The young lad and his sister, the lass, stood before the entrance to a district they had not wanted to enter for the past near two years. A district that to one of them, was a nightmare of darkness and brutality. And the other was one of fear and tension that weighed down all other thoughts.
The slave district of Barg’s Refuge had two distinct types of “wares” and “merchants.” There were those of tribal descent, from the eastern lands of the dunes who fought and captured their “product” in honorable battle and conflict. Both sides knowing that the fate of the winner depended much on his treatment of the loser. The wild tribes used their slaves as workers, late night guards, and treated them not as property, but an unwilling servant.
For most of the wild tribes, slaves were more about status, power, and possible sources of revenue. For any family of the slave could pay the Key Fee, to return their kin or clansmen. Depending on the level of feud and relationships of clans, this could be seen as merely a gift or prize for two close tribes who had a scuffle over who held rights to hunt in one place. It was like a small celebration of the victory with the losers required to attend. But were not seen as more than friendly boasting.
While even those of a deep hatred and long-standing feuds, when they clashed and managed to take slaves and prisoners, they did not want to make to losers suffer and bend to them. It was a chance to humiliate them, and except for extreme of extreme cases, these hated losers were merely decorations for the chief or council. They were cared for and made to serve to fuel the humiliation further. But they were not harmed beyond discipline to perform their tasks.
For the wild tribes of orcs, goblins, and all but the most savage of tribes and people, such as gnolls, slaving was not the same system as the civilized or soft skins engaged in.
For the soft skins, while their frames were physically weaker or slower, and generally, literally, softer, their hearts and souls could be darker and so depraved that the rough skins would not distinguish them from demons or devils. Creatures who existed solely to find pleasure in the suffering of others.
For the civilized nations, slavery was illegal. It was a practice intellectually looked down upon. But the dark guilds were not smuggling thousands of people across the Isle of Madra to be sold into lives of torture and suffering to be sold to the wild tribes and clans.
The enlightened races of humans, elves, halflings and others were the supply and consumers of such a product. Criminals of the nations who committed evil enough crimes, which often included the involvement in the slave trade, would be branded, and shipped to the independent city state of Barg’s Refuge. Enslavement of slavers and the foulest of criminals was the only way the governments officially interacted with slavery.
The wild or rough slaves were usually dressed, well cared for and treated as people who were simply in a job or position in life they didn’t like. While the civilized and soft slaves were barely clothed, usually ordered for use as “entertainment,” “violence,” and “service” slaves.
Wilds slaves were advertised by their lineage. They had clear records of trade and just as often as one was sold to another, they were bought and freed by their kin, or someone connected to them in some way.
The civilized were uncaring of origins, pasts or family beyond what could be used as a selling point. Half high elven dancers, orc death guards, dwarf crafters and brewers, human servants and laborers. No names, no record of sale or acquisition that could be referenced without paying nearly as much as the slave themselves cost. Only bodies for sale and display.
The Younglings of the Glora Clan felt uncomfortable with the concept of slavery, both from their lives prior to their enslavement, and their personal experiences. The dominant religion of the Isle, worship of Madra, had no precepts about slavery. They seemed to actively avoid the topic except for the most in-depth of theological texts and discussions.
Spoke once gave them a lecture on it. Explaining that Madra Herself upheld the reality and ways of nature and society as being truths. That there was a truth that all sentient beings, when they began to group together, tended to dominate or suppress others to an extent. A lion suppressed and fed on his prey, the gazelle or deer. But the grass and land benefited from the bones and decaying flesh of the lion and gazelle. And the gazelle feed upon the grass that grew from the spot the lion would fertilize with their body.
The cycle of nature was reciprocal. It was ever changing with no true “winner” or alpha. All would die and become fodder for others. And some... interpretations of the texts and religion would conclude that while slavery was in some way an expression of nature, it was not something to be proud of or encourage. Such as in the wild, rape and forcing themselves up on other animals, willing or unwilling, was common among animals. But it was not tolerated or enabled by the precepts of Madra.
Spoke explained that it was a matter of lines and distinction of authority and jurisdiction for the goddess of all life. She delineated between the sentient and civilized minds of the race's societies and the wild and animalistic ways of nature.
There was no way to strictly limit or prevent the natural order of domination in civilization that would lead eventually to the commodity of slavery. Especially because of their oaths to remain neutral in issues of politics. And a nation’s stance on slavery was quite literally its politics. The clergy of Madra contented themselves to teaching and emphasizing the importance of individual beings and their rights of existence and individual roles in a world that was always connected to and by the cycles of life and nature.
The two children took this lesson on the complicated nature of theology and morality as a chance to ingrain in their minds that there were things, they were not cut out to understand or worry about. The interplay and reasoning of the divine for their choices or lack of stance on an issue did not impact or change the truth that to them, slavery as they experienced it, was abhorrent. They did not understand the reasoning of the people who engaged with wild slaves to even tolerate the existence of civilized slaves. But, it didn’t matter.
The small teenagers remained glued to the other’s side. Both were decked in combat gear that was to be expected of adventures. With the lass settling for half-plate and chainmail instead of her full set that weighed as much as her.
The two walked down the blocks divided in two, segregated based on rough or soft slavers. They had to make way for an incredible number of small folks, kobolds, goblins and shtacor. Hundreds of the creatures being herded like sheep down the street and surrounded by slavers and private guards that escorted the hors towards wherever they were destined for.
There were pangs of pity for the fellow small folk in the younglings’ hearts, until the brand on their foreheads gave the creatures away. They were religious slaves. Cultists and criminals who would slaughter and sacrifice innocents for whatever being they worshiped.
These types were rare on the Isle of Madra, but they were some of the most dangerous and zealous beings on the continent. For someone to choose to not worship the being of life and god of the land itself that you live in, that other being must promise more than the goddess could or would ever offer.
The lad felt a rage in his heart, a hate in part from himself, and in part flowing through the pact that rested on his soul like a sweater made by his grandmother that held his being snugly. Those creatures were not worthy of pity. And were just as vile, if not more so than the slavers that lined half the district.
It took several minutes for the group, numbering in the hundreds, nearly a thousand, to pass. And when they had, the Younglings redoubled their efforts to find their prey.
Dashing down the streets, they would eventually enter the alley ways and backstreets of the wild slaves. Entering an area that resembled a more temporary version of the residential and merchant districts of the rest of the city.
Buildings of hides, tents and temporary structures of all kinds littered the streets. And in a “neighborhood” of green painted hides and canvas, resided a clan of wild slave traders. In the eastern wilds, these clans were rare. They were nomads who traded in the most unprofitable or unluckiest slaves of the tribes. People without family, clan, or honor were bought and collected, sometimes even criminal slaves within the clans were added to the traveling stock.
The clan made their living by selling these slaves to places that had more use of them. Who knew not of the failures of their clans and tribes. The dishonor of their family line. Or any other reason and needed a new place where they could be sold and gain a chance to earn their freedom.
These slaves were more dedicated to their tasks, more willing to suffer to earn their Key Fee than when the price of freedom was much, much higher than where they were before.
Tribes that grew large enough, or lacked enough proper servants or lower members, preferred these kinds of works, for more often than not, when they earned their freedom, they would join the tribe that purchased them. Becoming a long-term investment for the tribes.
This clan, the Ok’row, were one of these. But mainly focused on the trade of criminals. Members of the clan were leading the group of small folks the two had passed leaving the district.
To the two teens, the clan compound seemed to be like any other traveling clan. But more people were dedicated to cleaning or reinforcing and guarding the buildings. Except for a pair of large barn sized tents. With stakes driven through the thick leather every foot like large staples that drove deep into the earth like a prison designed by tanners and leather workers.
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Approaching the mixture of orcs and half orcs, the two small folk did not flinch or waver as they were stared at suspiciously. When one eventually came out and approached them. The lad knew that this person was a merchant or salesman. Someone who was born to haggle and count coins. The simple business smile was the main tell. But their common was extremely good and fluent despite their tusks.
“Mornin’ youngns. How can I help y’all small folk? I’m Gren Ok’row, of clan Ok’row.” His tall, slim figure for an orc was about as thick as the halfling he was looking at.
His accent was indicative of someone from the eastern lands, with the same rural twang their goblin brother had. But the lad stepped forward, being the most familiar with these kinds of talks.
“Good morning Gren, we are young members of the Glora clan.” He and his sister dipped their heads in a sign of respect as Gren barely reacted to the name, while others who were watching visibly flinched and attempted to leave the area. “We came today to enquire about a report your clan made to the city guard about a strange owlbear your clan encountered a few days travel northeast of the city.”
Gren wasted little time in returning the dipping of his head and lead the two young clan members into his tent, telling one of the guards to bring the group of guards who had witnessed the beast firsthand.
Word in the camp spread fast. Members of the Glora Clan were going to be hunting the creature that stole some of their slaves. And to top it off, it was the children of the clan. Folk barely three and a half feet tall. The clan was impressed and frightened by the concept. Orcs reached maturity around eight, but few of the seasoned warriors would bring those so young on a hunt against a creature as ferocious as an owlbear could be.
The two listened, with the lad taking notes while the lass watched the group describe the monster. A creature of rusting iron color, extremely long feathers, and thick, heavy hind legs. To the two clan members, it sounded like a bulky owlbear, but it was somehow able to glide, at least for a bit.
Of the four men, only one was close enough during the first sighting to get a look at where it came from. The monster sat in the high branches of the tree line, and jumped off when there was a strong gust of wind. They glided close and dove suddenly. Pulling up as the caught multiple slaves in its claws. And glided as far as it could before landing. It was silent in the depths of the night, gliding slowly before suddenly striking like a true owl. One of the men also noting that the wind seemed to be unnaturally strong or would pick up when the monster was nearby.
To the younglings, it sounded like an owlbear with a wind affinity of some kind. Using a natural connection to the winds to know when it is best to glide and attack, or perhaps even conjuring the winds themselves for use. If it was to be the latter, the creature could be multiple times the strength of a normal owlbear. But if it was simply entuned to the winds, it was just a larger, stronger monster than normal.
The two thanked the orcs, Clan Ok’row, for their time. And left them with two bottles of wine for their time. The pair left quickly to begin their preparations. They would need to prepare properly for the worst-case scenario, of an elemental owlbear, if they wanted to both succeed in and survive their hunt.
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Tanny and Spoke stood behind their mother as Glora sat across from their gnoll clan member. Silence filled the room for the few minutes that the parent and child sat across from each other. The haze of yellowish smoke filled the room as the two passed a cigar between each other, while not speaking. The siblings looked between themselves, not quite understanding why their mother was sharing their medicinal smokes and requested them to accompany them when they spoke to the gnoll before their Blood Drowning.
Glora and the gnoll were both the type to enjoy the silence and presence of one another. But that was not the feeling they got from the exchange. The gnoll was tense. They were not afraid, or at least not afraid of a fight, even one that had killed many from simple exhaustion. It was a fear or concern for something else.
When the cigar had its last puffs taken, its end stomped out, and flask produced from the pockets of the clan head’s jacket, did they speak.
“Pup. You’se lost you’se name due to failure of discipline. A failure of self-control. You’se stole from the younglings. And in return, lost you'se name. They’se will earn a name before you’se regain one.” The raspy grinding of the goblin’s aged voice was harsher, scratchier than normal. A sip from the flask did not soothe it. “I’se do not know if you’se will survive this trial. But if you’se fall, you’se tombstone will not say Dagger. But it will still bare mine.”
The goblin stood up, staring up at the seated gnoll who’s head hung limply till they began to move. And shifted up to meet the eyes of the one they called mother and matriarch.
“Thank... Thank, houhou, you...” The croaked out as the siblings stared at them with harsh and wrathful gazes. “If I do, hehe, not... Throw me to the pit where... Where my life began...”
There was no verbal response. Only the sound of two items lightly falling to the table as two silent masters of stealth, and a bard walked out of the room. A bag filled with stones, and a woven and hand-crafted sling lay before the gnoll.
They inspected it in silence as the half bell sounded. And marked the last possibly peaceful moments of their violence packed life.
****************************
Glora sipped on their flask while leading their two children out of the pits and up into the stands.
“Fuckin’ stairs...” They grumbled, hating the multiple stories they had to climb back up. “Rich bull can afford a broadcasting system, but not an elevator...”
Spoke let out a chuckle at his mother’s joke but stopped with the glare of his sister. And the weight of their gnoll brother’s failure weighed upon them both. Glora sighed, feeling the same smoldering as they had only a few days ago. It felt like months had passed, but less than a dozen days after the betrayal and failure did not heal that disappointment.
They climbed in silence as the shouts of workers and others echoed up from below. Growls, hisses, clicking and a few screams came from the hell that was the underground of the fighting pits. The group eventually came out in the stands of the private viewing pit. A place where usually only the fights meant to entertain the wealthy and powerful guests of the Pit Master would be held. On this day, less than fifty would be personally viewing the event in the pit. While thousands more watched at designated places around the city and pits.
Glora and their children entered a private booth. A table and couch for small folk like the two goblins were set out. With food and drink for them to nibble on throughout the spectacle. Tanny immediately began inspecting the room and then testing the food and drinks for tampering or poisoning. While the two goblins sat on the couch.
Glora’s eyes scanned the other seats and booths of viewers. Within the one across from them, was the pit master, and four of the five total “pit kings.” Gladiators that held the same title and standing as the gnoll did in the fighting pits. But what was surprising were the occupants flanking the master. On one side looked to be the employees, fighters and trainers of the beasts that would most likely be fighting. While in the other booth, sat true fighters. Not pit fighters who engaged in the dirty blood and violence that was found here. But those that competed on stages, in proper arenas to test their skills. The tournament competitors who the young lass hoped to one day become. Someone who fought for the love of and desire to hone their skills.
And interspaced throughout the remaining booths, were clan, guild and organization heads from throughout the city. People who could afford a ticket to this event had much more than just gold to spend. They had influence, prestige, and power that deserved respect. And more than half of them were praying to all the gods of conflict and chance that they knew, to curse the Glora Clan’s fighter.
Glora chuckled to themselves as they could read the lips of a few complaining about the cut of their winnings the Keeper’s guild would take if the gnoll was to lose. To the goblin, one of the most interesting things about the city state was its odd subculture of gambling. Pay attention to a busy street, and you could find two people making a bet about something.
It was almost never about winning money, but rather a show of confidence in one’s opinion of an outcome. Barg was apparently notorious for betting money when challenged on something. He would wager his gold only when he was confident in success, or truly believed it was the correct choice to make. Local legends say that on the final battle of the Sundering, Barg bet every copper he had earned on campaign that this would be the last battle of the war, whether they won or lost. One side would break for good. And this inspiration and propensity carried on in those who founded the town. They would mimic the man by wagering their coin when they truly believed in the outcome of something. And it became something unique to the city.
Glora never bet themselves, and neither did their children. But that was mostly a trained response. Do not waste resources was an important tenant of their training. And had to be drilled into the youngest rather hard. His background as someone of means needed to be shoved into the shit of reality for a time to learn realistic lessons.
Tanny and Spoke remained quiet as their mother contemplated, letting old memories float up and fill their mind. It brought a soft smile and a few softer chuckles as they sipped from their flask full of a white, chilled beverage.
For the two, they took in the sights and words of other booths, reading lips and taking note on who was and wasn’t there. Spoke focused on trying to understand the people viewing the rite. And Tanny focused on keeping track of who and what went on around them.
Eventually, the announcer would step onto his podium a few minutes before the noon bell. And gave a short speech for all present and watching.
“The Blood Drowning, in the pits of Bag’s Refuge, is a special rite many of the Isle’s most well-known fighters have competed in the last 400 years. The Master of Divine Will Monastery, the Red Mage Umber, and the current Master of the Pits.” His voice was full, strong, and powerful. Projecting itself to all within the stands without the aid of magic. “This challenge is one meant to test the physical, mental, and emotional endurance of its contestants. It is meant to overwhelm the weak. To swallow the slow. And eliminate the unworthy. Today, after seven years, will have the chance to see another attempt at this ritual of death. Dagger of Clan Glora, one of the current five pit kings, will challenge it. They will fight for six hours. No one besides the fighter will aid them. No unapproved magical potions. No mercy or surrender. Every half hour, after the fighter has eliminated their current foes, the pit master will offer them a choice. A healing potion to take and treat some of their wounds, or to refrain and endure till the next wave. If the contestant refuses the first two times and survives the first hour and a half, they will receive a second option. A potion was created and meant to refuel some of their strength, but only somewhat. If they refuse this first offer and persist despite the exhaustion and pain to the halfway mark, they will receive an offer for a full rejuvenation potion. Or another partial potion if they accept it the first time. One person, a single creature in the entire 400 years of this ritual has reached that point. And they had quite literally died during the ritual before getting to that point. This same offer will be made two more times, with the final being given before the final challenge of the rite. If the challenger survives, they will have done something not even many of the most famous heroes and champions of the Isle of Madra have ever been able to complete. Let us see, if this day, the Cackling Dagger, the Claws of Glora himself, will stand atop the walls of challenge, or fall and drown in the blood they spilled, trying to reach higher than they were destined to climb.”
The announcer gave one last flourish and bowed, just as the noon bell struck. And the gates down below opened. And out stepped the challenger, a gnoll clad in only a loincloth. Over his shoulder was slung a sling, at his hips was a pouch of ammunition, and around his waist, a bandolier of some of the highest quality darts the crafters of Barg’s Refuge could create. A nameless gnoll pup versus a tide of bodies and horrific creatures. Only fate and chance would know the outcome of the next six hours.