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 its stages. Some were choleric with rage, defiance a bright torch in their hearts. Others were catatonic with shock or grief, some wailing and crying a river of tears. Yet, a rare few had accepted with serenity their new station in life. This was to be the beginning of my new life as a slave.
Naked, we were prodded, pulled, and scrutinized by rough men and women with licentious hands. Our teeth were closely examined for decay, and our bodies for disease. Those of us still holding on to our previous lives were taught otherwise with the crack of a three-pronged leather whip.
All my life, slavery had been mostly just an academic subject. Its most blatant manifestations were buried in the past, and though it persisted in some corners of the globe, slavery bore no relevance to my privileged existence in the West. Yet, in this place, I was receiving an education of a different sort. One that left scars on my body and imprinted lessons that no mere historical class or award-winning documentary could ever aspire to impart.
Two days had passed since my triumph in the arena when I was brought to this pit of human suffering. I overheard some gossip about my fate as I was being led. Some of my captors had wagered that, against all tradition, I would be poisoned or have a subtle knife plunged between my ribs. Others thought I was destined to be broken in the mines.
I was determined not to break. The fire of defiance smoldered like an ember within me, although it was almost extinguished when I heard another man's screams as burning hot orange metal met his pliant skin, melting a red hot mark in the shape of a flowing wave. Nevertheless, I clung to a strange blend of rage and hope as I received a new mission. As I read the words, I felt like I was witnessing a divine revelation, and I knew that the gods had not yet abandoned me.
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 stared at the man who branded me without the defiance that would have invited a lashing, nor did I react to the searing touch of the hot metal with the animalistic pain that had reduced so many before me to sobbing wrecks. Instead, I felt total apathy, as if this were just a routine procedure that was, at most, a mild annoyance. My skill Pain Nullification allowed me to experience this small mercy and I had made sure to be at full Health before the branding took place, using precious Mana to do so before fear could overtake me.
They shouted at each other, trying to confirm whether someone in their mercy had administered drugs to numb my pain. I had shown no expression, which had visibly unnerved them.
The man with a puzzled expression on his face yelled at me to keep moving. Another person applied a foul-smelling green paste to my newly opened wound, making me feel as though I was both being stung and salved at the same time. After that, we were ushered to another open-air enclosure by the cruel slavers' barking commands. Then and 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. The more violent and rebellious slaves were separated from us and grouped on the left.
The wooden-fenced pen was surrounded by dark-bearded guards who were silent, stern, and clad in dirty chainmail and leather armor. They carried a variety of blunt instruments, ranging from cudgels to wicked-looking maces and flails. One of the guards, a particularly brutish specimen, stood nearly two meters tall and wielded a giant pole flail studded with deadly iron. He occasionally made jokes with his peers about how long it would take to break the weaker-looking slaves or how he would enjoy shattering bones with his weapon, which he affectionately called "Wife-Beater."