The birds cawed harshly, circling in the air like vultures eyeing wounded prey. Below, the Darrows pulled on their chains, the crooked, bloodstained steel plows slowly trudging behind them through the fields. The jagged lines they carved into the earth mirrored the edges of the vicious blades that fashioned them. Overhead, dark and brooding skies churned, enveloping the faded Hollows into oppressive blackness. One would have to be deaf to not hear or ignore the deep groans that emanated from the Darrows as they worked the fields. Blood and sweat mingled, dripping from their muddied naked bodies, scarcely moistening the hard, unyielding ground tread beneath their deformed, bare feet. Rain had not touched the aching soil for longer than any Darrow could remember.
Most people could stand mere inches away and study the creatures, unknowing that they were in fact, human. Children were taught that these beings were monsters, rightfully punished for their vile crimes against the gods, and that it was every person’s duty to make certain that their punishments were harsh, cruel, and were carried out until death.
The rattling chains, whose very sound sent a deep, unnerving shiver through every person’s soul who was not already a monster themselves, echoed throughout the entirety of the Hollows. From the Crimson River three miles to the east, to the Korin-Kae Mountains that stretched along the western border, the noise served as a grim warning to every passerby who heard the wretched sound; leave the hollows, or have your fate sealed along with the Darrows.
The slaves toiled endlessly but at a steady, slow pace. Anyone who went about their labor at an unfitting speed was met with a brutal punishment. The watchful Larkers who patrolled the fields would slice the limbs off of the slow-moving Darrow where they stood, their maimed body thrown off to the side to bleed out, ignored by their fellow slaves who continued on past.
Anyone who attempted to help or even glance toward the unfortunate soul would be made an example of; with two large spikes driven through their ribs, extending out through their back, and one larger spike piercing through their head. They were placed on the edge of the field, their feet lifted inches off the ground, with their tongue and eyes cut out and placed beneath them. Within every Darrow was etched the lesson to never help another person or gaze into their face and acknowledge the humanity within their fellow slaves.
Despite their futile efforts, it was impossible to move quickly. Inserted into the arms of every Darrow were two thin steel spikes with inverted hooks on the end to prevent them from being pulled out. On the backs of the spikes, chains were permanently sealed on a thick ring and tethered the Darrow to the plows.
During the initial months of work, the newly enslaved Darrows’ arms would bleed profusely, their bodies and chains covered in dark crimson stains. Their muscles and sinew would bruise and the flesh become unrecognizable. In some cases, the limbs sustained so much damage that the arms were rendered useless, unable to feel or bend at the elbows. With time, their limbs eventually lost all feeling, and the steel spikes fused with their flesh, becoming a very part of their bodies. Even the Darrows found that they could no longer call themselves…human.
Long before the blood-red sun could rise and pierce through the dark clouds, the Darrows began their endless labor which stretched until three hours past sunset. As the remnant traces of light and warmth were blotted out behind the Red River, plunging the Hollows into a weighted darkness, a searing hot lantern was fastened around the neck of each slave, forcing them to continue working. The metal surrounding the burning glass edges, forged near an intense red flame, caused it to heat up and burn the chests of the wearer. The fresh scent of burning skin constantly pervaded the air, the Larkers drinking in the aroma, their swollen, black eyes reflecting their hunger for more.
Those who were new to the fields lowered their necks to avoid the lantern’s heat, but over weeks, the heavy weight took its toll and disfigured their bodies, turning them into hunchbacks. Their spines became crooked and round, pressing against their thin, frail skin, threatening to burst open.
For those who were proud and learned their lessons stood upright, allowing their chests to be singed and burned. If they were lucky and survived the wounds and infections that followed, their flesh would eventually heal into a grotesque mass of hardened skin, protecting them from the lantern’s heat. This was a sign of honor and pride among the Darrows, marking those who possessed the strongest wills and had endured the longest and survived.
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Even amongst themselves, as they huddled and cowered in the dark corners of their holes that they called home, they dared not give each other names or utter a friendly word to one another. As years passed, the only sounds were the crazed mumblings of a Darrow who had finally snapped and lost control of their mind, or the screams of terror and pain that pierced the still night. Common speech and facial expressions were long forgotten along with their sense of who they once were.
Grimnoss, the Watcher and Ruler of the Hollows, forced the Darrows to endlessly mate in order to provide fresh workers. This was their punishment; that their kind would breed and be enslaved for an eternity, never knowing the taste of freedom.
In his ruthlessness and hatred for the Darrows, Grimnoss refused to feed them, and even they had come to believe that creatures such as themselves did not deserve such luxuries and kindness. They learned to survive on their primal instincts and became almost indistinguishable from common animals. The small and weak were eaten and quickly forgotten.
Grimnoss’s likeness existed only in paintings within the shadowed corridors and open chambers of the keep that overlooked the fields that stretched for miles in every direction. The pictures were illuminated by firelight and observed only by hungry, vicious dogs, and touched by servants whose eyes and tongues had been removed.
Rumors spread that he considered himself a god, his power and image too great and holy for anyone to look upon. Some storytellers even went as far as to claim that Grimnoss would eat the flesh and drink the blood of any who saw him and were not a part of his inner court.
Over the years, Grimnoss had amassed an enormous following of religious heretics who, though they had never seen him, worshiped him with a fury and devotion that was matched only by their bloodlust. His followers, known as the Serpent’s Eyes, believed that he was the god of wrath, a serpent who had reincarnated as a human, reborn in the mortal world to punish the faithless and those who did not follow in his ways.
The Serpent’s Eyes believed that it was their holy duty to invoke Grimnoss’s wrath and ruthlessness upon any who crossed their path. To them, all who were not part of their following were declared Sinners and needed to be cleansed from their transgressions against Grimnoss; washed and reborn in death. His followers were known to not fear pain, death, or the relentless darkness that awaited them in the afterlife.
The Hollows, eternally bathed in blood and blackness were home to none except Grimnoss, unholy monsters, and the Darrows.
The unforgiving ground was rocky and parched, yearning for even a drop of water to quench its eternal thirst. In the desolate Hollows, nothing except poisonous and sharp, bristled plants thrived. The Darrows toiled in the fields, cultivating only Haimanthes for Grimnoss–an abhorrent white plant streaked with red veins webbing through the petals like a disease. Touching it caused searing pain, sending a fiery agony shooting through one’s limbs, and erupting into large, festering boils. Each of the slaves' hands bore hideous scars beyond recognition and were irreparably damaged from plucking the Haimanthes. Among the few who retained fragments of the common tongue, the plant was known simply as The Blood Flower.
In the surrounding lands, anyone old enough to speak knew to avoid the Hollows. Every child could recite the stories and understood that even the gods refused to look upon the Hollows and he who ruled it. This was a place better forgotten.
The mountains and caves had been long abandoned by travelers and men, for fear of the Kriggens who unwillingly inhabited them. Once human, these vile creatures had been cursed and driven away from their homeland in the eastern side of the Hollows. Their skin had turned black and gray, and they stood several feet taller than a grown man, with unnaturally long hands and feet equipped with sharp, bony claws. Their faces had been replaced with large, circular mouths filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth and drooping folds of skin that cascaded down their necks and chests.
Now, only known as blasphemous creatures who pervaded the nightmares of children, they had become far from human, communicating only in guttural noises and piercing shrieks. The Kriggens, their souls forfeited and humanity diminished to monstrous beings, roamed the mountains aimlessly, housing themselves in darkness, attempting to escape their wretchedness and the eternal, unforgiving wrath of the gods.
Afraid of sunlight like an exposed wound, they traveled only in shadow. Demented and filled with sorrow and anger, these creatures became blood-thirsty and wild, eagerly awaiting any unfortunate animal or person to enter their lairs, to be consumed slowly, and painfully.