08-11-2018, 12:54 AM
[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 550px; min-height: 9px; font-family:arial; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; color:; padding: 20px"]Esklav had never known true freedom.
Written into the folds of his skin, into the albacore bluntness of his bones, was a name — Father. From the day he had opened his eyes just to stare into the cold glare of the animal that claimed to be his sire, Father had owned him, even the parts of him he didn't remember. "You won't need to. It is not something you should entertain in my presence." he'd answered when Esklav had timidly asked upon waking for the first time, even if it wasn't really his first. To add salt to the blow, Father had even told him more about himself. He could not reproduce, nor could he reincarnate; after all, he did not have a soul, and how can a being without a soul exist outside of its first body?
Esklav could synthesize the emotion of being affronted, if it wasn't for the nothingness that rang through his body like a doorbell. Still, a bitterness had swelled in him that day, like a tumor he couldn't simply brush off. It came with him through every step he took, every order he followed through with.
When Father died, he thought it would go away. But it stayed.
Now he was ... here. The Pitt. Time flew past him, too fast for him to recall when he had joined and how long he had been here, most of it being spent in the solitude of his own quarters. Was this what they called depression? He had not been able to care for himself much, and although he felt no immense sadness weighing him down, his mind and body were too tired to comprehend his own losses. Without Father, what was he to do? A slave once, a slave forever; how ironic fate was to land him into the lap of a slave den in its glory.
It did take him a bit to come to the conclusion that the best thing for him to do was blend in. It would not be hard. There were others like him, he knew, but he doubted they would be in the vicinity to give him away. And if they tried, he had already taken precautions to avoid that with something as simple as dying his coat an unnatural blond color. It was small, but his type was not widely known enough to matter.
Stepping outside of his adobe for the first time to face the hot sun was irritating. He did not favor the heat, certainly; it made the scruff around the leopon's neck itch, and if Esklav was not too careful, irritating the skin could end with scars marring his already sensitive neck. "The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts." a mantra to soothe himself — ah, yes. Lawrence of Arabia. The familiarity of the phrase had stayed with him all this time, and it never failed to do the trick.
Written into the folds of his skin, into the albacore bluntness of his bones, was a name — Father. From the day he had opened his eyes just to stare into the cold glare of the animal that claimed to be his sire, Father had owned him, even the parts of him he didn't remember. "You won't need to. It is not something you should entertain in my presence." he'd answered when Esklav had timidly asked upon waking for the first time, even if it wasn't really his first. To add salt to the blow, Father had even told him more about himself. He could not reproduce, nor could he reincarnate; after all, he did not have a soul, and how can a being without a soul exist outside of its first body?
Esklav could synthesize the emotion of being affronted, if it wasn't for the nothingness that rang through his body like a doorbell. Still, a bitterness had swelled in him that day, like a tumor he couldn't simply brush off. It came with him through every step he took, every order he followed through with.
When Father died, he thought it would go away. But it stayed.
Now he was ... here. The Pitt. Time flew past him, too fast for him to recall when he had joined and how long he had been here, most of it being spent in the solitude of his own quarters. Was this what they called depression? He had not been able to care for himself much, and although he felt no immense sadness weighing him down, his mind and body were too tired to comprehend his own losses. Without Father, what was he to do? A slave once, a slave forever; how ironic fate was to land him into the lap of a slave den in its glory.
It did take him a bit to come to the conclusion that the best thing for him to do was blend in. It would not be hard. There were others like him, he knew, but he doubted they would be in the vicinity to give him away. And if they tried, he had already taken precautions to avoid that with something as simple as dying his coat an unnatural blond color. It was small, but his type was not widely known enough to matter.
Stepping outside of his adobe for the first time to face the hot sun was irritating. He did not favor the heat, certainly; it made the scruff around the leopon's neck itch, and if Esklav was not too careful, irritating the skin could end with scars marring his already sensitive neck. "The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts." a mantra to soothe himself — ah, yes. Lawrence of Arabia. The familiarity of the phrase had stayed with him all this time, and it never failed to do the trick.
