(51 D-Elf Inv) (SCION) Uzurag the Weaver of the Elements, High Chancellor

.As you focus your will on the mortal, Uzurag, you find yourself akin to the
.now-alien emotions and disjointed thoughts of selfish mortality:

The task is complete. I have expanded my mind to mortal reaches few have ever
dared tread. I comprehend secrets and arts that would tear weaker minds asunder.
I control the sheer, seering directness of elemental fire.. The emotionless
frigid touch of the purity of ice is but an incantation away... I control the
elements this world is composed of. True power is in my grasp, but power is a
term too widely utilized and too broadly defined.

Power? I have no power. I am nothing. My demons still taunt me, I have come no
closer to my goal than when I have left the forever-dark prison of my birth. My
mother.. Argh, she is not my mother! She abandoned me! Too occupied with ruling
the Underdark, she forces her own son to title her as the others, as the Matron
Mother of the First House. But I am the matron son! Why was I to become a
slave?! Shunned! Why! They think I don't remember..

You feel time and space meld into one as Uzurag's mind brings you to the Drow
City under Thera, into the house of the first Matron Mother, as she lies
wracked with pain from the contractions a bulge in her stomach torments her
with. You feel strong bitterness and resentment to the matron mother, unlike
any you have felt thus far.

"Push, my Queen! The head is showing itself! Enjoy your pain, it is only a
harbinger of the doom you bring into this world." "SILENCE!" booms a powerful
feminine voice. Mass hysteria and confusion abounds the birthing room as the
nobles rush about uncertain and unsure of what action to take. After a few
heart-wrenching moments of silence, you see a drow slave, adorned with the
symbol of the Queen's chosen, lift a large baby above his head and it feels as
if the entire city is revelling in the glory of the Queen's new daughter and
future Queen. Suddenly, the husband of this child, moments before ridden with
joy, gasps and begins to choke for breath, stunned by an aspect of the child.
The nobles, in turn, begin to take finer notice and quiet themselves in turn,
appearing struck down. Oblivious, the masses continue with their celebrance.
The Mother lifts her head curiously, demanding her child, her daughter, her
Queen. The father, realizing his downfall and thus the end of his life, slowly
hands the child to the Queen, eyes lowered. What seems like tense eons of time
pass, before the Queen's hideous face contorts into a wicked mask of
disapproval as she booms "A BOY?! YOUR SEED GAVE ME THIS.. BOY?!" After a slur
of curses and unpleasantries ensues, the severed head of Uzurag's father brings
a tiny bit of satisfaction to the Queen. "VERY WELL. WE WILL TRY AGAIN. INFORM
THE SLAVES THAT ANOTHER FAILURE AND I WILL LOWER THEIR RATIONS FOR AN
ADDITIONAL YEAR!" booms the Queen Mother as she tosses the baby, as if a large
piece of fruit, to the nearest noble. Preoccupied, she booms: "INSPECT IT.
CLEAN IT. GIVE IT TO THE SLAVES. IT IS THEIR CONCERN NOW." In the nobles' panic
and haste, none notice the unusual, cognative expressions of hurt and shame
upon the child's face.

The fools, they did not know. They do not know. They will never know.. that I
remember the day. The pain, the confusion, the curse of genius. I understood
every word spoken, every deep- seated resentment, treatment, and punishment
carried out to me on that day and the weeks to come.

In my weaker moments I feel the demons take over my mind, plague it with the
miserable memories of my younger years. How I wish to be a slab of meat like
the other slaves, to revel in the joys of ignorance. Every hushed whisper,
every scornful glare, every painful wound. I remember it all, much like the ill-
breeds must remember the pains of their rehabilitative tortures. How my mother
would not recognize me.. no.. would choose not to recognize me. I remember the
days in the slave quarters. The nights as well..

As Uzurag's mind dwells on his adolescent slave days, you are suddenly very
aware of the sensations of hopelessness, abandonement, and pain.

"Shhh.. Yer gonna wake 'im" whispers the head slave, in rough uncivilized
tongue. "Remember, toss tha' bag o'er 'is 'ead, an' if yer feelin' quimsy, he's
one o' them noble-types, related ta tha' Queen Mother. Yer 'urt 'im good, e's
the reason we're slackin' behind. Always talkin' 'bout freedom, 'ow we ain't
gotta take any mo' o' this 'ere abuse. Damn kid's no good to us if'n e's fillin'
our minds wit' tha' garbage. Tha' bag? Tha' bag there so's 'e ain't gonna rat
us out ta' his friends up top. 'e ain't ta be trusted."

Sleeping deeply from a hard day's work, Uzurag barely notices the heavy burlap
bag being slid over his head, until the rope cinches about his neck and he
jumps up, asphyxated. Staggering blindly, he finds himself completely helpless
as the group of twenty slaves slowly begin to encircle him. What would only
last minutes seems like centuries upon centuries of crippling and mind-numbing
malaise and suffering as the slaves proceed to pummel the young boy to near
death. Blinded, Uzurag can do nothing but try and steel himself as massive,
violent forces assault all sides of his body. Large, blunt objects soar above
any tolerable threshold of pain as one is thrown at his face, shattering his
nose. Another bombards his legs, forcing him to fall to his bloodied knees with
broken arms outstretched, seeking to comprehend why he is in such pain, such
torment. Yet another blow lands against the side of his neck, shattering blood
vessels and slowing the flow of blood to his brain. And yet, the beatings
continued, bruising the length of his body. With all digits crushed, knee and
elbow bones twisted, ribs broken, face shattered, and the muffled screams of a
thousand deaths from his ravaged voicebox Uzurag could do nothing else other
than fall into unconsciousness. Left for dead in a pool of his own blood and
waste, his mind, the lone survivor of the ambush, realized in a rather panicked
and frenized state that he must escape out of his many prisons and into the
unknown, the surface world. He had yet to realize how quickly his mind had
thought up of a thousandfold more deaths for every one he had endured. His
subconscious goal further developing itself since birth, he saw fit to destroy
all of mankind, because as such with blind rage and prejudice, he quickly
rationalized the conclusion that all living beings would inevitably betray him
and seek to bring him harm. He had yet to realize that the surface world would
bear cruelties and harshness of its own.

Yes, I remember the night well. But they do not know that soon I will
understand and harness the night to repay those fools who have wronged me. The
demons, they will be nothing but corpses, both imaginary and real, piled up
high against the Night sky. Oceans of blood, for every droplet I had spilled.
Screams of torment, to match mine. And hatred, how it drives one to his goals.
But enough of that past, I have a new future to bring about. In due time, all
will be unfolded.




If anyone wishes their submissions not to be re-posted, please contact
Grurk at: grurk@carrionfields.com