Arlk Shatter-Shell's page

Normally all you see of the Thing in Rags and Tatters is just that -rags and tatters. Swathes of ragged cloth, clean if threadbear, have been stitched into something more skin to a small tent than a robe, creating a shapeless pile of cloth with a deep hood. No flesh can be easily seen in the deep sleeves, no face beyond the rope. Just cloth of dark reds and blues and black. And maybe the glint of a single turquoise eye.

But, if one were to see the figure bathing perhaps, to see Arlk swim in a lake or a secluded shore, they would see a ruin. A shattering of the Bedool form. Crooked limbs and gnarlred fingers, broken again and again until they only just bend and rarely without pain. Scars - a hundred scars visible to the naked eye across the street,a thousand more from an arms length away,so many that the green scaled skin seems jam packed by comparison. The Gods alone have the patience to count how many there truly are.

And the shell. One a massive, thick and hole carapace, now cracked, shattered and holed. Metal plates have been riveted to cover these gaps. But they do not cover the iunsults carved into the shell itself, in a dozen tongues.

But very few have seen that, and if the Thing has his way, very few will. Still, they will smell the salt of the sea on his skin and hear the deep voice with a horse, rattling edge to it.

Broken. Weak. Ruined. That is the mind or Arlk, what is left of it. 50 years of torment has left the sailor a shadow of him former self, an afterimage of what should be. A dire warning that death is far from the worse thing that can happen.

His will drained to a point where it is almost broken, his mind damaged, Arlk is not known for being strong in the head. He mutters to himself, as his was the only counsel that could be counted on, the only constant voice.

Lacking in confidence in himself, Arlk struggles to have confidence in others, and is not the most personable or compianonable person ever. He can be snappish of those he doesn’t fear, silent to those he does.

And yet...the Thing in Rags and Tatters remains. He runs, but he returns. He weeps but dries his eyes. He doesn’t raise his hand to those that do not deserve it. For the one thing that has driven him, decades of captivity and years of painful freedom, is a single, simple hope.

He wants to be better than he is.

And so he grumbles, but he helps. He stands while his gnarled legs beg to run. He isn’t perfect, and slips and fall. But...he tries. And few can ask more.

Once, a sailor went to sea, to see what could be seen.

It cost him an eye. And so much more.

Arlk, as with many of the Bedool, was born to the sea and lived his life on the sea. When he grew to maturity it was his wish and his fate to serve with his clutch on a ship, to sail the seas searching for what they could find. But something found them instead. A slaver ship, looking for plunder.

The Bedool are a heavy, powerful race and so very few are captured. Arlk was one of the unlucky few. Dragged into the hold of the ship, then dragged onto the shore. He was sick for days before he finally found his land legs, and still struggles to understand why so many races prefer the lack of rhythm the land brings.

Not many want a Bedool slave. They’re tough and strong, and could work. But many were strong willed, too, and faded away from the sea. But sometimes, the unusual is just what someone wants. It’s rarely for a good reason.

Arlk was sold to a dragon for a very good price. In the day, he toiled. He mined in the masters mines, and when his limbs were too twisted to wield a pick, he pushed carts of ore. Eventually, he was too weak for even that.

Because his nights, they were spent in the Master’s lair, in his presence of those of his acolytes. What happens if a Bedool shell is shattered? A question that Arlk provided an answer to. What is they loose an eye? Another answer. What if a cut is infected? Or exactly six inches deep? What is a leg is shattered? What if a food is cut off, and reattached with magic?

For 50 years this was his life. Arlk tried to escape, many times in the first few years, but he was always brought back and...discouraged. There is always something worse, in the end. Always another thing to fear. The knowledge that his fate was to die when one finally went too far was his only hope. Sometimes, in his dreams, he’d see a sword that he could reach out and touch. In his dreams, it glittered and the blood of his captors that it shed was so bright - brighter than his.

Eventually, an acolyte with a series of interesting experiments was sent to the Makhor Empire. There, he learned that the slaves had been...freed. All of them. Oh, not Arlk, of course. Even if the Master’s lair was in the empire. Not him. But it was interesting to know, wasn’t it?

And that night, the dream came. It can be yours, the voice said. Had there been a voice before? Arlk couldn’t remember. He wanted to not listen, though. But all he could hear when he turned away was the laughter of a million slaves made free and his own cries as his fingers were snapped, one by one. Take the gift. Take freedom. The sword hung in the air, but when he reached it moved. Say the words. Agree, be free!

”Yes.”

The raspy sound of his voice awoke Arlk, and in his hand was a sword. A long, heavy bladed weapon, barely usable in his awkward hands...but the first sharp thing he had held in 45 years. The chains that bound him parted under his desperate blows. So did the neck of the guard that came to investigate. Another ran, and the sword explained. A beam of Eldritch power took that one as they ran.

No one expected Arlk to try and escape. No one thought he could, anymore. And he found he could call the blade as he wished. A slave approaching was no danger. Not until it was too late.

He killed 12 as he escaped, including the acolyte of the Master.

To Arlk’s joy, the city was a port. He dived once more into the sea, grateful that he could finally die in its depths, to finally rest. But it wasn’t to be. A Bedool trader saw his kinsman stagger in to the sea and he was saved. They were horrified by his wounds, the layers of scar tissue. They set about healing what was left.

It took years, but freedom was sweet. Waspish muttering was met with calm words by his host. Broken body and shattered soul were mended by magic and medicine as best they could be, but fifty years of abuse had taken its toll. Still, it was what he needed.

And yet...Arlk had set out to see the world. All he had seen of it was an immense act of cruelty, and a great act of kindness. Perhaps...in his dreams, he’d seen the sword of an instrument to escape, but also as an instrument that could be used to help. Maybe it was time to do that. And he no longer wished to be a burden. He was free, now, but he wasn’t using that freedom. He was just existing.

So, after a few weeks to prepare, he has set out. Maybe he will find something to give his agony meaning. Or maybe not.

Who knows?