Slavery built the Cumberbatch fortune, which at its height in the mid-18th century made them one of Britainâs wealthiest families, owning at least seven Barbados sugar plantations and a stately home near Taunton, Somerset.
" Cumberbatch has also revealed that his mother, the actress Wanda Ventham, had urged him not to use his real surname professionally, in case it made him a target for reparation claims by the descendants of slaves."
They knew, they knew where they came from, and still DO benefit from slavery white supremacy, and they don’t want to have to give that up, or what they think is worst, give back. I have no sympathy for him or his family. I hate his face, and see through this thinly veiled attempt at making an attempt at shredding light on the atrocities that his ancestors committed.
no wonder the dude is uglier than a fucking piece of gum on the street
The moon over Lerhyn was full, giving the sands of Lerhyn a reflective, mirror like sheen that seemed to go on forever, stretching so far into the desert it became a mass of white on the horizon. Lamezzo studied it through the window in his room like was common every night. Lamezzo once had heard a poet describe Lerhyn’s desert as a sea of polished glass, but to the Dopplegangers eye it just looked like sand stretching out in every direction. Poetry didn’t really seem to resonate with Lamezzo, other Jatuum felt it was necessary to inject a little romanticism into taking a life, to Lamezzo there already was romanticism there. What could be more romantic than making the ultimate decision for someone else? Lamezzo sat down on the bedroll that was kept in the room, brushing sand that had blown in and built up on the covers away. Being this far out into the desert was starting to become tiring, the occasional trip to the actual city of Lerhyn hardly helped, most of the time spent there was skulking about the manors of the rich and powerful (and quite a lot of time choking out ex-husbands for said rich and powerful) What Lamezzo knew then, if it was not poetry, was there was a discontent growing inside and it had to be connected to the area that had started to become stifling. The one place that had at once a feeling of home, of comfort, was starting to feel like a prison. Bricks in the walls had started to become individually numbered, small ways of distracting the self became the only distraction. There was no outlet, save for when Lamezzo haunted the streets on the very few times there was a chance of sneaking to the city. Lerhyn, even as it was marvelous and large and filled with secrets, shadows and everything in between, had also become old. On the other side of the mountains there was Valikorlia, a place Lamezzo had been told maybe one day the group of Jatuum that were family would need to travel there, but that day was far off. Ferrazim was Lamezzo’s master, a gaunt and tall, dark skinned man who commanded respect with a booming voice and giant presence. At the same time, he was like a father to Lamezzo and many other Jatuum in this camp. From the day Lamezzo was inducted, Ferrazim had related that Jatuum live meticulously planned out lives, following orders and bending to the will of the larger Jatuum. Lamezzo was different though, the possession of a specific set of gifts put lamezzo on a place higher than any other here, and not being able to utilize them was the most aggravating part of life here. Everything in Lamezzo’s small room had been packed nice and tidy; the Jatuum didn’t own much. A short bow, a sword, and the rest of the gear a Jatuum needed. There were no personal belongings in Lamezzo’s things; what use did such nostalgic artifacts have to a dealer of death, anyway?
Valikorlia lay waiting, far across the mountains and rivers.
Lamezzo slammed an angry fist against a stone wall. Koto had made chase through a dead end alley in a dead in city, somewhere in Valikorlia. Up the side of the smooth stone building, to the left, to the right; there was nowhere to go. With stiff fingers, a blind-fired dagger ripped out of Lamezzo’s bandolier and cut through the air at Koto. A metallic cling echoed out through the other side of the plaza, the knife spun off into the air, falling a few feet behind him uselessly. Koto’s red Khukri hummed its way back to his side, he tapped it still with a single finger and prepared to deflect another one of Lamezzo’s knifes, keeping his arm and sword crossed. Lamezzo spun from the wall he was pressed against, his hand reached and pulled a throwing knife off of his belt. Lamezzo spun away from the wall that had been cutting the blue-skinned Jatuum off. If there really was no way to go, Koto would fight on Lamezzo’s own terms. Another throwing knife un-holstered from the bandolier, Koto barked at Lamezzo. “Whatever you think that will do, it will be easier for you if you dont’.” Lamezzo didn’t listen. Lamezzo never listened. There may be a gap between the two when it concerned the martial arts, but when it came to things like knowing when to quit, Koto would always be the one to stop first when he was pitted against Lamezzo. Koto could tell Lamezzo was trying to pick a target. Lamezzo’s face was placid, giving away no clues or hints. The knife would do the talking, flying out straight and narrow at Koto, who had just become an enemy. Koto’s red machete whipped through the air and turned flat, he’d practiced deflecting Lamezzo’s knives hundreds of times during training, and he’d executed many succesful parries on the field. What was one more? There was no metal clang when the knife hit, Koto swung the sword too fast too soon.When the tip of the knife struck Koto’s arm, it passed through skin and then muscle, making his fingers go slack and the Khukri to clatter to the ground. Lamezzo had let Koto know he was predictable, and now the blue-skinned Jatuum held the advantage. It was a reminder of the difference between the two of them, and why it was so hard for them to work together. Koto might have thought on his feet expertly, but Lamezzo was a meticulous planner. Nothing was up to chance, and certainly not the idea of taking each other on with an equal handicap. There was a minute where neither of them knew who was going to swing first; Lamezzo was holding his guard steady and Koto clutched at his arm. The Doppleganger swung wide, wanting to fool Koto into trying to parry and retaliate. Koto’s more reactive nature set him up perfectly for melee combat, though. The blow connected to the side of his head and hardly deterred him, the tip of his elbow caught Lamezzo right under the chin and made the Doppleganger scramble backwards and knock over a pile of firewood stacked neatly against the wall.
As more blood left Koto’s arm, he steeled his resolve. The pain of the knife tip rubbing against bone became dulled. Lamezzo’s expression went from placid to surprise; the look in Koto’s eye was one the Doppleganger had seen before, usually before someone died. It came down to a wild swing from the khukri Koto picked up. He was doing the same thing Lamezzo had tried, and Lamezzo knew it. Every time he ran through the next few seconds, it ended with being crumpled on the ground, wounded. When a Doppleganger copies a person, it’s custom to take an object that belongs to that person, or even a scraping of their skin or blood. This isn’t always neccesary; many times did Lamezzo copy someone without doing so, but to make a perfect duplication of the way someone looked required it. At various points in time, this had also extended to natural objects like wood and stone. The process hurt, though. It was almost always unbelievably painful to do, but right now it was desperate. Lamezzo put a hand on the wall behind him and felt his veins become hard, his skin turn mottled and grey. Lamezzo’s fingers locked in place, unmovable around Koto’s blade, jerking it inward towards the wall. The look of rage on Koto’s face went from bewilderment to hopelessness, he watched Lamezzo everything in his arm up to the shoulder on his way to the ground. He had to look up at Lamezzo know, who beared back down at him with a sneer. Lamezzo had won, and Koto felt like a fool for it. The sole of the dopplegangers boot pressed against Koto’s throat, the Khukri pointed right against his skin. “Who did they send?” He asked “Who?” Underneath Lamezzo’s boot, Koto struggled to move. Weakness had completely overtook him, there on the plaza ground in a small puddle of his own blood. “Ferrazim sent only sister and I.” Lamezzo’s face twisted from the placid sneer to a snarl of disgust. Not only had Ferrazim tried to use Koto to press him to return, but Sele who he considered his own sister had even volunteered. “If you make it home, tell Ferrazim I will return when I am ready, and not before.” Lamezzo’s heel knocked his friends head against the cobblestone, sending his vision into a haze and eventually blackness. The last thing he heard was the words Lamezzo said, pulling up a hood. “Enjoy your scars, friend.”
Lamezzo scanned the rooftops of the street adjacent to his hotel building. Koto had been skilled with his hands ever since they had been children, but Sele, his sister, was a marksman through and through. If she was here, she would have been waiting, from sun up to sun down. Lamezzo did not panic, he would have to draw her out and not approach the building directly. Operating on the hunch that she was already arrived he figured he could save himself and be prepared if she wasn’t. The darkness of the alleyway was quite welcoming, especially considering there was obvious foot traffic between the two buildings. Lamezzo stood patiently on one side with his hood up, staring at the ground. Whoever came by would work excellently. Thoughts stirred in his head about his duties, but he pushed them to the back of his head and locked them away. What duties did he have? His father spoke for great lengths that it took a Jatuum returning from five assignments with no scars, and tomorrow would be his fifth. So what if he did this on his own? Father would not always be there to hold the students hands. Lamezzo would prove he was not only sworn to the creed, but the best the company had to offer. He heard footsteps a foot away and looked up slowly; she was an older looking woman who had a scar on the left side of her throat. It took a moment for him to snap a link of bone in her neck and pull her behind the dumpster. Another casualty of city living, Lamezzo figured. Lamezzo didn’t ever have to study how a face or a body looked, it just worked that way. His eyes turned green to match hers, his hair long and dark. The bones in his face unsettled themselves and cracked, breaking themselves apart and reshaping. The skin stretched and pulled itself tight in new ways to accommodate the new facial structure. Lamezzo ran fingers that elongated and thinned down across the scar on her neck. This is what it felt like to be scarred, to be less-than. It rapidly blended into the rest of the skin, vanishing. Scars a mark of a failure to Jatuum, and even a Doppleganger mustn’t have them. She pulled her coat around her waist, it fit the body she had prior and as similarly form fitting, which was not at all. The front door was the easiest way to get in, had Sele seen her on the street she would’ve made no hesitations about winging her right then and there with a crossbow bolt, or even shot if she’d been using her rifle. Lamezzo turned the handle to her room slowly, inching the door open with her foot and slipping in, closing it so lightly that it made no noise whatsoever. The other possibility was that Sele had been waiting the entire time to shoot her in the room she’d paid for with some of the money from the temple in Lerhyn, but it was just quiet and still as when she’d left. Lamezzo walked in front of a window facing the street, and patiently waited. She only had a little view of the street on the other side, not enough to get in a challenge of marksmanship. Lamezzo pulled a bandolier of throwing knives and a belt with crossbow bolts from underneath the bed, passing in front of a window. It was a little too slow, a little too initial: Sele had made Lamezzo and a bolt came crashing through the window, slamming her to the ground. Everything went black.
From Sele’s perspective, there was almost five minutes of no movement in the house. Lamezzo was probably pinned to the ground, lucky to be alive. The bolt hadn’t been intended to kill, and if Sele was behind the trigger, whatever her intentions of the shot were always turned out true. She made her way quickly down the rooftop, sliding down a rope on the back of the building that had been tethered to a spike on the roof. Her feet splashed in a puddle at the bottom of the grimy alleyway, and she booked it for the front of the hotel. Her crossbow was clip loaded, and worked by a relatively simple gear based mechanism from Dalmar. When one bolt was fired, the auto locking mechanism drew the string back a set number of times, giving enough space for a bolt to drop down and be forced into place against the groove. That’s what let her immediately pin a guard standing in the hotel to the wall behind him as soon as the front door swung open. There was no room for distractions, an a quick hustle left the young man that was the attendant tied to a desk in the lobby, with the front doors barred shut. She would bring Lamezzo back to Ferrazim because Koto had failed; if she was the one to bring Lamezzo back, there would be accolades and opportunity waiting for her. Right inside the room, there was Lamezzo on the floor, unconscious. The bolt was embedded just slightly in her shoulder, it looks like she must have struck the bed frame with her head on the way down. Lamezzo’s eyes snapped open as soon as the crossbow was leveled at her. “Stupid!” barely made its way out of Sele’s mouth. Lamezzo had played possum and waited until she had her at a disadvantage. Her feet wrapped around Sele’s ankles and kicked against her shin. Sele fell backwards and rolled across her shoulder, clutching the crossbow tight. With both of them sitting upright in a kneeled position, there was maybe ten feet between them. Sele with her crossbow, and Lamezzo with a bandolier of a few throwing knives. Sele raised her crossbow and fired. It took the bolt hardly a second to cross the sparse different, but Lamezzo was already moving out of the way. A roll into the adjacent room and Lamezzo popped up onto her feet. Sele wasn’t far behind, reaching out in a full run and pulling her back by the hood, The rug underneath Lamezzo’s feet and the polished wood floor beneath that didn’t offer any support, sliding right out from under her and forcing her flat on her back with a forced grunt. Sele pointed her crossbow straight down, hardly in time. Lamezzo’s ankles wrapped around her throat and pulled her forward and down, flipping her to the floor. Her ankled locked around Sele’s neck, forcing the top of one foot and the bottom of the other together against her throat. It fit Sele perfectly for the fight to be like this; the two of them may have been close but they hardly ever shared words. Even in the field, Lamezzo and her seemed to simply operate on the same principles and be capable of coordinating without speaking. It made them a highly dangerous combination. Her struggled and grunts faded as she lost strength, passing out from lack of oxygen. As it turned out, Lamezzo was the more dangerous of the two.
She leaned back and let out a sigh, before scrambling to her feet. It was clear that Ferrazim was desperate for her to return, but if Koto and Sele had been sent, who would be next? Lamezzo barely had time to dwell on it; Sele’s commotion in the foyer of the hotel and the battle in Lamezzo’s room had gotten a group of guards attention, the sound of splintering wood and the angry yells of the city watch carried all through the halls and up the stairs.
They came before Ferrazim empty-handed, weak and defeated. Ferrazim looked down from his pedestal upon them, musing about a busy work desk, dipping quill in red ink and hastily scrawling something to parchment. Koto had opened his mouth to force out a small whisper of an excuse, an excuse that was snuffed out before it could ever greet the halls. "You have done well, only as well as you could." Said Ferrazim. He didn’t bother to look at him now, talking over his shoulder. "Lamezzo taught you of limits, shame he still believes he has none." "To your feet, Sele." Ferrazim turned, his gaze held forward as if staring right through her. "See this letter delivered to the Ganelon Inn, in Valikorlia. I will see this charade ended."