Young Writers Society

(I understand how you feel! We could get him talking to other slaves if you like--his primary mission is to observe and gather information, but that doesn't mean he can't have his own agendas and make friends. Is there something Pratik might want to get done while he's in Wolf Keep? And I for sure won't be hurting any more of your main characters as badly as Aleth was; that's a one time thing.)

(aha okay perfect! Hmm I don't have anything in specific I want him to accomplish, but he's the type of person who would be looking to gather any and every piece of information he can get his hands on, whether it's helpful for the war or not. Like, any juicy gossip around the Keep regarding anything at all, or a brief history of what things are/have been like, etc. Just generally nosy lol)
(Also do you remember what his cover name is? I remember he pretended to sell himself in order to ransom his "kidnapped daughter" since he felt that was a stronger alibi than the journalist pitch, but I can't remember what name we settled on. Alen? Aran? Am I even close? lol)

(Aren Presha was his name, according to the other rp. So you were very close! There'll be plenty of information around the Keep from lots of sources, so Pratik might enjoy that. I can organize interactions with the elusive mother and sister of Ithicus Tarr as well, since I keep forgetting they exist.)

(Ooh that would be really cool to meet them!)

(Great! Once I get back from my walk would you like me to type up a post, or would you rather post first as the one who knows more about what Pratik might have been up to?)

(I have no idea where would be realistic for him to be, but I’ll make something up and can edit it if necessary lol)

Pratik didn’t like Tarr. He didn’t think he was going to, just from hearing about the bastard. He didn’t like him when Tarr was purchasing him. And the longer he was here, the more his loathing grew.

He wasn’t properly angry. It took a lot to set Pratik’s temper off, at this point. Like, looking through his most intimate of poetry, for example. It took personal humiliation to make Pratik properly angry. Which could only be accomplished by intelligent people, of whom Tarr was not one.

So, Pratik could deal with the general rudeness and dehumanization. All part of the job. But it didn’t mean to be happy about it. And it certainly didn’t mean that he had to like Tarr.

In fact, he was contemplating doing the fucker in once this job was up. But for now. Silent. Submissive. Observant.

Pratik had — somehow — found himself without anyone telling him what to do this afternoon. And he fully intended to capitalize on the opportunity. So he was wandering around, making a mental note of the lay out of the entire Keep, contemplating what his chances were if he decided to start checking if doors were locked and going snooping around if not.

Seventeen-year-old Etha Tarr had been keeping to the upper floors for awhile now. Her brother could never be bothered to go looking for her or Mother--he was probably angry at them for something, he just wouldn't care enough--so the safest course was to have meals in the kitchen and then return to one of the many halls Ithicus ignored. It was all such a hassle, playing hide-and-seek in her own home. Etha was losing patience with it all, and she was about ready to steal a horse and ride off to the Southern Realm, or even one of the other Lords' Keeps.

Etha was scribbling into one of her many journals as she walked, paying no heed to where she was stepping--no one came up here except Alexander the apothecary and a few servants--and so she sprawled flat when she ran headlong into Pratik.

Pratik had rounded the corner too tight -- and too quick -- so he didn't have a chance to react as a young girl slammed into him before she then fell. A surge of panic stabbed through Pratik. Best case scenario was that he'd just caused an adolescent girl to fall over, and possibly even get hurt. Worst was that it was someone important. Or that someone important had seen it.

Pratik didn't wait to see which it was. His body was moving before his brain had a chance to catch up and be the one to start making decisions. So, Pratik swiftly wrapped his hands around either of the girl's upper arms and easily hauled her to her feet. "Terribly sorry." He bent and picked up the book she'd been carrying, and held it out to her, eyes locked on the ground. "My sincerest apologies."

Etha blinked, too startled to protest as the slave helped her up. She accepted the book in silence, peering at him closely. "It's my fault," she said hesitantly, clutching her journal tightly. "I should've been looking where I was going." Her brow furrowed. "You're not supposed to be up here, you know."

“Apologies,” Pratik repeated, deciding against an alibi of him not knowing. The Lord of the Keep clearly didn’t want him to speak, even if spoken to. He could only assume this was another Tarr, and that she was as nasty as the rest. He took a step backward, keeping his gaze on the ground.

Etha studied him. He didn't look like he'd been a slave here for very long, or even a slave in general for very long. He held himself as if he was still trying to feel obedient.
"Well, you're here now." She shrugged. "How long have you been my brother's slave?"

“About a week, ma’am,” Pratik answered respectfully, still never looking up. He desperately wanted to get a hint of emotion from looking at her face, but he wasn’t going to risk that. At least not yet. It was bad enough she’d caught him at all.

Only a week. Etha nodded slightly. "I'm sorry for you."

Pratik blinked, his gaze snapping to her face for a moment before he locked them back on the ground. It sounded like sympathy. But given she was a Tarr, he couldn’t help but wonder if it was a threat. Sorry for what he’d just earned. “I didn’t realize I wasn’t supposed to be up here. I’m sorry.”

"Well, now you know." Etha crossed her arms, still holding the journal. "So, er...don't get caught. You'll get a thrashing." Or worse. Her brother wasn't one to pull his punches. Nor had her father been.