Thread: The Overdue Destruction of House Vorn

Twenty years of being slapped, beaten, tortured, bloodied, bruised, and broken. It had gone too far. This time it had just been the final straw. With his golden yellow robes drentched in blood and sweat, the drow wizard opened his chamber's doors stumbling in, barely able to stand once again. Ryltar Vorn, the seventh child and only son of Marton Svliz Vorn, collapsed on the cold flagstone floor of the largest servant's room in his mother's House. The cold stone helped ease the throbbing his back was doing, but it started to leave a slick mess of blood and fabric at the same time. With his eyes closed, he took deep breaths, trying to catch the wind that evaded his sharp nose. Laying on his back silently for a few second, the most violent fit of rage over took the fraile drow male. With a loud angered shriek, Ryltar slammed his powerful fists into the hard stone, ignoring the fact he just now broke a pinky on his ledt hand. Screaming every obscenity he could muster, Ryltar broke down into the most miserable pile of tears and tattered wizard's robes. His delicate chest heavied as he outwardly moaned and wept. The frustration had just overtaken the young man to the point of breaking. He couldn't take this any longer. His remaining four sisters used abd abused the wizard. They had already climbed the ranks to sit at their Marton's feet as loyal lap spiders, but because of his sex, he was forever doomed to be second rate. Never to be taken seriously. Never to be important. Never to be worthy to their arachnid goddess. Ryltar felt the all too familiar pain of broken bones creep up his arm. He realized something in his left hand was broken, and he slowly stilled from his terrible outburst. Just laying on the floor, beyond the desire to move, he weakly called out to his ever loyal manservent. Jarikk... I think my left hand has a broken finger. he said choked with suppressed rage, pain, desperation, and revenge. The ivory hair of the young wizard had been caked with his drying blood, making it a smelly clumped mess of brown save for the crown of his regal skull. Finally, he opened his mango eyes and scanned the room, resting his gaze on the worried face of the goblin. Now, Jarrik was no ordinary goblin. He had been assigned to Ryltar when he was a child. It wasn't that the goblin had any special powers or teachings that is, noticable to anyone 'important', but rather, his Matron and sisters just didn't have the motivation to rear a male. Especially since he was the last child born to Matron Vorn. House Vorn's gobilns were prized amongst local rivals. They had been bred for longevity and loyalty. They lived nearly three times as long as their inferior bretheren in other Houses and they had a tendency to be obediant at a much higher level than regular goblins. There laid Ryltar, watching Jarikk approach him with such a look on his regal face. The blood loss was getting to the young drow. His eyes were getting heavy and he was feeling loopy. Stretching his broken hand towards his faithful and ever calm manservant, the wizard fell still and quiet. Not dead, but terribly broken. It would take the ever caring touch of a special goblin to mend the poor boy's injuries once again.