Charloft - Ferry Me On
What sort of fantastic and wondrous beastie would your character design for themselves to be?
[ooc: AU prompt response where I've just basically made it to what magical beastie I'd have Charlie be in a crazy high fantasy AU.]
The prisons of the Plagued were deep in Plagued territory. Built from stone, bones and dark magic the place was constantly, painfully cold and smelled of sulfur. Sir Charles Crews was unaware of how long he had been in his little cell, there was no light in Plagued territory. It wouldn’t matter anyway, his cell had no windows. He was completely isolated, besides the few times his captors and torturers came and dragged him out.
They never asked him questions or tried to get information from him. It was torture for torture’s sake and the knight expected nothing less from Plagued monsters. Two years into the war and they were losing more and more ground, more lives and more soldiers. Soldiers like him. He knew when he rode off with other knights of his town that he might never return but lingering in this pit was not what he had expected. This was torture like he’d never known, never expected.
And then they came. The door to his cell rattled open and two Plagued grabbed him. Charles did not fight. The fight had died out of him a long time ago. He didn’t even lift his head when they dragged him past the hallway leading to the torture chambers. He used to fight, at one point he had even broken free but there was no way out of the prison without a map. He was just going to let it happen.
What happened is they brought him to another room down a different hallways where they had carved wicked looking red runes into the floor and a set of chains. They chained his wrists and forced him to his knees. One grabbed his long, shaggy hair and yanked his head back, forcing his mouth open. The other poured a thick, oily, foul tasting liquid. He swallowed willingly, it was the closest thing to water he had in days.
They left him on his knees for awhile, only to come back a few minutes later to drape something, hot and stinking over his shoulders. It stuck to his shoulders like a wet blanket, but was hot, burning almost. Or maybe he was just that cold. They started chanting after that in the Plagued tongue and whatever they had draped on him began to heat up. He managed a groan but was ignored. They just kept chanting and the heat kept building. Even inside him, he could feel it balling up in his gut like fire. It was hotter than fire, hotter than a battlefield in full rage and hotter than his memories of the sun shining down on him.
Hot enough that he scream, his voice rough and hoarse from disuse. The chanting never stopped though. It kept going on and on and on, endless while Charles screamed and writhed, pulling at his chains, desperately trying to get away. There was no hope of that though. Magic and chains held him in place while the skin worked its way into his body and the potion worked through his body.
Everything changed slowly. The skin from an evil spirit that they had draped over him became part of his body, turning it an ugly red-orange. The potion turned his flesh from skin and bone, to heavy muscles and grew him, taller and taller, tall enough to strain his chains. Then one of the Plagued approached him with a glass bottle, swirling with a purple-blackish smoke. The Plagued looked at him with its one good eye, the other was an empty socket. It smiled and then dropped the bottle which shattered on the stone.
Screaming like he was, he had to breathe in the smoke. That’s when the whispering started. That’s when Charles began to understand the Plagued chanting going around him. That’s when he felt strong. Strong enough to stand up. Though he saw the world now in a strange silvery outline with his captors a mix of dark blue and sickly reds, he had no trouble ripping his chains free.
“Well, well, well, this looks like a good arraignment.” A voice in his head said, louder than the whispers behind it. “Host, I am Charon. And you will be ferrying me.”
“No, no.”
“Yes, sadly for you.”
No longer in control, Charon used his hands to grab the Plagued by the throats. They were already dead when Charles wrestled control from Charon, took his body, his mind back. It burned, terribly, but the evil spirit skin disappeared, his body became skinny, sickly again and he collapsed back in the circle of runes, Charon still laughing in the back of his mind with the whispers.
[ooc: AU prompt response where I've just basically made it to what magical beastie I'd have Charlie be in a crazy high fantasy AU.]
The prisons of the Plagued were deep in Plagued territory. Built from stone, bones and dark magic the place was constantly, painfully cold and smelled of sulfur. Sir Charles Crews was unaware of how long he had been in his little cell, there was no light in Plagued territory. It wouldn’t matter anyway, his cell had no windows. He was completely isolated, besides the few times his captors and torturers came and dragged him out.
They never asked him questions or tried to get information from him. It was torture for torture’s sake and the knight expected nothing less from Plagued monsters. Two years into the war and they were losing more and more ground, more lives and more soldiers. Soldiers like him. He knew when he rode off with other knights of his town that he might never return but lingering in this pit was not what he had expected. This was torture like he’d never known, never expected.
And then they came. The door to his cell rattled open and two Plagued grabbed him. Charles did not fight. The fight had died out of him a long time ago. He didn’t even lift his head when they dragged him past the hallway leading to the torture chambers. He used to fight, at one point he had even broken free but there was no way out of the prison without a map. He was just going to let it happen.
What happened is they brought him to another room down a different hallways where they had carved wicked looking red runes into the floor and a set of chains. They chained his wrists and forced him to his knees. One grabbed his long, shaggy hair and yanked his head back, forcing his mouth open. The other poured a thick, oily, foul tasting liquid. He swallowed willingly, it was the closest thing to water he had in days.
They left him on his knees for awhile, only to come back a few minutes later to drape something, hot and stinking over his shoulders. It stuck to his shoulders like a wet blanket, but was hot, burning almost. Or maybe he was just that cold. They started chanting after that in the Plagued tongue and whatever they had draped on him began to heat up. He managed a groan but was ignored. They just kept chanting and the heat kept building. Even inside him, he could feel it balling up in his gut like fire. It was hotter than fire, hotter than a battlefield in full rage and hotter than his memories of the sun shining down on him.
Hot enough that he scream, his voice rough and hoarse from disuse. The chanting never stopped though. It kept going on and on and on, endless while Charles screamed and writhed, pulling at his chains, desperately trying to get away. There was no hope of that though. Magic and chains held him in place while the skin worked its way into his body and the potion worked through his body.
Everything changed slowly. The skin from an evil spirit that they had draped over him became part of his body, turning it an ugly red-orange. The potion turned his flesh from skin and bone, to heavy muscles and grew him, taller and taller, tall enough to strain his chains. Then one of the Plagued approached him with a glass bottle, swirling with a purple-blackish smoke. The Plagued looked at him with its one good eye, the other was an empty socket. It smiled and then dropped the bottle which shattered on the stone.
Screaming like he was, he had to breathe in the smoke. That’s when the whispering started. That’s when Charles began to understand the Plagued chanting going around him. That’s when he felt strong. Strong enough to stand up. Though he saw the world now in a strange silvery outline with his captors a mix of dark blue and sickly reds, he had no trouble ripping his chains free.
“Well, well, well, this looks like a good arraignment.” A voice in his head said, louder than the whispers behind it. “Host, I am Charon. And you will be ferrying me.”
“No, no.”
“Yes, sadly for you.”
No longer in control, Charon used his hands to grab the Plagued by the throats. They were already dead when Charles wrestled control from Charon, took his body, his mind back. It burned, terribly, but the evil spirit skin disappeared, his body became skinny, sickly again and he collapsed back in the circle of runes, Charon still laughing in the back of his mind with the whispers.