Chapters 14-15 (Early Versions)

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. I was destined to be broken in the mines according to my captors. Determined that I would not break, the fire of defiance was like a smouldering ember within, only to be almost snuffed out as another man screamed as burning hot orange metal met pliant skin, burning 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

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 on 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 held on to that I in the old world, I was free, and I would be so again.

The comeliest of the men and were 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 still all however 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 precious 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 tunic, 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 armoured 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 metres 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 centre, 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 jewelled 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 recognised 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 colour across huge gigantic trees. I stopped in my tracks only to be pulled along once again by the cutting cruel chains around my ankles. 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 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 were 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 a 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 travelling along the length of 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.




Chapter 15 - The Master Dwarf

Of all the other races I find the dwarves closest to us the race of true men. Though slightly longer lived they are not as eternal as the elves, yet for all of that, they have always seemed to me to be more solid, more grounded in the now. What truly brings us close is our love for the fruit of the deep ground, the sparkle of gems, and the lure of gold. It is through mutual greed that we find common parlance.

- Attributed to Duchess Jessalyn the Unifier of the Lost Duchy circa 240 AC


I gripped my mining pick in my hands, its solid weight comforting to me.  Attacking the guards now would be foolish, I needed more information before I could make a move. Gripping the handle harder I trudged on vowing that I would someday be free.

Slowly we descended down the gaping maw of the mineshaft, the air cooler as we proceeded further down. Wooden solid support beams held up the shaft at regular ten-metre intervals, and echoes of our footsteps and clanking chains could be heard down the passage. A dull blue light shone from the ceiling of the shaft, an opal coloured gem emitting soft pulsing light.  My curiosity got the better of me and I decided to cast Identify on it.

Zajasite Lightstone
Durability 187/240

Despite the drain to my Mana, I noticed that I didn’t feel so debilitated and sluggish like the last time I had pushed myself magically. My curiosity sated, I noticed that none of the other slaves even cast a glance upwards in its direction as we passed. This must be something common for this world, I concluded with a mental shrug.

After another ten minutes of our descent, I could hear the sound of mining picks striking stone mixed with voices exhorting slaves to greater effort. We found ourselves at a fork in the mine system, and the guards divided us again with my group funnelling down into the right hand passage.

As we continued down the right fork I began to hear the clinking sound of metal hitting rock echoing up the shaft. Suddenly, there was a small tremor and fine rock dust fell from the ceiling, a light pattering of soft alabaster snow on the slaves in front of me, as the whole line paused. After the tremors stopped we continued further down, urged on by a cracking whip.   A feeling of sudden claustrophobia came over me before I forcefully pushed the feeling back down through raw mental will.

The clinking sounds were stronger now and soon afterward we passed mining slaves on either side of the shaft, chipping away at the soft white rock under the supervision of another group of guards. Their mining tools rising and falling, up and down in a steady cadence. Some of the older slaves shovelled what looked like raw rough metal ore into large wicker baskets, which when full were hoisted onto their backs with straps around their shoulders like primitive backpacks.

A man spoke up to the slaves calling a stop to their shift, his features difficult to discern in the soft blue light. He was unshackled except for an iron collar gilt with gold trim around his neck. A preferred slave, or foreman, I thought to myself. Three-quarters of the slaves then grabbed the wicker baskets laden with precious ore and made their way back up where we came. The man with the gilded iron collar barked out orders for the remaining workers to instruct us in our duties, confirming that they understood with a stern look and question. One of the slaves was a little slow in his reply and the whip cracked out close to him, but not striking, more for intimidation than for inflicting pain.

Those that remained came over then. A burly man who was shorter than I, squat and heavily muscled slowly demonstrated how to use a pick to me.  Grabbing it with hands wide apart, rolling it across his shoulders, then bringing his hands together as he struck the white rock. Looking closely at my mentor I could see that he was indeed very wide, but there was not an inch of fat about his impressive physique. A long braided beard of indeterminate colour fell down to near his waist, tied at the end with what looked like a small disc of metal that followed the movements of his body.

“Now do,” my mentor said slowly as if instructing a child in the rough guttural language of the Children, gesturing for me to follow his actions.

I gripped my tool as he did, and brought it down against the rock cutting deep. The wide man grunted in confirmation. We worked together then, striking almost in rhythm to one another. My stamina was gradually depleting as I toiled away, though I noticed I was not sweating as much as I used to when I had exerted myself to this degree in my previous life.

After an hour or two I lost track of time in the soft blue darkness of the mines. I saw a boy going down the line passing a ladle of water for us to drink. Though the water was stale with a distinct coppery aftertaste, when it was finally my turn I greedily slurped on it like it was sweet ambrosia. When I had finished, the boy in a surprising turn of events whispered a thank you to me before hurrying down the line to give another worker his fill of the water.

The foreman barked in a surprisingly shrill voice that echoed down through the darkness.

“Break now! For only two turns of the glass!” he exclaimed before drinking from a small hip flask at his waist that drew stares of envy from the other slaves.

I took this as an invitation to sit down on the cool rock floor, laying my tool by my side, my hands chafing from the strenuous activity. My stamina had recovered a little and I looked at the dwarf who had now worked a double shift. I decided to speak to him.

“Would you…” I drew another shallow breath, “mind telling me your name?” I asked, a small smile forming in the darkness.

“Manner’s be to introduce yourself before asking for someone’s name,” he replied brusquely, eyes pointedly avoiding me before he sighed through gritted teeth.

“Though I reckon manner’s be different in the lands of men. Name’s Durhit Coal of the Beacon Mountains. Your own?”  He spoke the last with a raised inflexion, still refusing to make eye contact with me.

‘The lands of men?’ I wonder what he meant by that. I was caught a little off guard before forcing myself to think about his question. My subconscious mind was almost able to grasp my old name but then hit a dead end when I focused on it. Grasping at straws I remembered my moniker in this world.

“Gilgamesh of Uruk,” I said haltingly. The unfamiliarity of my new name remained an unknown taste to my tongue.

“Never heard of an Uruk,” he raised a bushy eyebrow in either feigned surprise or suspicion. “Sounds too foreign for my liking, you're from far away from here little manling? Across the seas perhaps?”

“Farther than you could ever imagine. Across a sea of stars,” I replied, trying my best to sound mysterious and poetic. His face contorted at this, trying to make sense of my words before we were interrupted.

“Back to work dogs!” The words lacked anger, more said out of rote. Lines repeated so many times they had lost most of their bite. The crack of the whip that soon followed however did not.

We continued our work in silence. My stamina grew very low and my arms felt like lead weights when I was granted a notification for my forced efforts.  I wasn’t too thrilled by gaining the Mining skill, but an increase in Strength was always welcome.

You have learned Mining
You have gained 1 Strength

The foreman called for the end of our shift in an almost high soprano, and our group began to gather the ore in the wicker baskets before starting our march out of the mines. At the previous fork we met the other group and formed a long line up the shaft, our footsteps echoing in the soft blue darkness. We continued upwards and finally reached the entrance, the cool night air a balm for our exhaustion. The sound of the forges and the smelters had grown somewhat dimmer than during the day, but had not stilled completely. A slave stumbled at the entrance, exhaustion finally taking him, but he was helped along by his fellows. A show of a blossoming camaraderie from the shared forced labour. My first shift as a slave had been completed.