Thread: Underground to Upperground but still no Escape

The tall, slender male sat very still in the darkness, his pale hands folded delicately in his lap with his dispassionate eyes focused straight ahead. While some people may react to his situation with horror or fear, or perhaps wonder or curiosity, he simply remained as he was, taking in his surroundings with a curious sense of calmness. He was seated with his long legs folded awkwardly beneath his body, his dark curly hair curving elegantly around his ears and falling in delicate strands around his eyes framed in long lashes that curled away from his slate gray irises. His face was slender, white, with beautifully sculpted lips and tender aquiline features. He was dressed in the same crisp white dress shirt he had been wearing when he was abducted, the same starched trousers, but his leather shoes were missing and above each slender ankle a cuff of cold hard metal was clasped, fastening him to the dungeon wall. He couldn??t remember what he had been doing before he was clobbered gruffly over the head and lost all sense of awareness. He hadn??t been unconscious, but he was limp and placid as a ragdoll the entire trip. At the memory of having been struck, as though to spite him, a stinging pain traveled the length of his spine and jarred him into awareness. He grunted as he moved, raising a hand to his head to move the hair from his brow where it had begun to stick to his skin because of the sweat. He felt dirty, and he felt as though he were moving in slow motion. He was in shock, and the cuffs on his ankles, digging into his sensitive skin, were brutal reminders that what he was seeing was reality and not some strange nightmare that would at any moment come to an abrupt end. ?Is someone there?? he croaked in a voice that wasn??t his own, a strange strangled cry mingled with the tones of his speaking voice. He was not surprised when he received no response, despite the fact that he could have sword he heard someone close to him struggling against, perhaps, a similar restraint. He would have fought against his own, but he knew better than to fight a battle that could not be won he was not a large boy, but he was by no means week. His body, while pleasingly soft was coursing with lean muscle, and each of his movements were with the practiced grace of a man who knew his own beauty and the power of his angelic presence and used it to his advantage. He lit up a room, breathed life into the conversation, purely by being . It was a feeling which is impossible to describe. He blinked in confusion when a thin bar of light fell across the floor and reached almost to where his knees rested, created by one of the guards opening the door to the home above. ?Hey,? he called, more powerfully. ?Wait! ? please.? His voice was insistent, but pleasant. He begged the stranger to stay, come back and rescue him. He no longer wanted to be alone in this dusty place. He cleared his throat carefully, and moved his legs beneath him to rise, the sound of metal dragging against stone grating on his ears. ?I??m trapped.? But there was no response, only silence, as the door fell heavily shut and left Graeme to his own thoughts and devices. It was him and the darkness, once again, and the boy took on the appearance of a doll once again, staring at the wall before him like a lifeless doll until he found the strength to struggle against his own restraints. It would take time, and how was he to know just how much of that he would have? --- That was Graeme several months before he was ??marked??, before Adrian was brought into his mistress??s home. He was sitting, eerily in much the same manner, in one of the bedrooms of the home above the prison where he and Adrian would probably be spending a great deal of their time. He was not currently in any kind of trouble, having adapted a very passive outlook on his bleak existence, so he was permitted to sit in the house for a few hours a day and write short stories for the Madame. He was a writer before he came here, a novel already written and prepared for publication. He was an English major in highschool, seeking a career in literary fiction writing, but this was all stolen from him when his life was changed. He was granted permission to sit in this room and write out stories and plays for the entertainment of their keeper on the premise that his good behavior continue. It was such a simple request, but it was vastly important to Graeme??s young mind. It kept him from falling apart. He turned his head towards the door as Adrian entered, his brows arching in surprise. ?Are you lost?? he asked him, confused. As far as he knew, there were no others. There was a hint of irritation in his voice, as well as a streak of fear for reasons unknown. The boy was small, dirty, and probably not dangerous to Graeme??s own wellbeing.