Storyteller Conklaat

If history is a story, then it follows that there must be a storyteller.

— Unknown

  A powerful figure in Qet's history, watching, always, from the shadows.   His energy had been sapped hours ago, and he could no longer walk. He'd gasp for air, for strength, but his mouth had been cut apart, time and time again, and carefully— cruelly— nursed into nothing more than a smooth canvas long ago. She had done it, almost cheerfully, and thinking of it made his blood boil— or it would have, years ago. Now, it merely brought his blood to a lukewarm simmer.   As if aware that her charge's thoughts had turned to her once more, she pulled at the chains forcefully. He could feel the cold metal rings tightened around his lower ribs pulling at the bones in dull agony. The barbed chains attached to them tightened, and scraped against his chest as his limp body was dragged along the ground. While his eyes were covered, he could hear her careful footsteps ascending a staircase before him— he gritted his teeth, preparing for what was to come. Thrrck! She had pulled too hard, a brief lapse in patience— as a result his left rib had broken. Lowering her hand, she allowed her charge a moment of rest— to heal. His breathing became rapid, and hot tears began to trail down his face as the burning in his chest increased, hotter and hotter until it felt as if his body would at any moment be set alight in a brilliant blazing fire— setting him free. But no such peace would grace his tormented existence.   His curse was that of healing, and the rib— broken a mere moment ago— fused itself back into position. His curse, once his greatest boon— a gift from the heavens. It could have remained as such, if only he had never met her. Now he was no more than a tool, one that, to her— was the best gift the cosmos could have granted. Whatever had bestowed this power upon him seemed great and vast— enough for her to feed off of. Every injury inflicted upon the tormented man necessitated that mysterious force to work once more. And each time it showed itself, she could collect its essence for her own usage. Through this, she had finally achieved what her younger self had long dreamed of— immortality. It was not power that she desired, simply, she wished to watch as history unfolded before her— a story told through endless millennia full of plots and characters she feared she may never see the end to.   And so she traveled the world, watching, observing. Learning. After a few centuries, she fancied herself an expert storyteller— she believed that she understood what made any particular history intriguing. Emboldened, she began to influence the story— poisoning an emperor here, forging letters of importance there, planting the seeds of suspense and drama wherever and whenever she could. An empire that lasts forever is wholly uninteresting— the true excitement is in the answer to a simple question; how does it fall?   A question she has asked more times than she can count. And she will continue to ask this, she imagines, as long as her immortal life continues. She is known by many names, but as she typically remains in the shadows— few have been recorded. The Mistress of Collapse, Usurper, Iron Roach, some have even mistaken her for Ul'jvot. There is but one constant— that which she calls herself: Storyteller Conklaat.   In the intervening centuries, even he has forgotten his own name. Perhaps it started with a "kuh" sound? He is unsure of even this fragment. Conklaat refers to him simply as "my source" or "cup." As the woman prides herself on her storytelling abilities, she refuses to allow her prisoner to witness her works in progress— instead covering his eyes with a jade mask whenever the pair venture beyond their current abode.