Information

Alistral
Legacy Name: Alistral

The Graveyard Escalade
Owner: Knowledge

Age: 14 years, 7 months, 1 week

Born: October 22nd, 2009

Adopted: 14 years, 7 months, 1 week ago (Legacy)

Adopted: October 22nd, 2009 (Legacy)

Statistics

• Level: 1
   
• Strength: 11
   
• Defense: 10
   
• Speed: 10
   
• Health: 10
   
• HP: 10/10
   
• Intelligence: 0
   
• Books Read: 0
• Food Eaten: 0
• Job: Unemployed

Story

There exists in this world a certain kind of lass. This certain kind of lass, upon being subject to the cocked eyebrow and teasing smile of an exceptionally handsome member of the waitstaff, may find herself intrigued. So intrigued that she may find herself following such beckoning into places she ought not be.

This kind of lass may slip into a quiet corner, away from the bustle of the gala, and meet this beguiling caterer in quiet, secluded locations that young lasses of reputation could find themselves in trouble in. She may find herself welcoming this trouble, enjoying this trouble.

This kind of lass is a favourite of certain handsome waitstaff. However, when pursuing such a lass and such delightful trouble, there is one rule. Don’t get caught.

--~~--

How was he to know that such a lass just so happened to be the daughter of the local duke. It wasn’t as though he was granted the privilege of attending the introductions, a mere nephew to an esteemed priest. The reputation of his uncle would not save him from this particular trouble.

Even if the duke were to show him a rare mercy, he would never escape the ire of the lass’ betrothed. What the jilted man lacked in personality he made up for in voluminous demands. Calls for punishment, for reparations, for amends, the betrothed bellowed them all. So numerous were his requests that there was no hope of fulfillment.

Temporary incarceration. Just until a decision was made. Once they decreed what he must do in order to restore the lass’ honor, then he would be released. Or beheaded. Except, there exists a certain kind of lass whose honour cannot be restored, for she has tasted choice, experienced trouble, and she will not be satisfied by the path set out for her.

Trouble amplified. Chaos in the duchy. A manhunt for the missing daughter leaves little time or thought for a mere server languishing in a neglected dungeon. Of course, she is not truly missing; she has simply carved a path for herself that is unexpected. Except for by those who are familiar with a certain kind of lass. However, the priest’s nephew is languishing, and even a relation to the clergy does not exempt a person from basic needs of food and water.

The lass is never found by those who seek to use and control her. And the nephew is remembered and found far too late.

--~~--

His decaying body is disposed of on the outside of the ground. A shameful and painful reminder of the duchy’s loss. His uncle murmurs the last rites, and then an even quieter good riddance. He is buried in a shallow grave, unmarked, destined to be forgotten. Just another fool who peeved the wrong powerful man.

He feels it. The weight of soil atop his inert form. No amount of straining and flexing would move a muscle of his. Trapped in a tomb of dirt, a slow panic crept over him. His brain scrambled for some solution, some way of escape, some means of alerting anyone to his predicament.

Time moved as it is wont to do, dragging in agonizingly slow seconds, minutes, hours, counted by a man who has little else to do. Days spun by. On a particularly rainy occasion, he found his counting disrupted by a high voice chanting. The thunder grew louder and louder, yet never drowned out the consistent occult intonations.

On that night, the heavens pardoned his sins. Delivering unto him a miracle in the form of a mighty bolt of lightning that impaled him to his very soul. A shot up from his grave with a shaky gasp. Scrabbling and crawling his way out of the wet earth, dragging himself to the nearest tree and using it to right himself. He clung to it, the tree and his newfound hope that life had returned to him.

A second flash of lightening let him know he was not alone. The source of the chanting, of course. It takes a certain kind of lass to trek through the forest, in a rainstorm, during the full moon, to resurrect a corpse. Only a certain kind of lass would think a fitting gift of gratitude for illuminating the path to freedom was a perpetual, unending un-life of servitude. The duke’s daughter was most certainly a certain kind of lass.

--~~--

Sweeping. Mending. Fetching. Tending.

Compelled to complete any tasks she assigned him, he was exceedingly fortunate that she was kind and gracious, and only a bit mischievous. She had explained, her skill set was limited, this was the best she could do. For now. With his help, she could and would improve. Perhaps she could even find a way to restore his body to a more healthy state.

His flesh and bones have an annoying tendency to become misplaced if he is careless. Thankfully, a certain lass is capable of reattaching it, provided he doesn’t lose it. They get creative in the few cases of irrecoverable pieces, and he chooses not to ask where the replacements come from. He appreciates her care.

In the times between tasks, he finds himself a hobby. As she mends him, he sets himself to mending others. His first attempts are clumsy, but he learns quickly how to stitch and splint. To see the small critters scamper and flutter away, healed and recovered, it brings him a measure of peace and of hope. One day he too will be able to away from this abode and forget all about a certain kind of lass.

Depictions

evilitachi
Finnick

Pet Treasure

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