Chase Brent || Caleb Widogast đ„ (weboffire) wrote in dunhavenic, @ 2019-12-06 22:06:00 |
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Entry tags: | !narrative, * andrea, c: chase brent |
WHO: Caleb Widogast / Chase Brent
WHEN: Dreaming, night of December 6th (About 14 years before the main events of Critical Role campaign 2)
WHERE: Rexxentrum
SUMMARY: Chase has a dream of what Caleb was, before he was Caleb.
WARNINGS: Alluding to torture and mind control, self-loathing and general Feels. SPOILERS FOR UP TO CR2 2x18
âBren, do you hear me?â Darkness still floated around his mind, the pain having previously been too unbearable to stay awake for, and his body now rested uncomfortably on the bench, slumped to the side. His arm was still held tight, though, and when Brenâs eyes finally opened, he was in a familiar spot. He had been here before, a dozen times, each one meant to see just how long he could last. Finally, his eyes settled on the soft voice talking to him. It was low enough so he wouldnât hear, Bren knew. But that was ridiculous, wasnât it? Master Ikithon was doing what was best for the Empire. His experiments were for the good of the empire. Bren just had to be strong enough. Right now, he didnât feel strong enough. He felt weak, and unsure, and afraid. He felt like the hand holding him was the only thing tethering himself to this plane of existence. When he finally looked at her, she was all he could see. The reason he kept going. âAstrid, I-â She silenced him before he could go on, always stronger than him. âShh, no, not now.â And then he was silent, nodding just barely before letting his head rest against the wall. His hand came up, brushing over tips of the blue, glass crystals sticking out of cuts in his arm. They were supposed to make him powerful, into a weapon of the Empire. Into what they needed. He was the most gifted, the most talented, the one with the arcane knowledge to rival others, but somehow he couldnât handle implants of arcane nature? Weak. Bren Aldric Ermendrud was weak. That was what they would say, instead of heralding him as a hero. There was a little voice in the back of his mind that was starting to grow, starting to mature and to pipe up louder, as if it were a child finally finding purchase in this dark, deep cavern. That child was just starting to stand, to gain itâs footing, when the door to the small, cold chamber opened. The hand on his arm was removed, Astrid pulling away from their bond with little hesitation. âHaving doubts, are we?â The smooth voice of Master Trent Ikithon filled that void, the cold chamber icing over in Brenâs mind. Before he could even protest (oh, how he didnât want to protest, how he wanted to be brave for once in his life), Ikithonâs hand came out from under his robe, a rod in hand. âTime to change that, Bren. Canât have my best pupil,â There was a snide little look at Astrid, who sat up straighter. âLooking weak.â Brenâs eyes closed again, but he didnât fight. The no, please was stuck in the back of his brain, that child falling back into the cave and hiding once again, coward that he was. Instead, he nodded a little and opened his eyes once more. âFor the Empire.â |