RP:Pain is Nothing

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopisis: Training the latest batch of D'Artes slaves, thanks to Gevurah D'Artes' prophetic message from Vakmatharas, is Rauva. One of the slaves privy to Rauva's particularly vile methods is Nymh. Rauva is underwhelmed by his talent of music and instead chooses to pit him against the rest of the slaves; the winner would receive a meal and a bath. Though Nymh is initially successful, when he breaks the arm of one of his adversaries, Rauva chooses to punish them all anyway.

Trist'oth Arena

Rauva had gathered a few slaves owned by House D’Artes to the arena of Trist’oth, the stands empty and void of life. All life within the arena was under Rauva’s watchful eyes and the domineering ownership of House D’Artes. The drow crouched down in front of a slave, fingers clasping around the slave’s chin as he whimpered fearfully: “Pain is nothing,” she informed him in a rather matter of fact manner. His lips had been stitched shut, meaning he was quite limited to only whimpers and whining responses. “Are you hungry?” she asked him as her lips twitched into an ever so brief smile, “All you have to do is open your mouth, slave. Open. Your. Mouth.”

Nymh suppressed a shiver as Rauva tormented another slave, this one with his mouth stitched shut. Such were the ways of the Drow, and if the first house of Trist'oth wanted him as more than a songbird, then... he was going to have to adapt, and quickly. He'd killed before, in self defense, and when commanded. He was decent at knife work, though without formal training. Having a cursed dagger tied to his life saw to that. It couldn't be taken away from him, simply winding up in his possession when lost, often instantaneously. It had dug its cursed barbs deep into his very soul, where it spoke to him through terrifying hallucinations and nightmares. It had influenced his music for a very long time, in a sense, even teaching him, though he loathed it almost as much as he relied on it for his survival, here. It was a wonder that he was so different from other drow, all things considered. But those differences had to be thrown aside, here. Here... he had to focus on survival. He'd witnessed the works of others like Rauva before, single minded sadists who knew little self control, and were barely reigned in by the leadership of their houses. His position as a songbird and matron's toy had often elicited jealousy in others of the house, and it was drow like this that had marked him for murder, more than once. The ocarina and knife at his hips were his tools, and he'd little doubt he'd have need of them both soon. The slave suffering earned little more than a second glance from him. He had to conceal his sympathies, and knew well enough how to do so by now. He knew well enough the importance of doing so.

Rauva hopped to her feet as the slave only whimpered in reply, opening their mouth a little bit before refusing and being unable to complete their task. Certainly, ripping one’s mouth open is going to hurt but it wouldn’t really kill the slave or maim them. In fact, this was quite a light method of torture and it was disappointing to see a simple slave unable to follow through with a relatively simple task. Rauva has stalked towards the stands and ascended up to the very highest of seats did she turn to look upon the slaves again, this time with her bow in hand. With the string creaking as it was pulled taut, the drow pointed the bow heavenward and loosed her knocked arrow: letting it fly so it would fall a few paces before the stitched up slave. “Open,” she called, as she drew back another arrow, adjusted her aim ever so slightly and loosed once again and landing her arrow ever closer towards the slave, “your”, the motion repeated once again before her arrow landed with a ‘thump’ and wet ‘squish’ of contact “MOUTH!” she roared the last word. The slave had fallen back from the strike of the arrow, screaming in agony. He had ripped open the stitches by screaming.

Nymh watched as the slave ripped open the stitches through sheer terror. He winced. but stood still, and refrained from helping in any way. His eyes were cold, and he felt that way. Cold. Empty, and lonely, and afraid. Deeper down, beneath the fear, simmered untapped rage, but fear leashed it well, in the now. His more dispassionate mind noted that Rauva used a bow, unlike most drow, who generally favored hand crossbows. She likely possessed a wide range of martial prowess. Still, he was silent, secreting away information, and gauging options and possibilities. Surveying the arena, the others slaves, and trying to determine what protections he could elicit from his station. Probably none... Rauva would likely care no more for him than the next slave, which was a less than refreshing change of pace. He was glad he'd judged her properly, before... he'd been focusing on learning his knife work, keeping in shape, in so far as he was able. Preparing himself, mentally.

Rauva jaunted down the steps as if she were about to skip off and begin a wonderful day, wandering over to the slave that her arrow had struck. On her way over, she made a point of collecting each arrow that had marked the way towards the slave: securing them back in her quiver while still approaching the slave. Pressing her booted foot down onto his abdomen, she leaned down and grasped the shaft of the arrow before carefully pushing the arrow forward. Of course the slave would scream and protest, but Rauva only briefly licked her lips in delight as he screamed his protest. With the arrowhead now protruding through his flesh, the drowess snapped the shaft and cleanly removed it. “You will heal,” she informed him with what seemed to be disinterest. The slave dare not move from his curled position on the arena floor. Her red eyes scanned across the collected slaves before finally settling upon Nymh. He was the one Gevurah had bought, he was the musician and he was the only slave who bore a weapon.

Nymh watched as the sadistic display finally came to what might be its conclusion. At the very least, the slave had lost Rauva's direct interest. What came next was predictable, though unwelcome... he was the next to catch her eye. Having done so, however, he wouldn't show his fear. Instead, he took a step forward, acknowledging her gaze. His hands did not stray too closely to his blade or instrument, for his own good.

Rauva’s white eyebrow twitched as Nymh took a step forward, her dark lips beginning to curl upward. If he started trouble, it would just give her the excuse to slice his gut and strangle him with his own intestines and Rauva would really like to try that out with someone. Yet while the archer was sadistic, she was perceptive. His hands did not stray too closely to his implements and his devices, as an experienced slave would surely learn. “Sit,” she bade him, as she too sat down upon the arena floor.

Nymh guessed that this was more an exercise of Rauva's pleasure than any sort of real training. Or, perhaps, just a general cowing, or culling. He would sit, slowly, and with grace, holding her gaze with his one eye. He was thankful that he was still able bodied, after all his time as a slave. He had his scars, but he also had all of his tendons and ligaments. Young as he was, it was still an accomplishment.

Rauva sat completely still for a few moments as she and Nymh held one another’s gaze. The slave was bold, that much she could tell. Or was it arrogance? He could go to the surface, he could carry a blade and an instrument. That surely distinguished him from other slaves. Arrogance was a trademark of all drow, that inherit characteristic of theirs alongside their cruelty. “What do you think of serving House D’Artes?” she asked.

Nymh was far from arrogant, but it was a good guess. He was actually trying not to be overly cautious... quiet, and in his place, but competent. He was looking to foremost, prove his value, which meant weighing risk versus possible reward, and taking some chances. He thought on her question but a split second, his mind quick, and nimble with words. "It is a privelege to serve the most powerful of the houses of Trist'oth." His voice was beautiful, and sure. "I only hope that I can bring something unique to offer." Drow did not take to the musical arts... the ways of the bae'qeshel had long since died away. As such, and as a half drow that looked nearly pure blooded, he was valued for his prowess in magical song. He was even suffered to have a blade, that could not be taken from him until he was dead. Perhaps it would serve to remind her why Gevurah had purchased him in the first place... if Gevurah remembered or cared.

Rauva looked him over once again and considered the words he offered. “It is a privilege, yes. It has its benefits, if you are wise enough not to offend the House and do as you are bid,” she informed him curtly, but once again hoping he would do something that would warrant her ire. She could bring so much pain to this songbird. “You wish to be free.” It was a wish of everyone who found themselves in captivity or under the ownership of another. “Serve. Do your part and perhaps Gevurah, noble as she is, would release you from your servitude. Serve willingly and stay here amongst the drow and your life will be one of luxury,” she promised. She need not detail what would happen if he did not.

Nymh had heard the words time and again, almost to the point of hearing them as a litany. "I will serve." Three simple words, almost a mantra. A hymn to a life of slavery. It was his want to be done with his 'kind', and return to the surface world to stay... but such a dream was quite far fetched. He would at least die though, knowing he had seen the stars above, and they had burned his eyes too greatly. He'd been allowed the privelege to improve his music, and up his value at auction, an act made futile after Gevurah's appearance. However, the prospect of being released from servitude was an... unusual part of the mantra. No, it wasn't a part at all. Those words were dismissed, however, as the bait of a sadist, hoping to see a spark of hope in his eyes she could devour. This ones promises were but more poison.

Rauva did not make promises lightly. Frankly, she didn’t make promises at all. She was given a job to do and she would do it, she would test the slaves and see which came out as top dog and this was all a part of that. “And how exactly will you serve House D’Artes?”

Nymh answered, "However House D'Artes demands that I serve. My music is my greatest talent, and if House D'Artes desires it, I will play." The ocarina at his hip had seen little use at the house thus far.

Rauva had little interest in music, unless it was orchestrated by her and was the song of her victims screaming. That was the only sort of music that filled her with any passion. “You’re very boring,” she stated, rising to her feet and walking away from him. Before long, she returned to the drow who had been wounded before and remained curled up on the floor. She nosed the toe of her boot against his back, urging him to get to his feet. Upon seeing the injured slave forced up to his feet, the other slaves also began to slowly rise to their feet. The woman wandered a fair distance away from the group of slaves and waved her hand at them, “Fight each other or beat up that half-breed. Whoever inflicts the most pain will receive a bath and a meal. No weapons permitted, of course. If I see a slave raise a weapon, I will be the one to inflict pain,” she said, as she gripped her bow and prepared to nock an arrow.

Nymh went with the assumption that he wasn't allowed to use either his knife, or his ocarina. His gaze narrowed, as he rose to his feet. The first blow was quick to come, as the others lept at the opportunity to vent their frustrations, and claim that prize. He was punched in the face and the ribs before he had a chance to react, backpeddling as his multiple foes ganged up on him. He'd made no allies, and it seemed it was going to bite him, here. Before the others could overtake him again, though, he began whistling, low, and the next blows fell short of him. One of his foes turned on another, and another foe simply started swinging at empty air, seeing a vivid hallucination of another foe. His music wasn't as potent without his ocarina, but he knew not to rely upon it singularly.

Rauva watched as the other slaves immediately ganged up on Nymh. Of course they would, he had distinguished himself from them what with his ocarina and his blade, his general manner and the fact that Rauva had not immediately beaten him. Like any archer and patient predator, Rauva could play the long game. As much as she loved the kill, that final moment when blood and life flee the body alike, she found great pleasure in planning and building up to that precise moment. Her red eyes single out Nymh as he begins to whistle, watching as he uses his innate skill and magic to turn his foes against one another. A clever tactic, certainly one the drow would approve of. His music was like a poison, pernicious and dark. Traits that appealed to the drow of course. For now, she would watch them fight for just a while longer.

Nymh could survive without the bath and meal, but his costly mistake in distinguishing himself too much had to be rectified, at least somewhat. The foe that was hallucinating would find his foe making incredible feats of martial ability, as Nymh attacked him while he fought an imaginary foe. He would see a punch, and move to block it, only to hit somewhere else entirely. Nymh didn't know what he saw, but he didn't really need to. His opponent was crippled by the vision. He felt guilt, somewhere deep down for his actions, but it was a matter of survival. He grabbed his opponent's arm as it reached out in a haymaker, and brought the forearm down, slamming his other palm up just past the elbow, and the drow screamed as his arm broke.

Rauva watched the fighting closely and carefully, feeling rather bored by it all until Nymh broke the arm of a fellow slave. In a blur of movement, the archer had pointed her bow upwards and loosed the prepared arrow towards the ceiling. Yet this arrow only touched a stalactite before it fell harmlessly to the earth. The stalactite however did not fall harmlessly. The slave whose arm had been broken by Nymh was in the direct line of fire, that sharp piece of naturally formed rock speeding down quickly and powerfully enough to completely obliterate his skull and leave Nymh gripping the arm of a slave with pulp for a head. “That’s enough for today. No bath or food for anyone. A broken slave is a useless slave and a useless slave is a dead slave. You may thank the half-breed for this loss.”

Nymh didn't notice the falling stalactite in time to move the slave. He died, and Nymh staggered backwards, turning sharply towards Rauva as he heard her words. The slave would have been quicker healing from the broken arm than the slave with his mouth stitched shut and an arrow through him, with the magic of healing. Rauva had it out for Nymh, and that was a bad sign. He looked back to the slave, wincing at the gore of his pulped head. It would have taken him moments to fix his arm. He thought of turning and calling her for the fool she was, but surely she knew that, and that would serve him no good. The other slaves looked towards him angrily, and he assumed that tonight, his blade would be tasting blood.