#1
|
|||||
|
|||||
Chapter 1: A Walk in the Desert
|
#2
|
|||||
|
|||||
For the first time in several days, the caravan began to move, much to Krik-Ket's rejoice. His wanderings had been delayed for three long days and nights, and the thri-kreen had begun to wonder why he thought joining the caravan would enable him to see more of the world. It was bad enough that his companions needed to stop each night to sleep, but their burdensome beasts were often uncooperative, which sometimes caused terribly long delays. Oh, that his clutch-mates traveled as efficiently as his thri-kreen peers had.
Unfortunately, the thri-kreen traveled only to hunt, and so their paths followed the migrations of their prey. For Krik, as these humans seemed content to call him, it had not been enough to follow those migratory routes for the entirety of his short life. He needed to see what lay beyond the horizon and then whatever was to be found beyond that, and it seemed to him that the ambitions of other races urged them beyond the horizon as well. Of course, those same ambitions inspired them to bring all manner of junk along for the trek, but Krik-Ket was a quiet and considerate so he never offered a word of complaint about the delays regardless of his desire to press onward. Now that they were moving again, there was little reason to dwell on it anyway, and so Krik-Ket took his assigned position at the front of the caravan. His slender seven-foot figure stood in stark contrast to the rest of his companions, and in truth certain aspects of his anatomy were more similar to those of the creatures the others used as mounts, including the pair of dropping antenna that sprouted from his crown. Likewise, the pale yellow shade of his chitinous hide appeared almost white against the endless background of sand that surrounded him, which was closer in color to the orange speckles that marked segments of the thri-kreen's body. These colorings were clearly visible, because—like all thri-kreen—Krik-Ket went about nearly naked, sporting only a leather harness slung between his two pairs of arms much like a bandoleer. Upon this, he carried the tools of his trade, weapons crafted from the bones of animals he had hunted. In addition to the sheathed knives and twin quivers, the mantis man carried a pair of bundled polearms along with a longbow slung across his back. One of these vicious tools seemed more conspicuous than the others, the the double-bladed polearm used by the thri-kreen known as a gythka. These gruesome implements and his peculiar features served to give Krik an altogether fearsome appearance as he quietly led the group over the first dune in the morning sun with his gaze cast out upon the new landscape that lay before him.
__________________
"I'm not going to be the ref! I'm a villain! Don't you see?!"
-Frank Reynolds, It's Always Sunny in Philladelphia Dim the Drowned|Telephus Lorre|Togashi Shingo Tribulations of the Stag Last edited by Grenadier; Jan 13th, 2013 at 09:17 PM. |
#3
|
|||||
|
|||||
__________________
Nothing to see here... |
#4
|
|||||
|
|||||
Jerm'San Mumblyspot was almost sleeping when the caravan began to move. Finally, after three long days, that damned animal had decided to move just as he was dozing off. It wasn’t easy, he had found, to get a good night’s rest while hiding underneath a slavers wagon. In the day it was stifling, heat so intense that it had become his habit to strip bare and sprawl haphazardly across the wagons inner framework. At night…well at night it was stifling too. It wasn’t until the early morning hours that it cooled enough to actually get a few winks in. It just so happened, that was when the mekillot decided to move.
In the back of his mind somewhere, Jerm had vaguely registered the groaning of the beast as it rose from the ground, but at that particular moment, the greater majority of his mind had been at a secluded little oasis, hidden away in the southern desert, where the women…And then the wagon had lurched, and sprawled haphazardly across the inner framework of the wagon as it had become his habit to do, he found himself unceremoniously jerked off balance and dumped face first into the sand below. Managing to gather his senses quite quickly under the circumstances, he scrambled to his feet and regained his perch. Gathering his items about him, he took a quick inventory and then dressed. It had been three long days of nothing. He had pondered the thought, on more than one occasion, as to how long he could remain under this wagon without going mad. His calculations had been indefinite, but he didn’t think it would be too much longer. It was only his nighty forays out into the encampment to replenish his supplies that kept him from stepping over that, oh-so-thin line. Of course it was also entirely possible that he was being quite melodramatic and needed to just enjoy the ride. After all, he was on his way somewhere new and exotic. He was continually fascinated by the different races that he had met since leaving the jungle; the cultures that so many had adopted and the diversity of each region. Of course, it was also true, he had discovered, that there was a great overlying current of commonality that seemed to flow across the entire land. Even in societies separated by thousands of leagues, commonalities existed, and this was one of the things that fascinated him the most. So he traveled, far from home, beyond the sea of green to the sea of death and misery. But also a world of magic, and possibilities. As he rode he listened to people talking outside. In the eight days he had been with this wagon, he had managed to become pretty well acquainted with all of the beings along for the ride…even if it was without their knowledge. He had to admit there were some pretty interesting characters; the thri-kreen especially would be a delight to talk to. He had once spent some time with their people, and had always found them to be friendly and hospitable. Well, that could be stretching it a bit, but Jerm wasn’t the type to speak ill of others. He took a slug of kank honey and shuddered. Foul stuff at best! His tongue was not suited for it. Though he had drank tuns of it since coming to this land, he still loathed the taste. Outside the sunlight began to reach underneath the wagon with its slippery, smoldering fingers. Day was coming…
__________________
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Support your local Short Story Competition!
Last edited by Sparhawk; Jan 13th, 2013 at 03:57 PM. |
#5
|
|||||
|
|||||
“Well, for all but you elves it is easier to ride than it is to walk. And yes you are right; I am much more valuable as food for animals of arena than I would be as a gladiator. My value is in agriculture. If I keep the plants and crops of the nobles alive then I stay alive.”
Gardner’s mind briefly drifted off to when he was a slave in Tyr. He was in charge of a Faro grove. More than once he had use magic to keep the cactus alive and producing fruit. This reminded him that he had a need. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for your name…and a bit of palm leaf?” Last edited by Rabid Gnome; Jan 13th, 2013 at 04:27 PM. |
#6
|
|||||
|
|||||
Cecelia was the first one awake, having not been able to sleep much the night before, and was up long before the sun started to paint the sky. Unable to sleep she had simply gotten up and picked a comfy spot on top of a close dune to watch over everyone and taking a night watch of her own accord as she shuffled through her thoughts, memories and nightmares, unable to distinguish what was real and what was just her imagination. The night itself was uneventful and mostly quiet except for the snoring that came from where everyone slept and the crackle of the fire till it sizzled and died, taking its last breath.
As the Sun started to come up and everyone started to wake she got up and took one last look around before heading back down to the camp and walking over to the Wagon as Salin and Emma tried to get the meks to start moving for the third day in a row. OH how long the days have become just sitting and waiting for the silly looking creatures to move. To her knowledge she had never seen anything like them, nor much about the other races on the caravan. The tri-kreen for instance, looked like an insect she thought she once saw, but she would never tell the humble Krik-ket that. Possibly the strangest one to her, not look wise, was the one they called Thakar, she seemed to always find a sense of peace around him, feeling safe, as though she was...home. Cecelia had been leaning against the wagon as Salin flicked the heavy leather reins. Just as the days before, no reaction came from the Meks. She watched Emma as she kicked the animals in frustration and to her own surprise the cart moved from behind her. She squealed with excitement and hopped up and down, her long white hair being tousled every which way as she ran over to the camp and grabbed her packed bag from the ground before following beside the wagon, a warm smile on her face. Looking up as Salin spoke to her, her emerald green eyes meeting his. She giggled at his question, thinking so innocently and nothing of possible intentions she hopped up on the wagon and sat next to him. Though it was very hard for her to sit still for very long, looking every which way, asking lots of questions and almost always talking. From what she could remember, or what she thought she remembered, there were no faces, or people or creatures that she had talked to, save for the one. She looked to Salin as they spoke of the current topic "i still dont get it Salin, why people buy other people, the concept of a slave is very confusing" she said looking behind her through the wagon window at the two caged beings
__________________
"I Hope You Don't Screw Like You Type."
Last edited by GoddessGamer; Jan 13th, 2013 at 05:54 AM. Reason: adding the bit about Thakar |
#7
|
|||||
|
|||||
Thakar does not like to be so prematurely awakened from his dreams. They tell him more than the sun does, across the dunes and heat, with the nagging voice of his employer. Still, Thakar Thuul is not one for complaints, and does not even groan as he rises, packing his things and mounting his kank, still groggy but ready for action if it be called of him. He barely recalls his dreams from the night before, a muddled mess of flying, of garden paradises: of Athas before the world fell into ruin. And there was Thaken, mild-mannered and innocent enough, round-faced and friendly, and smart besides. He was always there, always the object of his peaceful dreams. They had conversed, but with each passing waking moment, he forgot the words more and more. They did not last long. They rarely did.
Taking his place in the rear, Thakar Thuul is a giant, as is to be expected of a Mul. Hairless, he keeps his head covered with a tattered brown hood, masking all but his mouth, which rarely moves save to eat parcels and drink droplets when he is so worthy. What words come from his mouth are often one-liners, singular in his vocabulary but certainly plural in his meaning. Intimidation being an artform, it was one that the gladiator learned ages ago. Another lifetime, though, and this job is both a blessing and a curse: a kindness offered to him by Salin, his savior in the desert wastes, and a curse in that it delays his purpose. He will find him, of course, and he will save him. And then his true intention can come true, a greater deed wrought in blood. He will savor every drop. But not yet. Not now. Now, his ears betray his companions, if they can call themselves that. Talk of value, talk of slaves. Thakar keeps his tongue from wagging, and keeps himself from making a fool of himself. No need to kill another so needlessly. That another man can own another is foolish. A man's worth is found in what he does, not for whom. Ownership and gold means nothing to Thakar: the obsidian blade at his side is the world to him. He can forge his own fate, and as he sits atop his insect steed, he watches Cecelia with concern hidden behind the cloth. While she is innocent enough, Salin is not, and Thakar is no fool. Sheltered though the life of a Mul is to the wider world, there are two things they excel at: blood-baths and sexual pleasure. In neither of these things is he interested in with the girl, but a curious paternalness. Since her arrival here, he has made no attempt at masking his protectiveness of her, but in the face of Salin, there is little he can do. He cannot free these poor bastards, and he cannot stop her. But he can draw her attention away from the craven man at her side. Kicking his kank in the sides, he rides up a bit, foregoing his job if just for a moment, a brief second. "Slavery is the myth of paper and coin. A man is only as free as his mind and hands take life by the throat." More eloquent than his more vulgar outburst, to be certain. He allows his kank to fall back after the answer, but stays close behind, looking into the cages. Melancholy follows that gaze, a heavy brow briefly visible as he offers the inhabitants of the cages a nod. Then, his eyes turn to the horizons before and behind them. One can never be too careful.
__________________
he/him\his
In Repose |
#8
|
|||||
|
|||||
__________________
Nothing to see here... Last edited by Quori; Jan 13th, 2013 at 01:32 PM. |
#9
|
|||||
|
|||||
Salin shrugs at Cecelia's questions. "It is the way of things, for some to own others. How would things be if everyone were free to do what they wanted? Mass chaos I think." He glances at the two caged behind him on the wagon. "Gardener here is a thrice over oddity: his age, his species, and, I'm told, his dazzling ability to grow life in the desert. He should draw a fantastic price in Nibenay." He pauses. "The other, well, that's a special case. But I am not usually a slaver, these are unique investments. I don't object, you understand, it's just harder to make money moving them from city to city. The real value in this wagon is below them: Urik's finest obsidian. Since Kelek cut off Tyr's iron, the price for iron has quadrupled and obsidian has doubled." He flicks the reins once as the mekillot strays towards the side of the hard-packed road.
The human in the cage does not appear to have noticed the discussion ranging around him. He stares fixedly at a point on the horizon. Hal makes a point of never staying quite beside Krik-Ket. He either drives his kank a little ahead or lags a little behind the thri-kreen at his side. At Thakar's comment Buss glances over, his one good eye focused on the mul. Them's fancy words from a former slave. He picks a piece of gristle from between his teeth, eyes it, then eats it. S'posn you got more opinions on the matter? The wagon rolls on, the terrain gradually becoming dotted with rocky outcroppings between the sand dunes.
__________________
This space reserved. |
#10
|
|||||
|
|||||
__________________
Nothing to see here... |
#11
|
|||||
|
|||||
The mul stops his retreat for a moment to hear the reply to Cecelia, keen on his employer's take on the matter. A strange man: willing to sell slaves as well as give runaways a fair chance at freedom. He has not yet betrayed Thakar, so Thakar will not yet betray him. It would serve no purpose: not until his desires come to light. Still, Salin's words inspire a cacophony of confusion in the mul's simple mind, as he tries to justify the paradox of viewpoints, of actions. Which speaks louder? In a canyon, one can best hear their own words twisted, but out here in the open, things are not so simple. No man is an oasis unto himself and his beliefs he cannot claim his own until he lives them. What life does Salin live?
His example over, his words complete, his employer turns and offers a refutation to Thakar Thuul, one that the mul is keen on proving wrong. But the prompting is premature, and Thakar is able to stop himself from making a further fool with his mouth. A dangerous trade, the war of words. They are the most potent magic of all: the fate of many falls on words, written and spoken. And here, he can damn himself with ease. He may be the third quarry carried by Salin, if he is not careful. That is, of course, if Salin feels he can imprison mighty Thakar. Thakar will not be caged so easily, now that he is his own mul. He offers Salin only silence, a smirk, and the resolute knowledge of his employee's obedience. His opinions are his own, and they are best kept that way. Still, he hopes young Cecelia finds more truth there than in the honesty and frankness of Salin. Acceptance is the first step on the road to obedience, and the most dangerous step is always the first. His kank falls back a bit further, showing to all his desire to speak no more on the matter. He does not give any a glance, save perhaps Cecelia. Thakar will master this outside world yet; but tact is taught with misstep.
__________________
he/him\his
In Repose |
#12
|
|||||
|
|||||
As a slave Gardener knew it was best to stay out of the conversation.
So we are going to Nibenay. The city is surrounded by springs. And rice fields. That’s probably where I will end up. But those rice plants don’t need me. They are hardy and have plenty of water. Or I could be needed in the Crescent Forest to help with the Agafari trees. I would like to see the turquoise trees. |
#13
|
|||||
|
|||||
Cecelia turned as she heard Thakar behind her speak, tilting her head slightly at his odd and simple answer to her question, before going back to his position behind the caravan. Looking at Salin now as he gave his answer as well, she still didn't understand. The concept was easy to understand, but why a being would want to own another. She knew the world was cruel, she had possibly experienced that first hand, and the stories her fellow companions had told her of their lives before the caravan certainly depicted that. She gave a small sigh and looked back at the two in their cages again, having many times contemplated letting them out, But to what end? They had nowhere to go, no weapons for protection. If she were caught what would happen to her? She was not so eager to betray the kindness of Salin for taking her in, whatever his end cause may be for doing so. She shook the thoughts out of her head.
With the sun higher in the sky now she pulled out her canteen, what little was left in it, and took a small swig before replacing the cap and putting it away. The smell of Salin sweating was starting to get bad, so she did what she normally did and hopped up on top of the wagon and sat cross legged as she watched the horizon. She turned her head and looked around for a moment, a curious look on her face as she did so, having thought she heard an old familiar voice. Again she turned her head as she heard the voice speak to her, some shadow coming to life in her mind. As she sat on top of the wagon looking slightly frantic in all directions, mumbling a conversation to herself, to fast and jumbled to discern. Cecelia turned every which direction once more, her mind far off in some distant memory, acting like she was boxed in. The poor girls eyes reflected the fear she was reliving, till a bump of the wagon seemed to wake her and she was brought back to the reality of the bare desert and beating hot rays of the sun. Her heart raced for a moment, her breathing heavy as she had come out of another episode. It had happened in a matter of seconds and though they happened less often now than when she was first found out here, it brought no comfort to her that he nightmares had seeped into the waking world. She sighed softly, feeling awkward and embarrassed, wishing she had answers. Climbing off her perch from atop the wagon she swiftly moved into the back of the wagon, pulled her knees to her chest and sat quietly for a few moments. Her emotions and thoughts were so erratic that the memory of the episode would soon pass and she would be back to talking and bouncing around nonstop once more.
__________________
"I Hope You Don't Screw Like You Type."
|
#14
|
|||||
|
|||||
From his position up front, Krit-Ket could hear the conversation going on behind him, but he did not quite understand it. His confusion did not stem from a diminished intellect but rather an alien upbringing. Krik was not sure that there was much of a difference between animals and people or owning either of the two—it certainly was okay to eat either, any thri-kreen knew that. Perhaps, the society of other peoples would be less gruesome if they gave up their precious economies and did not dominate anything that they did not intend to consume, and at any rate Krik would never understand working a slave until they were not fit to eat.
Ultimately, it was of little concern to Krik-Ket. The thri-kreen wanderer had only encountered many of these complexities a year ago, and so they still seemed like foreign affairs to him. Krik did not intend to shake the foundations of society and thought that it was good enough that he would never own neither man nor beast. The natural order would take care of the rest of the world. The slaves were not part of the clutch as far as he was concerned, because they did not provide for the clutch. Thus, they were largely inconsequential to the strange ranger, less meaningful than the kanks and the mekillot. Because Krik was not sure that the others would take kindly to such views, he kept his thoughts to himself and walked along with Hal in silence. Scanning the wilderness around him, it occurred to him that all around him yet entirely unseen other organisms must be playing out great dramas of domination and consumption, as oblivious to the plights of society as humanity was of theirs. Krik wondered if either was more significant than the other or if both were truly like grains of sand amongst a sea of desert dunes, though it did not weigh heavily upon his mind.
__________________
"I'm not going to be the ref! I'm a villain! Don't you see?!"
-Frank Reynolds, It's Always Sunny in Philladelphia Dim the Drowned|Telephus Lorre|Togashi Shingo Tribulations of the Stag Last edited by Grenadier; Jan 15th, 2013 at 05:57 AM. |
#15
|
|||||
|
|||||
Jerm could easily overhear the conversation that was going on above him as he straddled a length of bracing and watched the sand go by beneath his nose. Not exactly what he would call breakfast conversation, but regardless he fetched a piece of jerky from his belt pouch and listened as he chewed. His opinions on the subject were relatively fluid. Slaves were slaves. Most of them did not even possess the concept of a free life, and those who did, would never know how to go about living one if they had it. On the other hand, it was societies hand that had led to this limited form of understanding. Without the interference of greedy men, the breeding of slaves in captivity and the lack of conceptual ideals that came with the process, would be non-existent. As a worldly sort of fellow, he attempted to refrain from passing judgement on the issue and left it up to the politics of men.
He sighed and rolled over to stare at the underside of the wagon. He had to get out from under here! The mention of Nibenay was promising, but he had no idea how far off they yet were. He feared that he would be unable to restrain himself much longer. Best not to dwell on that though. Taking a deep breath he sat up and perched himself precariously atop the bracing in a cross-legged position. Closing his eyes he focused inward until he could hear the rushing of the water as it flowed through the jungle. The call of birds came to his ears and the smell of the earth filled his nostrils. Beneath him the wagon moved onward, but Jerm'san Mumblyspot was far, far away...
__________________
“There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” Support your local Short Story Competition!
|
![]() |
Thread Tools | |
|
|