Fantasy RPG Forum - Standing Trials

Continued from here...

The blood pooled against the onyx-polished floors of Livose's parlor. Vethril shifted his feet slightly, and felt the slickness of the blood nearly bowl him over. It was only by propping himself up against the Sharp Spear's haft that he was able to maintain balance. Livose smiled at him. It was not a kind, warm smile. Not an expression that gave him the feeling of being seen for who he was. It was the covetous gaze of greed. Her green eyes turned aside, and then repeated the same process with another trio of slaves, handing one of the warrior captives their weapon, and giving them the same test. Whether she knew they wouldn't strike her? He couldn't tell. Perhaps the ones that Vethril had dispatched had been the ones deemed too rebellious, too dangerous.

But then, Vethril had killed one of their own. Had they not misjudged him? A glance toward the two slain fellows on the ground would confirm quite the opposite. How had they known what he would do?

He stared at the hateful Naer, her belly swollen with parasitic life. Did Naer even give birth to males? He wondered at that. What did they do with them? Send them to slavery, exile, or worse? He decided the less thought on it, the better.

The trouble with that was he was often left to his thoughts, as someone who couldn't speak the language of anyone here. Even fellow slaves couldn't understand a lick of Vauni. His only life line to that tongue, was the green-eyed villainess that had himi in her thrall.

The seasons that followed introduced him to the routine he was to follow. Although none could communicate with him, he sat with a strangely marked naer - a diffeerent one everytime - who would simply stare at him, as if she could look into his heart, his mind. And perhaps they could. After bits of this treatment, he then was led into the dressing area, where slaves were prepared and equipped for whatever task lay in store.

Oft as not, the Naer preferred for the slaves to wear clothing that while not exactly rich, had a way of accentuating their physique. Another layer of humiliation, he supposed.

More of the common tongue came clear to Vethril as he continued to live among his fellow slaves. Most of them spoke common anyway, some born slaves spoke Dehasin. Vethril tried to stick to his own kind, the captives who were taken in war.

There was perhaps a hint of acrimony between the slaves that were raised and born to serve, and those taken in war. This was compounded by the relatively comfortable situations of those born to it, compared to war captives. War slaves oft as not were taken to semi-legal fighting rings, where men were made to pit their own bare hands against each other, as the women watched and gambled their earnings on the hope that their choice would win.

So you either ended up with a soft life of servitude in a household, or beaten bloody every other night for the entertainment of a crowd of vice-ridden, shadowy bitches, barking their abuse at the slaves fighting for their pleasure.

These visits to the fighting pens were only intermittent, but they built some comradery among the war slaves. There was a grudging respect earned between two who'd shared blows.

Vethril found himself befriending a Lotharro, who bellowed and shouted either his praises or his humiliation, after a particularly successful bout against him. Whatever he was saying, it came clear that the Lotharro actually knew some words in Vauni.

He spoke to Vethril one trial, as they readied for their duties. The clothes laid out for them this trial were remarkably conservative compared to usual. One of the black--haired, fair-skinned slaves was shivering and pale, seeming reluctant to get ready. Vethril asked his friend what was up with the black-haired one.

"Oh him." The large bruiser said, "Nervous. Gonna be a father...."

Vethril quirked a brow. "They sired him out?"

"None other than the Mistress herself, in fact. You seen 'er?"

Vethril had indeed, and thought more than once of recovering a blade to drive through the parasitic life growing in her, in the small hours of his sleep, and in his dreams. He didn't share this with his friend, though. "Lork... What are they going to do to him when it's born?"

Lork grimaced, "Won't be pretty, whatever it is." He sighed, "If it's a boy, I wager something gruesome. If it's a girl, they'll put him down fast, bleed him over her, as a way of welcoming the shadow babe into the world."

Vethril's eyes widened at that. It was so monstrous, he almost found it in him to be fascinated by the decadence of wasting a slave's life on a moment.

Then again... How had he been brought in? He'd had to show his ruthless disregard for the lives of his fellow captives, right from the start. Perhaps they needed to sever that fatherly connection from the babe, in order to nip any trouble in the bud.

"Some Naer do it, others keep their favorites around. It's hard to say. " Lork said, "I guess the uncertainty adds to the intimidation factor, y'know?"

They all donned their conservatively cut robes, and walked out into the upper terrace of the chamber they were later ushered into. There, in the center, below, was the Mistress herself, divested of her illusion as it were. Her shadowy form had the same green, glowing eyes, with a vuluptuous shadowy form that swelled at the hip, very heavy with child now. He could hear her early lbirthing pains echoing throughout the chamber.

Vethril never knew a shadow could squeal. But it did then, the shattering cries seeming to disturb even the false lights of the braziers that lit the spectacle for all the household to see. The birthing of a new naer, or perhaps a male wastling, was an event in a household. One to be revered and celebrated, and internalized. They were meant to share in her pain, and Vethril could just about, even without the benefit of whatever sorcery was at work in this city.

She was flanked by several other shadows, standing tall and in robes. They held tools and implements aloft, in reverence. As if this was more ritual than medical procedure. And if a shadow giving birth to another little shadow monster wasn't magic, dark magic, but magic nonetheless, what could you call it?

Their tools worked in an unspeakable pattern upon the shadowy body at the dais. Her green eyes flaring as they cast about deliriously. Spreading terror through the heart of every slave. A Naer that didn't survive her birthing would mean a curse upon the head of every male slave. Or so the rumors went in the slave pens. Some even whispered of entire households who were put down rather than proliferate a faulty matron's line. Or Naer who onlyl gave birth to males, and were then cast out into the light without the benefit of protective tattoos.

Horror stories, suited to this festering silhouette of a civilization.

A sudden peal of painful shreiking echoed off the walls, scattering the false lights in the very breath it took to form. Eviscerating the sense of decorum of even the toughest war-slave in their line-up. Several of the slaves on the balcony fell to their knees, overcome by some form of dark empathy brought about by the dread of the moment.

Vethril for his part locked eyes with the green-eyed mother, staring at her with unmasked hatred under his hood. She seemed to see him, and seemed to take some strange solace in his antipathy. Vethril held her gaze for a moment more, before the attention drifted to the fruit of her labors, and she gave out a cry of relief.

The whole process had taken nearly two breaks, during which they'd stood, and withheld against the psychic terror of a Naer birthing. Vethril saw the little one, a bundle of shadow, with a long mane of black streaking behind her small head. She almost looked a dark comet in their arms, cradled, so tiny. His heart almost softened to hear the little shadow cry, until they brought forth the pale-skinned black haired slave that had been nervous before.

They brought him forth, to see his daughter once, before bringing a bronze athame to his throat, and bleeding him over the girl. The shadow baby cried and bawled as her own father's blood poured down over her, baptising the little creature in the sins of the society to which she was born.

Vethril looked to the mother once, and then, alone among his coterie of fellow slaves, turned aside, and turned his back on her.