Note - 1) TW: Abuse. 2) This short-story is subject to change as the OP is useless and indecisive as to whether her human Inquisitor should be a mage or a rogue- either way the story will remain essentially the same. This one's for the champion's who've shown an interest in Raen already- hope you like it.
"C'mon, do it!" he smirked, pressing an accusatory finger to her chest, pushing her away. He was older than her by almost two years, yet they were of near equal height. The stables were quiet, with only the occasional servant flitting across the courtyard depite it being the dead of night, though none would stop to help, not since Smithy had tried.
I'm sorry, little lady, I know why he does it. Yer mother, she… wasn't a noble like his mama…and she was a Rivaini. Ah, It'll make sense when you're older."
"No it won't. That's not why he hates me Smithy, he wants me to do it again, but I can't." The littlest Trevelyan, or half-Trevelyan, bit her lip. Bright golden eyes avoiding his gaze beneath knitted brows.
"Do what again m'lady?", Smithy frowned, unsure what to expect. He hadn't heard anyone else call the girl "my lady" but it seemed proper to him.
She beckoned with a small finger and he leaned closer. "He wants me to do the magic again. So he can prove it this time…" Smithy did not have time to respond to the revelation that Raen Trevelyan was indeed a mage, for almost instantly the door to the Castle Smith flung open to reveal none other than her elder half-brother, Dante, who had discovered her last hiding place.
"What are you doing?" he snapped at her. The poor girl recoiled, shrinking so that he seemed to tower over her. Now, Smithy was only an apprentice, but even he knew that when a half-noble girl was in trouble, one leapt to her aid. Dante had picked up a sword from the cooling rack ands was brandishing the still-orange steel at Raen, spluttering various insults and variations of "show me".
Smithy was not slow to act, snatching the sword rather easily from the agitated eleven year old. "Get out of 'ere yer little bastard!" Unfortunately the Smith continued in this fashion, picking up a dull blade and whacking Dante on the arm with it, gently though hard enough to cause a bruise. The child wailed and scampered off, positively screaming for his mother and the castle guards in turn."
Raen did not see Smithy again, only heard the cries, only saw the blood.
She was fifteen now and Dante attacked her more than ever. It was growing more difficult not to hurt him, not to retaliate. Neutrality and numbness only stretched so far. This evening was no exception. The boy was, once again pushing the limits, to see if she would either tattle or fight. It was the middle of the night and Dante had woken her, kicking her in the stomach. "Get up!" he had cried. She obeyed, it would only be worse if she did not. Now they hid in the stables, waiting for the last servant to leave. Dante had obviously cooked up something original for his latest prank. He pushed her out into the yard, poking her in the back with a sharpened stick, drawing blood.
Before she knew it he kicked her into the fountain and threw her bed sheets in alongside her. It was cruel, even for Dante, though the worst was yet to come. He picked her up, only once she and the sheets were satisfactorily wet. Then he wrapped her in them, tightly so that she was forced to stand. The he simply left. As the hours wore on the sheets dried with the onset of dawn and as they dried they cut, slicing her all over. She could do nothing but stand there. The servants ignored her, for the last time, as Dante sauntered his way over to her after he had broken his fast with his mother. He began to laugh, surprised at how well his plan had worked. The ever-present pressure in her chest built, she could hear her heart beating, she could see every pair of eyes that had ever turned away when Dante appeared to torment her, they eyes of Dante's mother cold and blue. She could smell the wine on the breath of her father's guests looking at her as if she were something dirty, feel their rough hands on her thin dress, she could hear the silence, the lengthy gulp of wine whenever Lord Trevelyan noticed. That silence rose - the noise bleeding into a clear and continuous din- there was no wine cup for her to drown her complaints. She was no bauble, no plaything, she bled- just as they would. And for the first time, she bared her teeth.
As Dante screamed, so did the servants, even a few guards called out in horror, presuming from the bloody sheets that she had performed some sort of blood magic ritual to cut the boy every which way. They would not care for her explanation so she gave none. it was simple enough to see, she had given what she had received for years, every scar, burn and bruise replicated in a mirror who now sobbed with terror. Her father did not speak to her, only gave her a sorrowful stare and carried his son, his only child, away to the Infirmary, not before handing the Templars a dark velvet coin purse. Perhaps he did not notice the fact his own daughter shared identical wounds and scars, perhaps he no longer cared.
The Templars were not gentle, nor were they kind when they took her away to Ostwick Circle, but they did not realise what a kindness it truly was.