Gyr wrote:"He is insubordinate, he resists punishment, he stirs dissention among the other slaves, he thinks himself above his tasks, the list goes on and on, lord."
Gyr wrote:"Nothing, sire," Reshold was almost whining now.
Gyr wrote:The slave was breathing hard; he coughed, spraying little droplets of blood out onto the handsome floor.
"He is a troublemaker, lord," sneered Reshold. "He is insubordinate, he resists punishment, he stirs dissention among the other slaves, he thinks himself above his tasks, the list goes on and on, lord."
"Peace!" Nasharon's voice carried over the anger of the crowd. They began to quiet. "Peace, I would hear him!"
Nasharon's face had gone pale, and the court began to murmur quietly. The princess had died many years ago, and she had been greatly loved among her people and especially by her father.
The slave continued as if he couldn't hear them. "But she wasn't angry. She brought the boy onto her lap and asked him what his name was. He replied that he didn't have one besides 'Brat,' which was what all the slave boys were called. She said that Brat was no fit name for any child and told him the story I have just told you. She said, 'Now your name is K'ratcha, and never let anyone call you different.' And so K'ratcha is my name, lord. I thank you for your indulgence.
Nasharon stared into them, and through them.
And that loyal guard, irrevocably drunk at that point in time, assigned my destruction to his young batboy, a newly-purchased slave called Karrak.
Often it’s no more than a simple gymnastic routine and a few satiric comments.
The doors at the back of the Grand Hall opened and the next case came forward. Nasharon, the King of the Arashna Empire, watched as the little party moved towards him, four men in all. Out front was Reshold, clearly a nobleman in his long, flowing blue robes. He was a small man, as were most Arashna, with little beady eyes and a short, pointed nose. Behind him were two large black-skinned guards, dragging the fourth man between them. Nasharon craned his neck to see. The man would have been tall if he hadn't been bent almost double. His head hung low as if some one had broken his neck and he stumbled on legs that were clearly too weak to hold him. His hands were tied behind his back and all that Nasharon could see of his appearance was a crop of silky black hair cut short and a large purple bruise on one cheek. The guards dumped him unceremoniously on the tile floor and he knelt there, head down, shoulders slumped.
"Your highness," said Reshold, bowing low.
“You flatter me, sire, but you have to be kidding. I am no clown.”