Azarion

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Clueless

Started by Azarion · July 30

August 76 AD
It had been ten month. Ten months since Safinia was murdered. A lot had changed in that time: Azarion had grown taller and stronger, turned eighteen years old, and was now a charioteer for the Whites rather than a stable boy. He was learning to write to communicate, and he was treated well, if sternly, by his dominus. Rome had a new caesar. And yet, in a way, it felt like time had been standing still all this time.
They never caught the man who murdered Safinia. No one even seemed to care. The sensation had long died off, and no one was much inspired to look into the death of a kitchen girl. But Azarion missed her. She had been a friend, someone who rolled her eyes at him but acknowledged him as a person anyway. And the gods had to be angry, that no one was punished for her death. Sometimes Azarion wondered if her spirit was lingering, waiting for someone to bring justice to her murdered. Sometimes he wished he could talk to her.
It was late afternoon now, the training had ended for the day. Once again, Azarion had slipped out the back door of the stables, and made his way to the alley where the mudered had happened ten months before. Any clues that might have been left were long gone now, and he had been over trying to imagine the sequence of events a million times. Still, he did it again. It was not like he had anything better to do.
@Atrice
Flowers For All

Started by Zia · July 30

Zia rarely came out in the evenings to watch by her minions as they did their deals and made her gold, but needs must. The problem with having a lucrative business, she'd found, was that it meant everybody wanted a piece of it. Nothing had happened thus far, beyond a few gang low-lifes making offers to her own runners, but she wanted to keep an eye out and she wanted to see it for herself. Being here was a risk, she knew that, but the cloak she wore - even in the summer heat - hid the slave collar she was locked into and she kept her hood up. Gallus was - for all intents and purposes - the front man of the operation and only glanced in her direction where there was something she should see.
In this case, it was a small man who seemed to be gesticulating to one of her young employees. Zia arched a brow and watched from the shadows as the conversation got more heated. She called over to Gallus; "Gang?" And the man shook his head, looking equally perplexed. If this young man was in a Collegia then he wasn't being particularly subtle about his intentions. She slipped from the shadows to get a closer look and frowned when she saw that the man wasn't talking. "What do you want?" She called out and gave him a once-over. "We don't do charity here, if you can't afford it then leave."

TAG: @Chevi
When Tomorrow Comes

Started by Tarbus · April 11

May, 76 CE
Tarbus stood close to the mare, running his fingers through her long mane, over and over, rhythmically and without hurry. Resting his left arm against her withers, he used the right hand to tease out any tangles and lay the mane straight on her glossy neck. Fingers were more gentle than a rigid comb. And the repetitive motion coaxed more oil from the roots, adding to the silky look of the mixed black and white hairs. She was a deep, dappled grey, and the rest of her coat was already burnished, rubbed and brushed to a high shine, although a grey coat would never come close to that of a chestnut, bay or black, in terms of luster. But she was a beautiful creature none the less, well proportioned and in top condition, a far cry from the shorter, stouter mounts common to his homeland. The blood of the horses of Hispania ran through her veins, and she had the more fiery disposition that went along with such breeding. It was one of the few things of his new, unchosen place of residence – hopefully a temporary residence – which he admired. These racing horses were only one example of how the Romans bent the world to their wishes, in this case by the selective breeding of the best to the best, to produce a superior line to what nature alone could have supplied. Of course, it was superior only in terms of what the Romans desired in their steeds. Nature could not be bested in producing that which was truly the heartiest, the strongest, the most adaptable.

As for the rest of what the Romans had conceived of and brought into existence, Tarbus had no admiration or awe. Rome, the city, was a hundred times bigger than anything in Dacia. The architecture and building methods were advanced almost beyond belief, even the materials used were of profound beauty. Yet they held no allure for the slave, a man once a noble in his own country, around whose neck the simple iron circlet he now bore weighed heavy on his soul, like a bitter gall. There was nothing about the Romans or their city or empire that Tarbus envied or respected, other than their power to subjugate other peoples and lands. If he could have called forth an army of millions, to sweep this accursed place into the Tiber, he would not have saved a scrap of it. Well, maybe the weapons, but nothing else. As far as Tarbus was concerned, he’d take the mountains, the snow, the forests - the modest villages and homes, with an occasional temple built on simple lines - of Dacia, over the progressive bustle of this well-oiled machine of conquest, any day!

But today would not be that day, for the likelihood of Rome falling to armies of what they deemed “Barbarians” seemed remote indeed. This day was drawing to a close, in much the same way as all the days of the past two years had drawn to a close. Tomorrow was a race day, so in that it might be said things were just a bit more hectic, a bit more intense, around the racing stable of the whites. But like all things Roman, the team and all its many, many workers – slave, servant, freedmen, and plebian alike – ran like a well oiled machine, for the most part. Each person knew his or her tasks and acted like many cogs that fit together smoothly and turned with precision. Tarbus, seeing nothing to be gained by throwing any monkey wrenches in the works, at least not yet, did his part without any fuss and very few words, keeping to himself and watching all about him with keen observant eyes.

With soothing sounds that were not really formed words, he hummed and murmured to the mare, as he finished a job that was perhaps not quite so urgent as the hundred others he had performed throughout the day. Working directly with the horses in the racing stable was literally the only thing he enjoyed about his daily existence, and he lingered over it, if he could. It gave him real pleasure to touch them, listen to them, try to communicate with them on some level, get to know each one’s personality and quirks. It was soothing and it was something he’d never taken, or had, the time to do, before his enslavement. Then, he had enjoyed riding and training the horses they needed for transportation and making war on other tribes, and the Romans, and other people who occasionally tried to make inroads from the north or east. But here, the contact with living flesh held some strange sort of comfort for him. Where there were no loved ones to hold him, or for him to hold, the horses provided at least some form of connection with living beings that he could tolerate. The same could not be said of many of the other people he now was forced to live and work with.

His fingers leaving off combing, their part of the work done, he turned and moved to the opening of the stall to retrieve a stiff brush of wood and boar bristles, to complete the job of seeing to her mane. The mare shuffled, at the approach of another two legged creature. Tarbus’ gaze went to the dark haired boy, and he nodded a small greeting. “Ready for tomorrow?” he asked, in Latin, eyeing the other slave with curiosity. He knew tomorrow was a really big day for the mute – his debut as a charioteer. It wasn’t something Tarbus was interested in – risking his neck for the entertainment of the fucking Romans. But he knew, his story and his goals were not the same as every other slave’s - they each had ambitions or dreams according to their own experiences. He could still pray to Darzalas to preserve the boy’s health, for after all, Azarion was not a bad sort. The fact that he had no voice probably played a part in Tarbus’ opinion of him.
There are no words

Started by Azarion · January 5

Late October, 75AD (Immediately after Sunset)
Azarion ran across the stables towards the offices that belonged to the Whites. Some people saw him run, and a stable boy even said something, but he pushed past him. He was only vaguely aware that his hands and knees were stained with blood. The way he was running, doubtful that anyone could tell if it was his or someone else's.
He did not wait at Marcus' door, although normally it was the rule to do so. Instead, he burst right in, and once again, he was painfully aware that he could not just yell, blurting out the things he wanted to convey.
Safinia is dead.
Safinia has been killed.
Instead, he made hurried motions to the man, pointing at the door. He would have to show him.
@Sharpie
Training wheels

Started by Azarion · December 1, 2020

Mid-October, 75CE
Azarion was slowly getting better at being a charioteer. A trainee, anyway, since he had not competed in any of the races yet, but Marcus had him on a tight and brutal schedule. Honestly, if he had not cared for the horses' health and safety, it probably would have been even worse. Azarion went to be d every night with aching muscles. But also, he thanked his gods every night that he had something to work for. Even though he couldn't ride the horses freely like he wanted to, and he was not allowed to carry bow and arrows, the chariots gave him a sense of freedom, and hope for his future. One day, they might even free him. If he did well enough.
Which was the only reason why he did not complain when he was told he'd drive a mock race with Marcellus one morning. That man was the worst.
Azarion was not deemed ready for a quadriga yet, but he knew how to drive a biga securely by now. So, the early morning found him up and ready on the race tracks, with only a few men from the sables walking around here and there. Azarion checked the harnesses, the chariot, and patted the horses on the nose, making soothing sounds. Borena and Tabithi had been training alongside him the whole time, and he knew them well. Now it was time to put the whole thing to the test - by racing another charioteer.
@Echo
Sunset (M-V)

Started by Lucia Safinia · November 1, 2020

Late October, 75 AD - near the White stables
The sun had already disappeared behind the horizon, and only a few remnants of its light tinted the sky with streaks of lighter blue among the growing darkness. Nightfall meant most well-meaning inhabitants of Rome retreated back into their abodes, and Safinia, on her way from the market, was about to join them in doing just that.
The sack on her back was heavy with turnips and delayed her already slow pace, but if she got the vegetables to the kitchens today then she wouldn't have to venture out in the middle of the day tomorrow, when the crowds were greatest and their patience least for someone standing in their busy path like her.
Another couple of minutes and she would reach the stables, but a curious sensation that Safinia wasn't able to shake off had persisted for a little while now - although whether said while was a minute or thirty she could not say. It was almost as if somebody was watching her very intensely... A pickpocket assessing his next victim, perhaps? She would be an easy one, unable to run away, but unless they wanted to make off with a sack of turnips she had nothing worth stealing on her.
The feeling grew more and more intense until Safinia felt the urge to stop. Standing a little to the side, she looked over both shoulders, but saw nothing through the sack-obstructed view that could explain the odd inkling. Maybe she was just tired and hungry. Yes, that had to be it.
@Atrice
When I Wake

Started by Sara · June 14, 2020

2nd July, 75AD - Porta Absidata
Horatia had many hobbies; foremost amongst them was reading, but besides from her book club which was flourishing, reading rarely offered the opportunity to better her family. Charitable work, on the other hand, was a noble pursuit for women of her class and it was something she genuinely enjoyed. It was why she found herself in the lowest of the low regions surveying the damage caused by the earthquake of two days ago. She was not alone, of course, it would have been suicide for a patrician and a woman to wander freely around the porta absidata without some accompaniment and the freedman employed for her protection trailed behind her, along with a slave of her husbands who had menace on his face and in his gargantuan frame - even if he had the gentlest heart underneath it.
She was here largely to survey the damage before putting plans to her father for money to repair this insulae and shops damaged. Not anything degenerate, of course, she didn't want her charitable deeds to go toward rebuilding a brothel or the like, but a herbalist? A baker? She would be more than willing to impart coin and procure an architect to help.
Her own domus, or Aulus' as it was, had survived fairly unscathed besides a few unseemly cracks that were already being plastered over. To see the devastation of some of the dwellings here though made her almost nauseous. People were still being pulled out from the rubble and she had to turn her head when a woman - of her own age and with bright copper hair so like her own - had been pulled out without life's breath. But being a sheltered woman, she was largely oblivious to the Plebs here. She rarely dealt with them, and had rarer still entered their domain in times of trouble. It was why the murmurs and the shouting passed her by. It wasn't until a stone, followed by a cup of foul smelling liquid were hurled past the small group that she realised something was brewing.
Her freeman glanced at his charge - dressed simply (no need to be ostentatious in times like this) but still obviously wealthy and murmured to her; "We should leave, my lady, it's not safe." But it was too late. The shouting became a chorus of bellows - not directed at her, of course, but at the situation as loved ones were pulled moaning in pain or still completely from collapsed buildings and children wailed in hunger as supplies had ceased arriving into this district. More things were thrown and Horatia felt her heart quicken. She allowed herself to be tugged away from the small riot that was forming from the depressed and the downtrodden, as their shouts grew louder. But her freeman and the slave were not quick enough to pull her out of the mess that the earthquake created as something was thrown, hitting her square next to her eye. The light around her grew dimmer and she fell like a sack into the waiting arms of her freedman.
When she woke up she blinked. Her right eye wouldn't open fully and she could smell acrid smoke in the air, somewhere distant. Somebody was sitting above her and she blinked her good eye and recoiled. Where on earth was she?!

TAG: @Chevi
Black Care sits behind the horseman - Earthquake

Started by Sharpie · June 13, 2020

The first deep rumblings did not waken Marcus. They did, however, awaken the horses in the stables, and they, in turn, woke Marcus (and, hopefully, the stable staff). And then the earth moved.
"Ahura Mazda!" Marcus swore, and rolled out of his bed. His immediate thought was for his son and daughter, his second was for his staff and horses.
He threw on a tunic and left his room, turning to his children's room. Their nurse was looking out of the door, wide-eyed. "Earthquake. Get the children out into the courtyard, and stay there!"
She nodded and withdrew, leaving Marcus to head to the other side of the house, that overlooked the stables of the White faction. There were several people already down there, milling about in apparent confusion. He looked back to see the nurse holding his children's hands in a firm grip.
"Papa!"
"Go with Esther, I will be with you soon - I have to make sure the horses are safe, too."
He headed into the confusion of the stableyard and began to assert order.
"Stay in the middle of the courtyard! "Varica, Bassus, Menelaus, Theseus, Azarion - start bringing the horses out. Don't spook them any more than they are already. Everyone else, you will need to hold them, and if you cannot be calm, at least be quiet!"

@Beauty @Chevi @Echo @Liv @Jane
(Thread title from Horace Odes book III - post equitam sedet alta Cura)
Showoff

Started by Chevi · June 4, 2020

Early June, 75CE
Azarion was a junior charioteer now. It was only a matter of time before he could join the actual races, driving a quadriga around the tacks of the Circus. He had been training for months, making progress, even building up some muscle (although he was still fairly lean for a charioteer). He was wearing the colors of the Whites, and training his own horses.
With all of those things noted, he was definitely sure that he should not be sent on shopping duty.
And yet, here he was.
Since that first, rolling pin and apple fiasco, Azarion only crossed paths with Safinia a few times, usually around meals. There was a tentative truce between them, in which she gave out his two apples, and he only tired to steal more if he was sure he could get away with it, every once in a while. He had risen in status from stable boy to charioteer-in-training. But sadly, said raise did not come with an extra amount of apples. And he had four horses under his care.
Safinia was being sent to the market, and Azarion was told to accompany her, for safety, and for extra hands to carry things. It was a disgrace. As someone a step away from being the star of the races, why did he have to accompany her to shop? Just because he couldn't talk back, and she could wield a rolling pin?... Azarion was not in a good mood as he walked behind her, out of the Circus and around the Palatine. This was not the glamourous life he had been promised.
@Liv
Azarion

Started by Chevi · April 27, 2019

AZARION
16 | 2 April 58CE | Slave | Stable boy | Bisexual | Wanted | Aidan Gallagher

<>

Personality.
Azarion is a defiant little shit. Pride has been beaten out of him, but he earned the concept of sarcasm and angst in exchange. His dry wit is mostly lost on other people due to his inability to speak, but his glares and grunts are self-explanatory. The boy is clever, and not entirely broken, but he has learned to expect the worst from people, and has not much faith in his own future anymore. He fears humiliation more than pain, although he had his fair share of both. He finds the Roman lifestyle strange, and still retains the beliefs and values of his own people, but he has learned to keep that to himself. He keeps most things to himself, really - thoughts, feelings, hopes - as a mechanism for survival. When he slips, he usually slips by wordlessly sassing off at the wrong people. He is a tough nut to crack, even for people with the best intentions. Especially for people with the best intentions. Those are inherently suspect.
The only time Azarion shows another side of him is when he is tending to horses. He understands the animals well, and can care for them in surprisingly adept and gentle ways. Unlike Romans, he sees them as more than riding or pack animals, and in his own way, he even talks to them sometimes. He has a talent for calming them and getting them to do what he wants. The easiest way to find a connection with him is if the other person shares his passion for horses.
Azarion has been mute since his tongue was cut out. He can make sounds, but he prefers to communicate through hand signs. He learned Latin while he was a hostage, but he has to re-learn the signs every time he has a new master, to be able to commuicate, and be understood. The signs are mostly made up on the fly, until some of them stick. Not being understood frustrates the boy, so he doesn't go into elaborate communication unless he has to.

Appearance
Scrawny doesn't even begin to describe it. Azarion is short for his age (5'2"), has been malnourished for six years, and even before that, he had the lean build of his tribe. His dark brown hair was cropped short when he went from hostage to slave, and it has been short ever since, usually in the worst possible ways. His eyes are green and his skin tans easily. His body carries the memories of his history; besides the obvious (missing a tongue), he has a deer tattoo on his left calf, a FVG brand is his right forearm, as well as various scars from cuts, lashes, and beatings. As stable boy, all he wears is a tunic his master provides for him, and is usually covered in dirt and reeks strongly of horses. It is not unusual to see him with straw in his hair.

Family
Father: Zarandos (deceased)
Mother: Saruke (unknown)
Siblings: 2 younger brothers (unknown)
Spouse: none
Children: none
Extended family: none
Other: Owned by Alucio Valens Lurio

History
58CE: Azarion is born in Sarmatia, on the endless plains between the Danuvius and the Parthissus rivers. The Sarmatian tribes moved in from the East a generation earlier. Azarion belongs to the small tribe of the Saii, the People of Horses of Many Colors. His father, Zarandos, is the chief of his tribe.
58-66CE: Azarion is raised according to his station and the nomadic culture of his people. The tribes migrate for pasture along the rivers, keeping between the frontiers of the two provinces. The boy learns to ride as soon as he learns to walk, and learns to shoot arrows with the rest of the children. He receives his first horse when he is 6, one of the small, sturdy horses of the Eastern plains, and goes on his first hunt when he is 8. To commemorate his first successful hunt (he wounds and tracks down a roe deer), he receives his first tattoo, the pattern of a deer on his left calf. He is the oldest of three sons, his two brothers 3 and 5 years younger than him.
66CE: Pinned between two provinces, and having to move through the territories of other barbarian peoples to trade with the East, th Sarmatians are forced to make treaties with the Romans. Horse-riding nomads are a pain on the frontier troops when they raid, and their limited resources force the Saii and others to periodically cross the rivers, or attack Roman outposts on their side. To stop the raids and reinforce the frontier, the Romans make treaties with the Sarmatians. As part of one such treaty, the Sarmatians have to provide hostages to the Romans, in exchange for peaceful trading relations. Azarion is selected, as a minor chief's first son, and is moved to Carnuntum. He is 8 years old, but carries himself with all the pride and defiance of a warrior. He is a pain in the ass of his Roman supervisors. As hostage, he is treated fairly, but his comfort is kept to a bare minimum, and his movement is limited.
68CE: Azarion is 10 years old when the Sarmatians break the treaty, and go raiding into Pannonia. Zarandos opposes the plan, he is challenged for leadership of the Saii, and killed in a duel. His wife and children go into hiding, their fate is unknown. Once the raid is beaten back, orders are given on the Roman side to make an example of the hostages. Since Azarion has been mouthing off at the Romans, they take the opportunity to punish him by cutting his tongue out, in plain sight of the tribes across the river. Older hostages are executed at the same time. Azarion is kept alive for further torture, but one of his Roman captors takes pity on him, and as a form of saving his life, he hands the half-dead boy over to a slave trader. Azarion is taken to Aquileia before he has the chance to recover from his injuries. There, he is sold again to a Roman merchant. He puts the boy to work at the stables, and discovers that he has a talent for caring for horses. He also soon discovers that he has a talent for making trouble, when he tries to run away on one of said horses. He is branded on his arm with FVG (runaway), and sold off at a low price.
68-74CE: Azarion is passed from owner to owner. Most of them are cruel, and even the ones that are not soon lose their patience with the tattooed wildling who manages to piss them off even while mute. Most of them buy him because he is exotic, young, or because he works well with horses. None of that buys him much kindness on the long run. He is repeatedly beaten, starved, whipped, and abused. From the Aquileia merchant he goes to a villa outside Alba Fucens, then a rich veteran's house in the same town, then eventually to the stables of an inn and cursus publicus way station along the Via Flaminia. By this time, he is passedd off as a nuisance, and treated accordingly. He hates most people, but still cares very much for horses.
74CE: Good luck shines on Azarion, although he doesn't realize it yet, when after a severe beating by his owner he is purchased by Alucio Valens Lurio, mostly out of pity. He is taken into the household as a stable boy. It seems like he is finally in a decent place, but he is not brave enough to get his hopes up yet.
Chevi | Central European | Discord