Game of Luck ; A Nuzlocke Crazy Dice Roleplay
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October 2nd, 2012, 03:59 AM
Join Date: Nov 2009
Location: Your house
The propaganda of the anti-battling activists has untouched Mara. Her personality has been described as harsh and egocentric in the past, and there is certainly truth to those allegations. She has been known to drive her Pokemon to the point of exhaustion, and she's a big fan of adrenaline injections to get them to work even with crippling injuries. Mara is actually very charismatic and many people like her when they first meet her. However, as they realize her sociopathic tendencies, it drives people who would otherwise be friends away. Pokemon tend to recognize her as a threat immediately and she finds it difficult if not impossible to gain any Pokemon's trust. Even the Pokemon of other trainers show her fear and aggression.
For these reasons Mara seeks out younger, naive individuals for companionship. They're easier to manipulate into following her orders and accepting her ways. At times she even coerces them into giving her Pokemon she wants, their money, or their items. By most authority figures she's considered a bad influence and dangerous. However, she has no reputation in Hoenn, so its a fresh start for her.
Tall for a woman, Mara stands at five feet and nine inches. As such she can be a bit intimidating as she towers over those shorter than her. Her left eyebrow is pierced with a simple surgical steel open ball ring. That is actually the extent of her "tough" appearance. Mara is certainly pretty. Her hair is long, reaching down to her shoulder blades, and is an eye-catching shade of red. There isn't much wave to speak of in it. It's styled in a side-part on the left side so that her eyebrow piercing is easily visible. Her face is soft, gentle, and completely opposite her personality. Mara's lips are full and inviting, and often curved into an alluring smirk. Observant brown eyes peer at new people, Pokemon, and places. They are lined lightly to bring out the color and to make them appear softer. Her complexion is strangely fair for the amount of time she spends outside, but a slight pattern of freckles covers her nose and her cheekbones.
Mara is not voluptuous, but she is also not flat. There is the faintest hourglass shape to her body. Her breasts are small but proportionate, her legs are long and toned, and it is clear that she is in good shape. At the tips of her fingers are well manicured sharp nails.
She wears well fitting jeans most of the time, not too tight, not too loose. They allow her to showcase her body and ensnare male attention without getting in her way while she's out on the field. On her feet she wears thick soled boots to protect her soles from rough terrain. They're a bit worn as they're the same ones she wore in Johto, but they're still functional. Generally she wears form-fitting tees under a denim vest, on the inside of which she has her Pokeballs attached. It sports several patches and pins she's earned along her way, many of which are from the street gang she used to run with. She prizes that vest more than anything she owns.
On Mara's right hip, she's tattooed the symbol of her gang: three interlocking Pokeballs in a triangular pattern with a stylized skull in the middle. It's done in intricate color with excellent workmanship, but when questioned about it she changes the subject quickly.
Mara was born in Goldenrod, Johto. To say her parents "raised" her is a bit of an exaggeration. They mostly kept her from starving to death as a young child. At the age of seven she started hanging out with a few rough kids who battled Pokemon in the street. Their methods were arguably cruel. Luckily for the Pokemon involved they were all weak and low level, so fatalities and grievous injuries were few and far between. However as the group grew older the Pokemon they caught were stronger, and the fights got rougher. Blood began to coat the pavement of the alley their fighting ring took place in. Mara was one of the best fighters, but also the most brutal. She pushed her Pokemon to their limits and sometimes when the battle was particularly emotional she wasn't afraid to throw herself into the fray. There was no question about it; when Mara turned sixteen she went to New Bark Town for a trainers' license. Beginning there, she captured as many Pokemon as she could. Her hard-headed battling strategy led to many fatalities on both sides. Adrenaline injections filled one of the pockets of her bag and she used them often, mainly during gym leader battles. Often she was criticized for the way she treated her Pokemon. Never did she care.
Mara made it all the way to Blackthorn before anti-battling activists brought her training there to a screeching halt. They barred the way out of the city for trainers. Law enforcement there tried to dissipate the mob but not before they stole all of Mara's Pokemon and set them free. They weren't stupid; they weren't about to go back to their abusive trainer. They escaped into the wild and left Mara to return to Goldenrod, angry at the world. There wasn't much to do but move back in with her neglectful parents. She moped around Goldenrod for a while after that. Her old gang had gone off to do their own things, she didn't care to get a job, and even if she'd wanted to train under crybaby Whitney, which she didn't, she wouldn't allow Mara to join her gym. She remembered how Mara trained and disapproved greatly of it. For a while Mara believed she'd be living with her parents in Goldenrod forever. Pokemon rights legislation was passing in many regions. But she was watching the news one night and in a story that was mean to be pro-Pokemon's rights, they mentioned that Hoenn was one of the few areas of the world where the new ways had yet to be adopted. That just meant that was the perfect place for her. She was older now and a little rusty, but still as good as ever. Mara packed her old gear and supplies, along with the adrenaline injections that were now highly illegal, and boarded a ship over to Hoenn.
Cold stone walls surrounded Calix. They were slick with dampness and filth and he was afraid to lean on them, but at the same time he desperately wanted to feel his back pressed against something. Several pairs of hungry, haunted eyes stared back at him. He didn't think they were truly dangerous to him but he couldn't help but feel terrified. He very much should, considering the situation he found himself in. He could still hear Anstice making the deal with the frightening older man he had taken Calix to. Although he couldn't hear exactly what they were saying he could make out something about money, and that he liked men. Calix chewed his lip and cringed. He didn't know whether that would make a difference in his treatment, even make it worse, but he suspected that he wouldn't get lucky.
Shortly Anstice and the old man stood in front of the cold iron bars enclosing the room -- or rather, cell -- Calix and the others were in. "Make certain that you sell him to an individual of my specifications," Anstice restated. Calix looked up at him desperately, blue eyes spilling over with tears.
"Please," he squeaked one last time. "Do not leave me here. I will change, I promise."
Anstice looked down at the little angel who had once regarded him as a hero with a brand of indifference that most did not possess. He acted as though he hadn't heard Calix at all and instead finished the deal with the slave broker and left, a handsome sum of money now in his possession. With Anstice gone the broker opened the cell door and grabbed Calix by the hair.
"Get over here so I can look at you," he demanded. Calix squeaked in pain but didn't struggle, far too terrified. He allowed the broker to prod his arm muscles, chest, belly, and sides, though he protested when he began to run his hands over Calix's back. He knew that the broker wouldn't be able to tell his wings were safely folded in his back, but he instinctively didn't want anyone touching him there. His instinctive reaction earned him a hard knock in the head.
"Be still!" the broker demanded. Calix whimpered and closed his eyes tightly, simply pretending that this wasn't happening. That was just as well. The broker felt over his back, prodded his rear muscles, squeezed his legs, and without even giving Calix time to protest pulled back the waist of his pants to peer down them.
"You're in good shape," he commented. "Very pretty, healthy looking, and a nicely sized package. You'll sell in no time."
Somehow Calix just couldn't get too excited about that. He allowed himself to be shoved back into the cell and went straight to the nearest corner where he curled up on the floor and kept his eyes closed, wishing he could use his wings as a blanket but he didn't want the broker to see them. That would raise too many questions, and he didn't want to go to someone who would treat him badly because of what he was, or to some society who would want to test him. It wasn't as though he had any rights anymore, after all.
The days passed in a blur. The only concept of time Calix had was that every so often, twice a day he supposed, a few moldy pieces of bread were thrown into the cell onto the floor, along with a single pitcher of water. Every time a pack of starving slaves-to-be would lurch forward, fighting one another for the meager meal, until there was nothing left. Not once did Calix engage himself in the fray. Once one of the others took pity in him and gave him a chunk of the bread. He smiled in thanks and took it, chewing it slowly so as not to upset his tumultuous stomach.
Although he didn't know it, three weeks passed before a well dressed gentleman came. He wore a luxurious black suit, his dark hair was neatly combed, and it was clear that he had never had to work a day in his life. From a distance Calix could easily tell that he was built well, neither fat nor thin, and he was very tall. Although he seemed pleasant enough at first glance he made Calix uneasy. His aura was unclean, and his presence was menacing.
The man stopped in front of the cell Calix was in and folded his hands behind his back. "Have you any of the sort I am partial to?" he asked the broker. The old man cackled darkly and answered "Oh, yes. I have one I got a few weeks ago, and I think he's exactly what you're after."
The broker unlocked the cell and yelled "You! Blondie! Get over here."
There were several blonde individuals in the cell, but he was looking straight at Calix so there was no question who he was talking to. Tentatively he got to his feet and shuffled over, weak from thirst and malnourishment. The man raised an eyebrow interestedly.
"This is the one you meant? He seems... effeminate. Is he? How are his manners?"
The broker pushed Calix forward a little so he could lock the door behind him, leaving him outside of the cell. "I haven't been around him all that much but so far he seems to know the meaning of respect. Don't you?" He shoved Calix to prove his point and Calix only caught himself and looked up at him with sorrowful eyes.
"Quite nice," the man commented. "He will do nicely. Does he have a name?"
The broker elbowed Calix in the ribs. "What's your name? Speak up!"
Calix winced. "C...Calix."
The man then did the same as the broker had before, poking his muscles, squeezing his legs, and checking his physique. Before he sealed the deal he lifted Calix's face up with surprisingly gentle hands and brushed his hair out of his eyes. "You are quite pretty," he told him. "You will be coming home with me."
He pulled out his coin purse and untied the drawstring. "How much do you ask for him?"
"Five thousand and no less," the broker demanded. Without any protest the man handed over exactly that much.
"Come now," he told Calix. He didn't wait long before he grasped him by the upper arm and pulled. "Come, I said. Do not make me wait."
A twinge of fear began in the pit of Calix's stomach as he hurried after the man. What sort of life was he getting into?
The man pushed Calix into the waiting carriage and told the driver to go on. The horses began pulling, leaving Calix at the mercy of his new master.
"You will call me Master Spencer," he informed him. "If you address me, you will remember your manners and call me sir. When we come to my home you will have your own quarters in the east wing, as do all of my slaves. I expect you to remain clean and well groomed with styles that I will choose for you. If you deviate from my instructions you will be punished most severely. I suggest that you do not make this difficult for yourself. Do you understand all I have said?"
Calix swallowed nervously. "Yes... sir."
Spencer nodded appreciatively. "Good boy."
The rest of the ride passed in silence. When the carriage pulled up in front of the estate Spencer made Calix open the door and hold it for him as he stepped down. "Follow me," he ordered. He led Calix into the foyer and pulled a string near the door that was attached to a series of bells throughout the house.
"Eden!" he called loudly. "Come to the foyer immediately."
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