#caelon

And yet, he throws them down. The brownblood facing him with a quarterstaff glances down at the magical malachites, hesitant for a moment, but he swings none the less. Caelon ducks, waiting for the result. Another swing, Caelon is forced to raise his arm to block it with a painful thunk as it hits flesh. He curses. It hurts. 

You wouldn’t have this problem with a real weapon.

He kicks over a trash can to push the brownblood back; They vault over it and deliver a downward swing. 2 feet closer, and it would have caved him in. Caelon jumps back again. Those damn dice need to land already!

The brownblood does not let up. Two more swings, a jab. Fatigue is digging its claws into Caelon. Coupled with the roaring pain in his arm, he’s barely able to keep up now. 

What about those stupid gems makes you refuse to let them go?

The staff swings down. Caelon knows he can’t dodge, so he raises his safe arm and prays it won’t break. 

A loud crack rings through the alley. Caelon flinches, waiting for the pain, but it doesn’t come. He dares slowly peels his eyes open, and gasps. His arm didn’t break. The staff did. It broke against the bright, green shine enveloping his arm like armor. Caelon insticntively know this outcome: 8x6x4, Disquieting Durability. 

Another crack echoes through the alley. The brownblood is sent flying by a punch you’d expect from someone twice Caelon’s size. His arms don’t hurt anymore, and all that fatigue is dispelled like the darkness from a candle light. The brownblood skitters up to their feet. Eyes wide with shock, they swing again, but now, Caelon sees it telegraphed so very obviously. He ducks, gets in close, then rips the staff away to crack it like a twig. One more punch is all it takes to knock the brownblood both to the ground and out of consciousness.

(They'd pulled him away from his parents' corpses. His mother was killed when they'd run the carriage off the road, his father by an arrow)

And it doesn't matter anyway. He's stuck with them, and his best chance at avoiding misery is not thinking and just doing what he's told

(He'd thought the bandits would kill him. They didn't. They laughed when he told them he was seventeen, and said something about a long-term deposit) 

And it doesn't matter what it is he's told, because doing anything else only brings pain, a lesson he's learned dozens of times by now.

His new masters are bright and cheerful. They travel in a large group, with a big wagon pulled by a pair of mules that holds an assortment of props and costumes

(He has a distant memory of watching a troupe of actors as a child, some colorful show that made him laugh--)

He hasn't been with them for long, and hasn't been asked to do much and that scares him. How can he do what he's told if he isn't told anything?

The bandits had called him 'boy', nothing more

(My name is Caelon--)

And now, the new masters call him nothing, nothing yet, though he's heard them speak of him, calling him 'the young prince'

(Caelon, prince Caelon)

The bandits had done the same when they'd sold him; cleaned him up and paraded him around the market, calling him princeling until a curious buyer asked the price.

And brought him to the rest of the troupe.

The first time they pull a show on the edge of town, the first time they pull him onstage afterwards and auction off a night with the princeling, his heart is in his throat and it's all he can do to keep standing

(And it's a richly dressed man with the winning bid, who leads him to a canopy in the back. And he follows along, numb to the wandering hands that shouldn't be there, numb the next morning)

But he does what he's told. It's all he can do.

He learns quickly that his purpose within the troupe is to entertain the patrons who stay later

(Push down discomfort and pretend he wants to be there, pretend he wants them)

And if at least one guest doesn't stay late enough, there will be no meal waiting for him the next morning.

His new masters don't hit him often though, and isn't that a good thing?

(Then why is this so much worse?)

Before too long, he's fallen back into rhythm, and the days become nothing more than an endless pattern. There is only when they travel and when they stop, when he eats and when he can't.

When he sleeps and when he doesn't.

“I’ll KILL YOU!!!” You double your efforts now! His stupid voice will not go unanswewed. Unanswered. Ugh!!! Alright, wild flailing isn’t doing much. You think you smacked his face, but that seemed to hurt, so it’s not idea. Instead, you placed your free foot squarely against the wall of the couch and kick, shoving you both down to your mutual, floor-based demise. “OOF.”

It’s a hard landing, but it disentangles the little greenblood from you enough to kick him off. “HA HA!!” There will be no truce. You leap at him and grab his arms, almost pinning him down when he kicks you from the back with his stupid agile legs. You take a face-first tumble into some pillows - an unfortunate victim caught in the crossfire - and chuck them at him wildly. Some miss by a wide margin, but one gets him in the face. A perfect hit!

“OW- OW!” His call of feather-stuffed pain is nothing compared to the genuine yelp when you shove his arms back down into the floor, hitting his head into it on the way. Oof. You slip a quick apology, but he seems to shake it off well enough. This time, you sandbag on him, with your legs locking his down by sheer weight and lazyness. He is trapped beneath you!