Wandering Into Slavery

They had spent a quiet evening at their own fires, doing nothing. A meal had been shared, then she had played the flute. Loch had laughed, watching Tug's clumsy attempts at dancing to one sprightly tune she had played. It was Loch who eventually picked the boy up and took him to bed. As soon as Tug was asleep, he came out dressed for patrol, stopped to kiss her and was gone into the night.


Sitting there for a time, she watched the fires, then lifted to her feet to make tea for Rook. Along with the small glasses of sweetened tea, she served a bowl of her honey, salted nut. The old man picked up one of the nuts, held it between his thumb and forefinger, studying it. In time, he simply lay it upon his kneel and stared into the flames, thinking. She said nothing, for this is how they were at times. Eventually, he asked her an odd question. "Do you know the value of salt?" This surprised her and the dark head turned, her gaze settling on him, and she explained that she knew that it was expensive to trade for, and that a lack of it was dangerous, as it was needed.


"It is worth its' weight in blood." Taking up the nut, it was placed into his mouth and he chewed slowly seeming to savor the taste. Upon swallowing, he began to speak, regaling her with another tale of his life.


After he had finished his quest for revenge, he had wandered. He simply took a direction and rode, hunting when he hungered, resting when he was tired, and trying to bring some sense to his existence. Wandering for moons along the foothills of the Ta-Thassa Mountains, alone and in pain. Time had come when he had approached the banks of the Cartius River. He had camped on the banks for several days, refreshing himself, trying to decide what to do next. Eventually the day came, when he had decided to just follow the river on its' journey, finding some comfort in the way the waters moved along the shores. Maybe his mistake had been in following it the wrong way. Maybe he should have turned to follow it upstream to its' source, and not downstream where it flowed to it's conclusion.

The point had come when the river he was following branched out into another. In his travels, he occasionally approached small villages, only to be met with fear and suspicion. The scars on his cheeks did not bring much in the way of trust from people. It seemed that the tales of the men of the plains were prevalent everywhere. At this point in his life, the emotions conjured up by this fear, were two fold. There was the pride in knowing that his people were considered a force to be reckoned with, but there was also a sadness that the same fear that brought him this pride, also made him a lonely man. A man set alone from others.

At this point, where the Cartius changed into the two branches of the Fayeen, more and more people began to cross his path. One peasant that had chose to walk beside his kaiila, talking incessantly, told him they all journeyed to Kasra, to trade. Kasra? This must be a city. The only city he had ever been close to was Turia. He asked if this Kasra was like Turia, and the man laughed, telling him no, that it was much smaller, and in some ways much more dangerous. He huffed slightly at this, no city could be more dangerous for a Tuchuk, than Turia. He would be proved wrong.


He had followed along with the peasants on their sojourn to this city called Kasra. On the second day, it came into view, and in some ways he was very disappointed. This was not the great walled city he was expecting. This was not Turia. Nestled into a small valley, it did have walls, but not the great ones he had seen before, but they were wall, all the same. And the wonder of it to him, was that the gates were swung open to admit the steady stream of peasants that went to the city to trade. Pulling his windscarf up to try and disguise his scars, he entered the city, curious in some ways as to how these dwellers lived.


He had some pelts of animals that he had killed on his journey. He attempted to trade with them, but was advised again by his new peasant companion that he would need to take them to a furriers and get coin for them. For one that had spent his entire life on the plains, he found great amazement in the goods that were offered to him for his coin, including slaves that wore small boxes around their necks and dance in enticement with hints of pleasure that could be gained for a coin in their box. What was wrong with these dwellers? Did they not understand that if a man wished pleasures from a slave, he simply bent her over the nearest barrel, or pinned up up against the closest wall and took what he wanted? Strange ways these dwellers had, asking coin for something that was a man's right, by virtue of him simply being a man.


He had made a fatal error upon that day, but did not realize it until much later. He had trusted one that was not of his people. He had trusted this unknown peasant. Through the day, they had ate, drank, and enjoyed the carnival like atmosphere. In all honesty, this was much different than the merchant caravans that came to the plains. Much livelier, much more dangerous.


His last memories of that night, were of being very drunk on paga, and not in control of himself. There were also vague memories of the softness of a slaves body, offering up another bowl to him, then nothing.

When he awoke the next morning, he had a raging pain in his head, and in darkness. There was a collar around his nec, and he was naked and in chains. The smell of unwashed bodies assaulted his nose, and he was unable to move. Struggling to sit up, he realized he was chained to another man on either side of him. Looking around there were others that walked with whips and prods, placing hoods over the heads of each chained man. When it came time for him, he struggled, tried to fight to no avail. The last thing he saw before the darkness of the hood, was his new peasant friend, wearing his windscarf, standing beside his kaiila, taking coins from a large man in something that looked almost like the robes the dweller women word.


In that moment, he memorize the peasant's face. He did not know how long it would take, but someday he would find the man again, and what he had in store for him, would make the man scream to the skies for death.


When the hood dropped over his head, the guard struck him on the back of the head and laughed. "Fool, you will make a fine slave for the pits, if you live through the journey."