The Chamber's Slave Pens
This is where Chamber slaves are kept. Slaves are permitted to post here ONLY. If your character is not a Chamber member or a slave, please do NOT post here.
The silence is oppressing, the thick sides of the mountains muffling any cries that might escape its unforgiving bowels. Seraph, the Chamber's Witch-Doctor, has hollowed out the far northern mountain, creating a confusing, twisting maze of narrow and wide passages alike. Along these hellborne corridors, there are slave pens, just large enough for a horse to turn around it. They are fashioned from some great creature's bone, bleached white and yellow, and the entrance bars slide back only when an enlisted Chamberling touches it. The pens nearest the mountain's front entrance are less ... torturous than those further along the winding, stone-lined channels. Some are lined in skin-lacerating stalactite and stalagmite, others smooth stone. The worst of them hold rusting, metal shackles, desperate to bite into the ankles of some poor Chamber slave. Most have slow-filling pools of water, their source the mountain's leaking walls. To leave the pens is to follow the strict bidding of the Chamber member with you -- if you cannot cooperate, well then, your stay in the Chamber will be most unpleasant ...
hey, you're a crazy bitch.
IP: 97.25.171.212
Posted on August 12, 2012 at 10:42:51 PM by frostreaver.
The sound of her giggling precedes her, the innocent sound out of place in this dark, dank prison. It reverberates off the damp stone walls, it's echoes fading to nothing somewhere down a cobwebbed passageway. There is the faint clip-clopping of hooves followed by a scrape and a click, the uneven sounds bringing to mind visions of a little girl dancing, twirling and pirouetting down the mountain corridors. It's not long before she comes into view, the cool night's stars reflected in her eerie grey eyes. She moves steadily, sedately, as if she has all the time in the world. Her face, black as night, marred only by the smallest of pink snips, wears a gentle smile, a smile that does not quite reach her eyes much in the same fashion of her sire, a smile that speaks clearly of some private joke.
"They'll only make you wait longer, as much noise as you're making," she says, not unpleasantly but rather matter-of-factly. She moves closer to the bone cage, lost for a moment in her curious inspection of it, careful not to touch it and release it's contents. Her tail, already lengthening from it's bottlebrush state, brushes it's silken strands across her delicate hocks. "Of course, I could feed you ..." She looks up to meet the stallion's eyes, the musty smell of caged bodies filling her nostrils. Doe-eyed, she shifts closer, her muzzle a hairsbreadth from the white, curving bones of the cage. "But first you have to talk to me," she says with a decisive nod of her head, smiling that wide, sweet smile that is but grace perfected. "What did you do to get thrown in our cages?" she asks, tilting her head to the right.
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