It was advised once that I start writing my past to try and overcome it, then the present to view my own progress as I grow. Thus I am starting this now to try and do so. I don't know if it will have the desired effect, but at this time I am willing to try anything to put the past behind me and actually start living my life.
I was born in the city of Tyraturos, which is the capital of the tharch of Tyraturos. It is the hub of the slave trade and merchanting. Both of my parents were slaves and I would never meet them. I was whisked away as a newborn to be sold on the market as newborn elven slaves held a great market as nothing about them had been set in stone and were unmarred. I was quickly auctioned off to a Red Wizard from Thaymount by the name of Bezephaal Zorlus and taken from Tyraturos to live up in Thaymount.
During my first decade of life, I was taught to read, write and how to perform simple and mindless task, cleaning and polishing things. After the decade had passed though, I learned just how cruel of a man he could be, and his son Ondrik Zorlus as well. An upcoming mage, he was often permitted to practice non lethal spells on me, often leaving me in a bloody and battered heap before a cleric would come in, heal me and the process would start again. Other days I would find Master Bezephaal drunk and in a blind rage, and as fond as the whip as he was, he often found reasons to use it, if he even decided he needed a reason to.
The man was a monster, and if I could have hid from him at any time, I did or tried to. He had extreemly high expectations of a learning curve for slaves that was entirely unrealistic and often lead to slaves being tortured or lashed for hours on end. You were expected to learn and master his demands the very first time ever seeing or learning of it. Failure was painful and did not help with learning to know he was waiting for you to fail in any form. I believe the term best used for him is sadistic. The only time healing was ever applied to those beatings, is if his brutality got out of hand to endanger the life of his property, which healing would be enough to preserve life and possible stop the bleeding, prevent infections and so on. Other then that you were left in pain and told to get back to your work.
I remained his slave for fourty years before the man finally perished in his sleep. His son Ondrik immediately took ownership of me as the firstborn son and rightful heir to the family estate, and honestly things only got worse. He was drunk on his newfound power. He wanted more, more slaves, more power, more money. I can easily remember being forced to bed several of the female elven slaves till they were pregnant, regardless if they desired such from me or not, I was expected to complete the task. Though I would never be permitted to see them again once they were expecting, they were either kept for future slaves, or sold off as I was to increase his fortune. I never really asked as it wasnt permitted for me to think I had a right to even approach him on such. I was property after all, property has no rights.
Religion was outright banned. Even having a book of any religion was a punishable offense as slaves were not entitled to have their own religion or worship, slaves worshipped their Master, nothing more, nothing less. Ondrik was just as fond of the whip, and the drink as his father, the only difference was his disfavor of me. I don't know what it was about me he seemed to detest so strongly, but when he was drinking, he came hunting me. I can easily remember many of the savage beatings from him, not always with the whip, sometimes magic, sometimes crude instruments that he would grab, one of his favorites was having other slaves pin me down while he sometimes magically, sometimes physically carved into my skin, different markings, brandings, tattoos. Other times he would lock me in a dark pit of the house in his drunken state and forget about me for days on end. Then proceed to punish me when he did remember me for not doing my chores.
He eventually wound up with his own son, Inalchin. He also showed great promise in the magical studies. Though much of his magical studies was darker. Focusing more in Necromantic magics and the Netherese and their old ambitions. He often used me for sadistic experiments that would leave me barely clinging to life, in absolute agony and unable to move. Like his father he had a distaste for me, I am unsure if it was due to my elven heritage or something I had said or did that made them hate me, but there was no hiding from their wrath. I was ninety when his father finally died.
Inalchin like his father claimed me as his property, as well as the rest of the household. More days then I could count, I would not be fed. Unless he ordered me to be fed no food would be given and no mercy shown. I quickly lost weight and a lot of my strength with it. He seemed to enjoy watching me in this fragile state and often taunted me. Ordering me to stand in the dining hall while he would eat. Putting me on kitchen duty under heavy watch while food was being prepared. It was always closer to starvation I would be permitted a meal. Enough to prevent the starvation, but never enough to put back the weight or gain my strength back.
For twenty eight years I continued to take his torture and torment. Though part of me began thinking dangerous thoughts too. Thoughts of escape, of freedom beyond Thay. There is no way he would have ever let me go. No way that he would ignore my departure. One night of his drinking he came down to my room, a whip in one hand, a carving dagger in the other with two other slaves with him. They gave me a pitied look behind his back knowing well I was again the target of his drunken rage. For several hours I endured his brutality. Him cutting deep into my chest as the two slaves held me in place. I could only scream in agony until my throat was raw and unable to make sounds before he turned back to kicking, stomping and whipping me to try and get new screams.
At some point, I just lost it. I'd had enough. Suddenly I was ontop of him, blood covering my body and soon most of his. I was just punching again and again. Anger coursing through me as never before as the other slaves backed away in horror before fleeing the room. I could hear bones crack and give way as my anger continued unabated. Ten decades of rage finally released into one man soon left him in a broken bloody and dead heap. Covered in blood, starving, in agony and terrified I fled the house. Knowing well if I was caught for this crime, I would be brought directly before the Red Wizards Council. That is a worse fate then death as you become property of the Council instead for magical experiments far worse then anything my Masters had done.
I fled as far as I could, finding the forests in Dmir. I was good at hiding and evading the search parties. Foraging as I could, stealing when I had to. Surviving on the edge of starvation for almost six months before a dark mist rolled in one night. Beyond exhausted I could hear the hunters coming again and prayed that perhaps the mist would throw them off my trail. I fled into it and soon blacked out. When I woke, I was no longer in Thay, or relatively close to it. Honestly...I am grateful for the Mists.