Abatha Tristy Lar

The door to a damp, dark, dungeon cell flew open. Torch light gave light to three hooded priestesses clad in black robes followed by an elderly man adorned in a fine scarlet vestment. Two of the priestesses dragged a blindfolded and bleeding Tristy into the room; hanging her arms around their neck. They released her near lifeless body onto the cold center of the floor and walked out. The two remaining occupants stood observing the ancient hieroglyphics that scarred the young ladies back and torso. The elderly man kneeled down next to Tristy, running his gloved hand over her now shorned head. He removed one of his gloves and reached down to her ear.

Tristy felt a firm, withered Hands loosen her moldy blindfold. The room remained dark to her though, as she kept her eyes squeezed firmly shut. Pain seared through her nonresponsive frame. Her skin seemed to pulse and retire as every heartbeat drained more blood through dozens of small wounds scattered about her body. She fought with extreme lightheadedness that, if anything, helped to reduce the pains she felt about her exterior. Her pale lips mumbled nonsense as she started to shiver from exposure to the freezing, wet, stone floor. Her mind far exceeded all her exterior infirmities. Screams, her own and the ghosts of Clare’s, splintered her thoughts. Every emotional response was amplified tenfold as her brain processed thousands of horrific memories, many of which were hers and many of which were not. Tristy squirmed onto her stomach. She placed a hand over her face and rested her head’s weight against the ground.

Her shivering came to an abrupt halt as a heavy red mantle was tossed over her back. Two conversing voices, like ghosts, fazed in and out of Tristy’s conscious.
“…don’t make me remind… she is ready for… don’t worry… she reacted exceptionally well to the torture… aside from her random scars… some very interesting markings on her… only Darjima Lyn examined her… gave her far too much hawk’s eye… incisions need cleaning… I’ll see what I can do…”

Tristy flinched as the same withered hands wrapped around her stomach and pulled her up into a seated position. The red mantle was then wrapped and tucked around her miserable frame. An elderly man’s voice began to speak softly to her. The elderly man’s hands gently arched her head back and held a leather flask to her mouth. Fluid rushed down her throat in small enough increments that she did not choke. As the drink began to sooth her physical pains and mental storm, the man’s voice became more and more familiar. The old man gave a command to the other priestess to retrieve bandages. She walked out of the cell and clicked up an old, stone staircase. The man pulled Tristy’s right leg out from under the red mantle and poured the remaining liquid in the flask on to a long scrape that covered the front of her leg. It stung terribly, but nothing compared to what she had just gone through.

The old man rambled to himself. “D#$n girls, aren’t we cutting it a little close. Retrieve Abatha Lar, remap her mind, and bring peace to madness. A lot of good it will do us if the second key to unlocking the gate loses all of her blood, or dies of infection, or dies from Hawk’s Eye poisoning. Wouldn’t that be ironic… We retrieve the ancient gate key without losing a single man and our map’s legend dies of Hawk’s Eye poisoning. There was a time when we didn’t need Hawk’s Eye to convert new members. We actually had creativity back in those days, and I might add that we weren’t nearly as sloppy in our tortures.”

Tristy’s eyes opened slowly. The surroundings blurred at first, but slowly grew in clarity. Soon everything was in focus, however, something odd happened. Rather than focusing on items normally, colors became super saturated, shadows increased dramatically in contrast. When she focused on an object, everything else seemed to disappear and all that remained was the object in super clarity.

The old man saw her eyes buzzing from one thing to the next in a frenzied blur. He put his glove over her face and continued to dab her scraped knee. The priestess could be heard coming down the old stairs. She entered the room holding a tray covered in ratty rags and makeshift bandages. She held a pitcher of alcohol in her free hand. She set the supplies down on the ground next to Tristy.

She then began conversing with the old man again, mentioning him by name. “If you will excuse me, Master Haley, but…”

Haley… that name clicked into place in Tristy’s stressed mind. She began struggling to remove the glove from her face. With what remaining will power she had left, she raised her arms out from under the red mantle and tugged on the hand that attached itself to the glove. She received a moment’s glimpse of a very familiar face.

In extreme desperation, she called out to the old man, in a shocking explosion of volume, “SAMUEL PLEASE HELP ME!!!… SAMUEL PLEASE!!!… PLEASE, ITS TRISTY!!!...” She went into a fit on the floor. She struggled to be free from the grasp of the very man she called to. The priestess helped hold Tristy in place. Tristy’s tone changed to more of a whimper, “SAMUEL please… Samuel please help me… they killed Clare… They killed Clare and they’ll kill me… they’ll kill me, Sam… I can’t go there yet Sam. I’m not ready.” Tristy broke into tears.

The old man held Tristy by the face, forcing her eyes to meet his. “Tristy…Tristy, look into my eyes. You are safe now. We rescued you, Tristy. We rescued you from your father. He killed Clare, Tristy. Your father killed Clare, just like he killed your mother. He won’t kill you though, Tristy. We saved you. We saved you.”


(Nothing like a bit o' good ol' fashion brainwashing to help traumify your life. Look up more info on Samuel Haley in Sir Lar's Bio.)