a deep fog has settled just behind my eyes. But I'm...here. Wherever here is. Yet here feels familiar, like...home. I'm home, I guess.
I get up, sit on the alcove. The fog lifts a bit. I see elves, male and female, in dark garb. I see demons. They're warlocks. I'm a warlock. I think. I don't feel the fel in my veins. Or do I? I don't know.
My body aches, this feels normal. I run a hand over my left shoulder. I can feel all the bones. I pop it. The pain feels good, sends some of the aching away. In mechanical movements I begin doing the same to the rest of me. This is normal for me, feels right.
It made me aware of itches in...places. But that feels wrong. My dick itches. That feels right, vulgar, me.
“You're finally awake you fucking slut?” A female voice. I recognise her, I think. I can't tell her name. She called me a slut. Sounds about right. I nod.
“Good. Get lost now, your 'boyfriend' packed up and left and he didn't pay for your stay.” She sounds angry. My boyfriend? I don't... wait, yes, there is someone. Pale skin and dark hair and lean muscle. I can't tell his name, his features, it's all a fuzz.
I get up. Look around. I have no belongings. I leave. She doesn't follow me. I run a hand through my hair. It's long, filthy, thin, unhealthy, the once bright red washed away. Like the rest of me. Elves stare when I leave. That feels familiar.
I wander the streets. Too much red and gold. Silvermoon. The sentries don't mind me. The guards give me dirty looks. I find a fountain. Thirst builds up, and the urge to be clean. The guards are still glaring. I skirt around the perimeter, until I'm out of sight. I didn't plan it, just did it. I drink from the cool waters then remove the tattered black robe that clings to me. I don't remember owning this robe.
I wash, mechanically. Well known movements, firm and sure while I shake, cold and weak. There are weird sores on and around my dick. Priest. I need a priest? Maybe I need priest. But I can't pay a priest. No, I don't need a priest. It'll be fine.
I take a moment to look at myself in the reflective waters, to remember. I remember a healthy young elf, full of promise. I see an elf approaching middle age, eyes sunken deep, thin almost to the point of malnourishment. Some stubborn unworked muscle still clinging to bones eager to feel the surface. Strangely bright fel-green eyes. Pale, unhealthy skin. And the scars, covering nearly every inch of his skin. Large, jagged scars around his hips and ribs. Thin, criss-crossing scars down his arms, his sides. He turns to see his own back. Large, long, whip scars.
I stop looking into the water. Refuse to acknowledge the image in any way. I get dressed in the tattered robe. I notice my feet are bare. Fuck, I guess. I don't care. Look up at the Spire. Didn't I need a priest? No, I didn't need a priest.
I begin walking. Head back into Murder Row, home. Only it's not home any more, is it? My...boyfriend? Lover?...Master. My Master had left. And I still can't remember a face, a name. But I remember pain. And love. And pain and love together, as one. Being one. I caress my hips, feel the scars. His gift.
And I feel hollow. As if my entrails had suddenly up and left. I keep walking, past the Row. All the way into the Walk and then the Bazaar. I smelled something. Sweet and pungent and promising sweet surrender, like a lover with open arms and a smile, ready to forgive and forget. I follow the siren call to a window. The owner has planted the most lovely shrub in the world, its budding green leaves unfurled into red tips. Probably medicinal. I don't know. I don't care. I expertly pick the mature leaves, a skill acquired...many years ago. Too expensive in the city.
No one saw me, or at least I think they didn't. But what do I care? Frowned upon doesn't mean illegal. I find a corner. Grab the hem of my robe, tear out a small piece. Roll the driest of the leaves, pocket the rest. How to light this? I focus. Fel-fire bursts into my free hand. It doesn't hurt. It lights the joint. The leaves are not too properly dried, it smokes. I don't care. I'm feeling desperate. I smoke it anyway. The effects aren't strong enough, but they ease my nerves, and I don't feel as hollow any more.
The fog in my brain lifts, my memories become much clearer, yet I still don't have a name or a face. Anything to tell me who He was. My heart constricts as I think of him, of the pain he'd inflict, then soothe. Of how much I hated him when it hurt and loved him when it didn't. He left, I realise. Perhaps he did not feel the same. Perhaps I was too much of a filthy, thistlehead slut for him. I can't blame him. Except... he was all I had.
I feel moisture on my cheeks and reach up. Tears. «What are you crying about you little pussy? Man up.» I remember the words but not the sound of his voice. Would he still beat me for crying? He never tolerated that shit, not unless he was the direct cause of it.
I finish smoking, dry my tears on the sleeve of my robe. Head back to the Row, attracted to it like a fly to shit. I grin to myself. I know what I am, now.
There's a cosy darkened spot next to the inn. A drunk is already passed out there, in full view of the door. No one cares. I lean against the wall, wait. Barely glance at the elf that beckons me over. Fifty silver, it's agreed. I'm worthless, and he knows it, wants a warm body to cum into.
It's over fast. He uses a spell on himself as he leaves. Don't wanna catch anything I'm undoubtedly caring. I hope he doesn't, I don't wish it on anyone. The innkeeper accepts the money, but throws me out with the food. I don't care, again. I'm happy sitting in my corner, filling my empty stomach. I know I'll be doing this again. And again and again. Because I'm alone now, and I'm worth nothing, I'm dirty, criminal, addicted, damaged. There's no salvation for me. And I'm strangely at peace with that.
I don't return to the warlock den. I can't pay for my stay there. Instead, I find the best sheltered corner I can, curl up in there. It feels silly. I try to remember anyone else. Friends, family, anyone to provide a warm bed. I remember bodies, general fuzziness. Nothing conclusive. I remember they all gave up on me. «He's hurting you, Linsarei! He's a fiend! You deserve so much better, little brother!» A woman's voice, sister, friend. It doesn't matter. Gone, just like anyone else. I'm alone, but I'm at peace.
I'm almost comfortable, close to sleep. I wonder if one night I just won't wake up. Wonder what will take me first. A rogue testing some poison? A client wanting to rid the streets of one more rat? A guard? The diseases in me? So many variables. Hopefully it'll be soon.
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I wake up. I think. My brain is muddled, like a deep fog has settled just behind my eyes. But I'm...here. Wherever here is. Yet here feels familiar, like...home. I'm home, I guess.
I get up, sit on the alcove. The fog lifts a bit. I see elves, male and female, in dark garb. I see demons. They're warlocks. I'm a warlock. I think. I don't feel the fel in my veins. Or do I? I don't know.
My body aches, this feels normal. I run a hand over my left shoulder. I can feel all the bones. I pop it. The pain feels good, sends some of the aching away. In mechanical movements I begin doing the same to the rest of me. This is normal for me, feels right.
It made me aware of itches in...places. But that feels wrong. My dick itches. That feels right, vulgar, me.
“You're finally awake you fucking slut?” A female voice. I recognise her, I think. I can't tell her name. She called me a slut. Sounds about right. I nod.
“Good. Get lost now, your 'boyfriend' packed up and left and he didn't pay for your stay.” She sounds angry. My boyfriend? I don't... wait, yes, there is someone. Pale skin and dark hair and lean muscle. I can't tell his name, his features, it's all a fuzz.
I get up. Look around. I have no belongings. I leave. She doesn't follow me. I run a hand through my hair. It's long, filthy, thin, unhealthy, the once bright red washed away. Like the rest of me. Elves stare when I leave. That feels familiar.
I wander the streets. Too much red and gold. Silvermoon. The sentries don't mind me. The guards give me dirty looks. I find a fountain. Thirst builds up, and the urge to be clean. The guards are still glaring. I skirt around the perimeter, until I'm out of sight. I didn't plan it, just did it. I drink from the cool waters then remove the tattered black robe that clings to me. I don't remember owning this robe.
I wash, mechanically. Well known movements, firm and sure while I shake, cold and weak. There are weird sores on and around my dick. Priest. I need a priest? Maybe I need priest. But I can't pay a priest. No, I don't need a priest. It'll be fine.
I take a moment to look at myself in the reflective waters, to remember. I remember a healthy young elf, full of promise. I see an elf approaching middle age, eyes sunken deep, thin almost to the point of malnourishment. Some stubborn unworked muscle still clinging to bones eager to feel the surface. Strangely bright fel-green eyes. Pale, unhealthy skin. And the scars, covering nearly every inch of his skin. Large, jagged scars around his hips and ribs. Thin, criss-crossing scars down his arms, his sides. He turns to see his own back. Large, long, whip scars.
I stop looking into the water. Refuse to acknowledge the image in any way. I get dressed in the tattered robe. I notice my feet are bare. Fuck, I guess. I don't care. Look up at the Spire. Didn't I need a priest? No, I didn't need a priest.
I begin walking. Head back into Murder Row, home. Only it's not home any more, is it? My...boyfriend? Lover?...Master. My Master had left. And I still can't remember a face, a name. But I remember pain. And love. And pain and love together, as one. Being one. I caress my hips, feel the scars. His gift.
And I feel hollow. As if my entrails had suddenly up and left. I keep walking, past the Row. All the way into the Walk and then the Bazaar. I smelled something. Sweet and pungent and promising sweet surrender, like a lover with open arms and a smile, ready to forgive and forget. I follow the siren call to a window. The owner has planted the most lovely shrub in the world, its budding green leaves unfurled into red tips. Probably medicinal. I don't know. I don't care. I expertly pick the mature leaves, a skill acquired...many years ago. Too expensive in the city.
No one saw me, or at least I think they didn't. But what do I care? Frowned upon doesn't mean illegal. I find a corner. Grab the hem of my robe, tear out a small piece. Roll the driest of the leaves, pocket the rest. How to light this? I focus. Fel-fire bursts into my free hand. It doesn't hurt. It lights the joint. The leaves are not too properly dried, it smokes. I don't care. I'm feeling desperate. I smoke it anyway. The effects aren't strong enough, but they ease my nerves, and I don't feel as hollow any more.
The fog in my brain lifts, my memories become much clearer, yet I still don't have a name or a face. Anything to tell me who He was. My heart constricts as I think of him, of the pain he'd inflict, then soothe. Of how much I hated him when it hurt and loved him when it didn't. He left, I realise. Perhaps he did not feel the same. Perhaps I was too much of a filthy, thistlehead slut for him. I can't blame him. Except... he was all I had.
I feel moisture on my cheeks and reach up. Tears. «What are you crying about you little pussy? Man up.» I remember the words but not the sound of his voice. Would he still beat me for crying? He never tolerated that shit, not unless he was the direct cause of it.
I finish smoking, dry my tears on the sleeve of my robe. Head back to the Row, attracted to it like a fly to shit. I grin to myself. I know what I am, now.
There's a cosy darkened spot next to the inn. A drunk is already passed out there, in full view of the door. No one cares. I lean against the wall, wait. Barely glance at the elf that beckons me over. Fifty silver, it's agreed. I'm worthless, and he knows it, wants a warm body to cum into.
It's over fast. He uses a spell on himself as he leaves. Don't wanna catch anything I'm undoubtedly caring. I hope he doesn't, I don't wish it on anyone. The innkeeper accepts the money, but throws me out with the food. I don't care, again. I'm happy sitting in my corner, filling my empty stomach. I know I'll be doing this again. And again and again. Because I'm alone now, and I'm worth nothing, I'm dirty, criminal, addicted, damaged. There's no salvation for me. And I'm strangely at peace with that.
I don't return to the warlock den. I can't pay for my stay there. Instead, I find the best sheltered corner I can, curl up in there. It feels silly. I try to remember anyone else. Friends, family, anyone to provide a warm bed. I remember bodies, general fuzziness. Nothing conclusive. I remember they all gave up on me. «He's hurting you, Linsarei! He's a fiend! You deserve so much better, little brother!» A woman's voice, sister, friend. It doesn't matter. Gone, just like anyone else. I'm alone, but I'm at peace.
I'm almost comfortable, close to sleep. I wonder if one night I just won't wake up. Wonder what will take me first. A rogue testing some poison? A client wanting to rid the streets of one more rat? A guard? The diseases in me? So many variables. Hopefully it'll be soon.