The Broken Rod
Posted: Sat Apr 24, 2021 8:25 pm
This could go in the library, but I'm hoping it catches up from character backstory to the current day quickly, and serves as Alain's experience of events on WD. Won't include anything too spoilery but I suppose it's a bio of sorts too.
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Crack
The weathered rod came down hard on his back, the count of strikes quickly forgotten in the white flash of pain flaring behind his eyes. How many orphans had been chastised, beaten until their skin bruised and split, by this instrument of torture? Long as he could remember the rod had never broken.
Crack
Another searing convulsion lanced up his spine. He grit his teeth – he was no stranger to the rod, but the funny thing about pain is you never seem to get acclimatised to it. Not at the age of nine anyway. He didn’t cry, which only seemed to make the punishment worse. One day he should try crying.
Crack
“Do what you’re fucking told boy!”, sneered the corpulent matron. “How many times we have to teach you this lesson?”
Seemed like the only lessons the orphanage taught was to keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told. And lessons in pain, of course. Plenty of those.
Crack
“Now get up and get dressed you scrawny little shit. You’re late for assembly and we’ve a guest. An important guest! I ought beat you for your insolence. Maybe I will later.”
She would. She always did. Doesn’t matter that he was late on account of taking a beating in the first place – there was always another one coming, for one reason or another. The other orphans didn’t like spending much time with him, but she certainly did.
He pulled his threadbare burlap shirt on and hurried after the waddling matron. No point showing defiance; everyone knew what that got you. The rod doesn’t break but the will of a child is easily snapped.
Through austere mouldering hallways and past flea infested furniture they made their way to the torchlit assembly hall, the din of another busy day in Ormath a million miles away on the other side of grimy ill-fitting windows. No point thinking about that - only place orphans ever went was the workhouse and that was widely agreed to be considerably worse than the orphanage.
Rows of lice-ridden children lined up facing the headmaster, their small hands scratching and itching beneath moth-eaten clothes. An occasional giggle stifled, wary of the consequences that undue amusement might bring. The rod doesn’t break, but sense of humour is among the first things to yield.
“Today children we have a visitor. Yes, yes, a rare and blessed day! A visitor from the Tower of Skulls no less!”, the headmaster was a snivelling, weak looking man, his balding head glistening with sweat and similarly damning moist patches seeping down from his armpits. “This is priest…”
For the first time he noticed the man – a towering wide-shouldered giant of a person. Obsidian black hair tied back with not a wisp out of place. Firm stubbled jaw that looked as though it could sunder timber. Most strikingly, he had cold, hard eyes. Grey like the sky before a storm. He did not smile.
“Doomguide.” The man's brief correction was final and indisputable. With one alien word the assembly hall was brought to a deafening silence.
“Yes...yes, of course.” stuttered the headmaster, wringing his hands and reaching out apologetically before quickly reconsidering and cowering to a shadowy corner.
Without further comment or permission the man strode forward, pale torchlight flickering off burnished iron platemail. Floorboards crunched and splintered under his oiled leather boots, more used to splintering the soft soles of children’s feet than withstanding the weight of armoured warriors.
Those piercing joyless eyes surveyed each of the children in turn, what judgement was being rendered on their pitiful bodies undisclosed. A thin line of blood from the earlier beating began to weave its way down to his filthy ankles, then dripped with a pitiful plop to the rotten floorboard.
The man approached him at last, lips pursed throughout his silent assessment.
The matron raised the rod to strike. “Not that one Ser, he is…”
The man’s hand rose so swiftly to backhand the matron that it might not have happened, except for her immediately beginning to blubber as the splotchy welt flourished on her sagging cheek. Just as quickly the man seized the rod from her flopping bloated hand and with not even a flicker of effort crushed it between sturdy calloused fingers.
Wordlessly the man tossed a bulging coinpurse to the headmaster, immaculate golden circles spilling forth as it thumped to the floor. More money than had ever been seen in the orphanage, surely.
“Come.” The man commanded, no room for negotiation as his boots thunderous echoes made their way toward the orphanage’s dilapidated exit. “What’s your name boy?”
“Alain.”
_______________________________________________________
Crack
The weathered rod came down hard on his back, the count of strikes quickly forgotten in the white flash of pain flaring behind his eyes. How many orphans had been chastised, beaten until their skin bruised and split, by this instrument of torture? Long as he could remember the rod had never broken.
Crack
Another searing convulsion lanced up his spine. He grit his teeth – he was no stranger to the rod, but the funny thing about pain is you never seem to get acclimatised to it. Not at the age of nine anyway. He didn’t cry, which only seemed to make the punishment worse. One day he should try crying.
Crack
“Do what you’re fucking told boy!”, sneered the corpulent matron. “How many times we have to teach you this lesson?”
Seemed like the only lessons the orphanage taught was to keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told. And lessons in pain, of course. Plenty of those.
Crack
“Now get up and get dressed you scrawny little shit. You’re late for assembly and we’ve a guest. An important guest! I ought beat you for your insolence. Maybe I will later.”
She would. She always did. Doesn’t matter that he was late on account of taking a beating in the first place – there was always another one coming, for one reason or another. The other orphans didn’t like spending much time with him, but she certainly did.
He pulled his threadbare burlap shirt on and hurried after the waddling matron. No point showing defiance; everyone knew what that got you. The rod doesn’t break but the will of a child is easily snapped.
Through austere mouldering hallways and past flea infested furniture they made their way to the torchlit assembly hall, the din of another busy day in Ormath a million miles away on the other side of grimy ill-fitting windows. No point thinking about that - only place orphans ever went was the workhouse and that was widely agreed to be considerably worse than the orphanage.
Rows of lice-ridden children lined up facing the headmaster, their small hands scratching and itching beneath moth-eaten clothes. An occasional giggle stifled, wary of the consequences that undue amusement might bring. The rod doesn’t break, but sense of humour is among the first things to yield.
“Today children we have a visitor. Yes, yes, a rare and blessed day! A visitor from the Tower of Skulls no less!”, the headmaster was a snivelling, weak looking man, his balding head glistening with sweat and similarly damning moist patches seeping down from his armpits. “This is priest…”
For the first time he noticed the man – a towering wide-shouldered giant of a person. Obsidian black hair tied back with not a wisp out of place. Firm stubbled jaw that looked as though it could sunder timber. Most strikingly, he had cold, hard eyes. Grey like the sky before a storm. He did not smile.
“Doomguide.” The man's brief correction was final and indisputable. With one alien word the assembly hall was brought to a deafening silence.
“Yes...yes, of course.” stuttered the headmaster, wringing his hands and reaching out apologetically before quickly reconsidering and cowering to a shadowy corner.
Without further comment or permission the man strode forward, pale torchlight flickering off burnished iron platemail. Floorboards crunched and splintered under his oiled leather boots, more used to splintering the soft soles of children’s feet than withstanding the weight of armoured warriors.
Those piercing joyless eyes surveyed each of the children in turn, what judgement was being rendered on their pitiful bodies undisclosed. A thin line of blood from the earlier beating began to weave its way down to his filthy ankles, then dripped with a pitiful plop to the rotten floorboard.
The man approached him at last, lips pursed throughout his silent assessment.
The matron raised the rod to strike. “Not that one Ser, he is…”
The man’s hand rose so swiftly to backhand the matron that it might not have happened, except for her immediately beginning to blubber as the splotchy welt flourished on her sagging cheek. Just as quickly the man seized the rod from her flopping bloated hand and with not even a flicker of effort crushed it between sturdy calloused fingers.
Wordlessly the man tossed a bulging coinpurse to the headmaster, immaculate golden circles spilling forth as it thumped to the floor. More money than had ever been seen in the orphanage, surely.
“Come.” The man commanded, no room for negotiation as his boots thunderous echoes made their way toward the orphanage’s dilapidated exit. “What’s your name boy?”
“Alain.”