A Record of Ash & Ruin: The Grieving Lands

Book 1: Chapter 14: The Characters of a Slave

They were met on the beaches by envoys of the unknown mage-king under the banner of peace. Their decapitated heads were sent back wrapped in spider silk and sweet-scented with Aeyory blossoms, a traditional declaration of total war in the east.

- On the Cataclysm by an unknown Quassian Scholar circa 103 AC

It stank with the general effluence of the city and the newly enslaved and packed humanity. It was grief in all of its stages; some were choleric with rage, defiance a bright torch in their hearts, some catatonic with shock or grief, some wailing and crying a river of tears, and yet others had accepted with serenity their new station in life. This was the beginning of my new life as a slave.

Naked we were prodded, pulled, and looked over by rough men and women with licentious hands. Our dentures were closely examined for decay, our bodies for disease. Those of us still clinging to their previous lives were taught otherwise with the crack of a three-pronged leather whip.

All of my life the topic of slavery was mostly academic. The institution had perished in its most overt forms long ago. Though still present in some areas of the globe, it had no real bearing on my sheltered and comfortable Western life. Here, I was learning with my body a lesson that no history class nor acclaimed documentary could ever hope to impart.

Two days had passed since my victory in the arena when I was brought to this pit of human suffering. I was able to hear passing gossip about my fate. Some of my captors wagered that against all tradition I would be poisoned, or a subtle knife placed between my ribs. Others speculated I was destined to be broken in the mines. Determined that I would not break, the fire of defiance was like a smoldering ember within, only to be almost snuffed out as another man screamed as burning hot orange metal met pliant skin, melting a red hot mark in the shape of a flowing wave. Still, I held onto a strange mixture of rage and hope as I was given a new quest. Like witnessing a divine revelation, I knew that the gods had yet to abandon me as I read the words.

New Quest: Escape from the Slavery Pits of Ansan

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I would not be a slave to mere NPCs.

Non-player characters, the designated name for the myriad of entities that gave flesh to the world of the games I had played in the old world. A simple binary series of ones and zeroes. Here, I clung to this shallow defiance, using it to fuel my anger at the current injustice of my situation. Narcissistic fantasies crossed my mind as to what I would do when I escaped and wreaked vengeance on these slavers, only for them to retreat whimpering to the back of my mind with each crack of the whip. Still, I managed to hold on to the notion. In the old world, I was free, and I would be so again.

The comeliest of the men and women were lined up the right, slave brands to be replaced with a tattooist's art. They were fated to be the concubines or playthings for these cruel people. With fire or ink, we were however all still slaves.

I looked at the man who was going to brand me with neither the defiance that invited a whip nor the animal pain that had reduced so many before me to sobbing wrecks. Just with total apathy, as if this was a routine procedure that was a mild annoyance at best. My skill Pain Nullification allowed me this small mercy as I had made sure I was at full Health before he branded me, spending precious Mana before panic took me. They shouted at each other then, confirming if someone in their mercy had used drugs to dull my pain. I had shown no expression, which had visibly unnerved them.

The man with a puzzled look on his face shouted at me to move on. Another individual applied a terrible-smelling green paste to my new open wound that made me feel like I was simultaneously being stung and salved at the same time. Next, we were moved to another open-air pen under the barking orders of the cruel slavers. There we were made to strip and don new clothes consisting of simple coarse-weave linen tunics, short baggy trousers, and leather sandals with hobnailed soles. We were subdivided again with the more violent and defiant slaves grouped to the left.

Dark bearded guards ringed this wooden-fenced pen; silent, stern, and armored in dirty chainmail and leathers, armed with a mixture of blunt instruments from cudgels to wicked-looking maces and flails. One of the guards, a particularly brutish specimen, stood almost two meters tall, and he was equipped with a giant pole flail that was studded with deadly iron. He would occasionally joke with his peers about how long it would take to break the weaker-looking ones, or how he would enjoy breaking bones with his weapon that he lovingly called “Wife-Beater.”

After we were all gathered into the pen, hard earth packed from the passage of hundreds of feet, we were forced to line up in columns and rows, many of our number holding an arm to their brand still whimpering from the new pain. Not all of us were fully compliant, and the guards gleefully beat the troublemakers into some form of obedience, a few extra bloody licks of the whip thrown in for good measure.

Suddenly the guards came to full attention as a corpulent fat man entered the holding area. He wore a light red fur-trimmed turban, a red ruby at its center, and clothes cut of the finest silk. At his round girth was a sash of vermillion red that strained to contain his prodigious bulk. In his face two sparkling jovial eyes were set, orbs of icy blue against a backdrop of olive-brown skin. His mouth lit up in a satisfied smile as he viewed the assembled, newly minted slaves.

He spoke to us then in a voice filled with genuine joy, satisfied like an old man who enjoyed a particularly welcome bowel movement, so incongruous to our suffering and pain.

“Greetings, friends, one and all. My name is Hassan. Welcome to the first days of joining the family of the Children. Life aboard will be harsh but fair. All must play their part on the great waves. There is no place for lazy deck children on this vessel. By low or high tide, work, and you will be fed. But understand that laziness will be met with the kiss of the whip. Know well then that either will give us great satisfaction!” the fat man guffawed as his jeweled fingers sparkled and danced in time to the heavy heaves of his laughter. The guards dutifully laughed along with him, for they had played this part many times before.

I was puzzled at their use of a mariner-like lexicon before remembering that their whole culture was based on a sea-faring people now trapped inland by world-shattering events. I brushed aside these erroneous thoughts and focused all of my attention back on the jovial fat man.

“…Work well and live content,” he ended, my attention having wandered for part of his speech.

After Hassan’s introduction, we were manacled and chained together, before being frogmarched out of the pen. I recognized where we were now that I had some time to gather my wits from the pain and mental exhaustion. Across from me, to what I presumed to be the east, a breathtaking vista of golds and reds painted an autumnal riot of color across huge gigantic trees. I stopped in my tracks to drink in some of the natural beauty, only to be pulled along once again by the cutting cruel chains around my ankles which cut through my reprieve.

We began our descent then, a wide dirt track that winded ever downwards cutting through hard alabaster stone. Finally, we made our way past a guarded waypoint, guards lazing about their posts, only to be shouted at and brought to attention laughingly by our escort. As our large group of slaves made our way through, the sound of metalwork and industry could be heard growing ever louder. The clang of hammers striking metal, the roar of coal-fired furnaces, interspersed with the occasional crack of the whip and a painful scream. The smell came next, an acrid thing that crept up on the nostrils before finally overwhelming them.

They led us to a pile of tools, pickaxes, shovels, and other miscellaneous mining equipment. The guards then removed the manacles from our wrists before gesturing for us to quickly pick up a tool. As I bent to take up a crude mining pick, I heard a sudden war cry that rose above the sounds of the mine. A blonde bearded animal of a man, hair grown long in wild dreadlocks, screamed in fury as he brandished a pickaxe, attempting to strike down the closest guard. He was hampered by chains still attached to the other slaves, dragging them along with him. A guard nonchalantly, with an ease born of many years of practice, clubbed him across the back of the head with a blackjack. He fell to the ground like a great sack of meat. The flames of rebellion instantly smothered and cast a pall over the rest of the slaves, stifling any thoughts of further defiance. The blonde man was unchained from his line and roughly carted off somewhere by the guards.

Our group now was thoroughly cowed, some of us beaten, and all of us still suffering from our recent branding. An individual approached us then, reedy thin and stooped like a bird. He lacked the musculature and solidity of his peers, but exuded a strong bureaucratic aura. Carrying a tablet and stylus, he directed our group with a pointed and oddly shrill voice through his thin lips to the mine shaft, cut deep into the rock to our left. The noise from the industry around the mines was oppressively loud, and I could not hear his exact words, but our guards nodded to his authority. My Mana had since recovered from the winnowing, and I decided to silently cast an Identify spell on him.

Degei Ganbataar - Slave Overseer (Human lvl.8) Health 72/72 Stamina 27/27

Mana 12/12

Interesting, I thought to myself. The Overseer, despite being three levels higher than myself, seemed to be overall weaker except for a little bit more Mana. I deduced he must be a wily individual to have risen to his current authority. I muttered an inner curse to myself for not taking the opportunity to Identify Hassan as another point of reference.

As we continued to pass by the Overseer on our way to the open mineshaft, my column was forced to a halt as Degei raised an arm, checking his tablet. The slave behind me was trembling, panicked vibrations traveling along the length of the chain that connected us like a cruel Morse code. The Overseer moved closer to me, black eyes cruel and inquisitive, before checking something on his tablet and making some notes.

“No trouble from you slave, work and if the gods are kind you may live to see the end of the year,” he said coolly with no emotion, before turning abruptly and moving off. He waved the line to continue absent-mindedly, and I was jostled forward. A few of the slaves in front of me threw me wary inquisitive glances before moving forward, pulled inexorably by the others in front.