The Uprising

Ballow


Ballow sat leaning against a wooden wall of the ship; he had a vaguely bored look on his face as he watched the other slaves clean the ship's lower deck as hey had been ordered to - though some were asleep.

His mind however was working at a pace usual peoples could not; as he was half demon. He turned his blank stare as crew men flickered on the light; some retard had woken them up by calling out about a nightmare.

They were led up deck and dragged as the were lined up r the inspector. A old man with round glasses and a neatly trimmed beard. An idea popped into his mind and he began shaking, to and fro.

Once the inspector got to him he looked worried, "This one's sick he might infect them all."

Some of the crew men nodded and Ballow watched as they came near him. He could do nothing as his hands were cuffed and the magic prevention collar around his neck was on.

They dragged him to the side of the ship. Then with a heave they threw him off.

Luckily Ballow had quicker thoughts and as a reflex he grabbed the side of the boat. He shook his head as he held on for dear life, Faking sick would not work.

He attempted to pull himself up, but to no prevail. Ballow hung there for a while. A thought popped into his head, Would the prevention collar stop working if it go wet?

It it did he could escape by just letting go . . . but if it didn't he'd die.

A see-saw in his mind teetered for a second before he decided. Better to die falling forward.

He turned around and stared at the sea; a beautiful sight if it was his last. It somehow seemed ironic and he began to laugh.

Little did he know that laughter brought the attention of someone.

And as Ballow took a last breath and let his fingers spread as he let go a person leaped forward.

Ballow fell and then he began to regret his decision just as something clamped onto his hand.

It was someone's hand.

Ballow glanced up at them.

(This can be anybody, you know? ^^)

Videl Vane Va'Teir

Videl sat with her hands knotted into fists around her semi-pointed ears. The newfound sensitivity of sound was causing her mind to shriek in protest at the loud, rigid laughter of men on the upper deck and the sound of a boy screaming. She didn't care what he was screaming about, just that he would stop.

It seemed odd to her that she could reach up and cover her ears; they had only put binding around her legs. Did they think she was weak or something? The only thing she knew was that it was some kind of enchanted leather; she couldn't untie it. Running her fingers over it Videl examined it; it was engraved with some sort of odd inscription that she couldn't recognize. Of course.

"Hey...hey you." Videl cringed. Some thing was talking to her. It sounded like a boy, but she couldn't tell; the rough barking noise that was blatantly the sound of small talk was worse than the laughter from above. She opened one eye. In front of her sat a boy who looked no older than twelve, his head as bald as a bird struck by lightning, just without the smell of singed tail feathers. He looked as dirty as the rest of the dozens of slaves in the cabin, but smelled of midsummer cadalia flowers and honey dew. He was odd, she didn't like him. "You, yes, you. You're very beautiful. How did a piece of such glorious wonder come to be on a sla-"

"Shut up before I skewer you and make you into a honey dew stew." Videl opened her other eye and raised her head slightly. The boy seemed struck by her sudden show of defense; that or confused by her reference to melon stew. He began giggling. "What? Why are you laughing?"

"'Cau-'Cause you just said honey dew stew." The boy began to laugh louder, rolling around on the floor like he was part animal. Videl grabbed her ears once more.

"Oh, would you shut up before you get us in trouble!" What was supposed to be a whisper came out as a loud, piercing shriek. Everything seemed to stop; the boy had stopped laughing, the guards had stopped laughing, and the distant sound of yelling ceased. This was perfect. Now they knew she existed.

Brent

"You bloody imbeciles!" Brent screamed, his face an inch from the two men who had hurled the Infernal over the ship's edge. "First you go over my head and use some half witted, fully moronic son of an orc's dead auntie to perform the inspection of the prisoners, then you release the single most EXPENSIVE slave we've ever had aboard, not by allowing him to stretch his legs a bit, but by THROWING HIM OVERBOARD." He spun abruptly from the two men, rookies both, and called out to the rest of the crew. "Listen here! Which one of you blokes wants these two's share of the bonus?"

The two slavers instantly paled as a chorus of shouts went up for volunteers. Brent pointed two men out, two of the biggest, burliest half-orcs ever to walk the deck of a ship, and swiped a finger across his throat.

The two half-orcs grinned toothily and drew steel, their cutlasses gleaming in the mid-day light as then cut down the two fool in cold blood before either had the chance to draw their own swords. Brent immediately handed them each a small pouch, then waved them away. He then turned to address the slaves, who were still on deck.

"Now! Any of you blokes want an extra share of food tonight, you get your sorry arses over there and you get that sorry bastard back on board the ship!"

Much to his amusement, they piled over each other in an attempt to get to get to the struggling Infernal. Of course, there would be no extra food for slaves, but it was a handy way to get them to work for him.

When the Infernal was back aboard, standing on the deck tall and proud, Brent strode to him and grabbed him by his collar, meeting his gaze evenly.

"And you. If you try anythin' like that again, ye'll be facin' the lash--and boy do I know how your kind can take a beating--and I'll enjoy it." He turned to his crew and shouted, "Take him back to his cell, boys! Anyone else releases this bloke without consent will meet the same fate!"



OOC: Read the Discussion Thread about seating arrangements, please.

Lissa studied her food encrusted guard with fascination. He had the means to bathe, this she knew, for not all of the guards were as unhygienic as he. Why he did not take advantage of that, her mind would never comprehend. She longed for a bath, her matted dress clung to her sweat stained skin desperately. Unlike the heady musk of human body odor, her sweat smelled of honeysuckle and fresh rain. Her body oozed memories of the forest; memories of home. Every moment her flesh ached for home, but it did not whither as it should.

She had been aboard the ship for weeks, by this time her skin should be rotted and fallen from the bone. Her hair should have fallen out, her eyes decayed and gone. She should be long past the stage of death; her body should be nothing more than bones and putrid flesh. And yet she still existed, not a scratch on her. Unharmed. In her weakened state, her mind could not grasp these things. They floated through her subconscious, but she could not reach them, could not find the why she was searching for.

The guard shifted position, tossing her a hungry sideways glance. She felt herself chuckle, barely a whisper of a sound. “Your eyes speak of filth.” She muttered before bursting into hysterical laughter. High pitched, maniacal, crazed laughter that had her guard taking a step back, the sound must have been hell on his human hearing. Lissa struggled against her restraints, pulling and tugging, slamming her body back and forth as hard as she could. Her breathing quickened, her laughter became more desperate with each passing second. Her restraints would not budge, this she knew, still she tried.

With the same suddenness her spell had started it stopped, and she eyed the guard warily. “Still want a taste?” she spit.

The man stood staring at her, before giving his head a quick shake and taking his position again.

“I thought not.”

She started to hang her head once more to force herself to dream of pleasant things, when a commotion disturbed her peace. Three men came storming through dragging on of the other slaves with them. She rolled her eyes as the white haired creature was thrown into his chamber and bound again.

“Can you not see I was trying to rest?” She mumbled with annoyance.

Galea

For three hours, the Halfling had sat hunched with her knees drawn up to her chin. The slaves surrounding her prevented her from stretching out, and the ache in her back and neck was almost enough to interrupt her thoughts. At the moment, it was only enough to distract, and that alone was annoying. Add it to the snoring of the girl on her left and humming of the man on her right and she was all but grinding her teeth. The rocking of the boat had more or less resulted in a huddled mass in the corner, like a bunch of pathetic dogs after a cold bath. Hands tied and collar bound, she gave the person in front of her a less than gentle nudge with her foot, scooting back in an effort to unfold herself. The person – human male – turned back to scowl at her for a moment before facing forward again. When he didn’t inch forward, she rested her head back against the wall, closing her eyes when the ship lurched up against a wave. Right on schedule, the hold erupted in a chorus of retches, the hummer next to her almost joining in. Her nose wrinkled at the now familiar smell, but she tried to push it away. Her own tunic was crusty with the stuff.

“How’re you here?”

Galea peeked out an eye to see the hummer talking to her, huddled in his corner. When she didn’t answer, he continued.

“M’ name’s Iados.”

The ship lurched again, resulting in a few muffled groans and another retching sound as someone lost what remained of their last meal. She made a sound as she tried to hold back her own bile before giving a mumbled response.

“Galea.”

He smiled and leaned his head back against his corner.

“’M From the coast.”

She closed her eyes again as the ship resumed its steady rocking.

“Woods.”

She again held back the contents of her stomach as they tried to spill out. This was not working. She had no idea how long she had been on this ship, but imagined they must be nearing the port around now. She was surprised they hadn’t landed already. Naturally, she had no idea where they were taking her to, but she couldn’t imagine the ship was stocked well enough for the trip to last much longer. But then, what did she know of ships? It might be that they’ve only been out for a week and she was already getting edgy. The damned collar needed get off her.

“Got a brother back at home.”

She was silent, her body stiff.

“You got an-”

She barfed.

(I'll assume the "white-haired creature" is Ballow)


Ballow


Ballow looked up at the girl with a crazy smile, "Oh, I do apologize for, how should I say this . . . well for literally dropping in I suppose."

His arms were strung together and he looked at her with interest, "I'm Ballow. You are?"

She stared at him slightly annoyed, "No one you know."

Quick wit. Hmm. Ballow stared at her for a second, "No I meant what are you?"

She clucked her tongue for a second and flicked her eyes at him, "Wood Nymph."

He found this amazingly amusing, "Well, that's iroinc isn't it?"

She found the tone is his voice aggravating, but curiously she replied, "What's ironic?"

He smiled and licked the canine tooth on the upper right side of his mouth, "That a nymph would be caught and sold to slavery when your race is so apposed to it."

He closed his eyes with a sigh, "How'd yopu get caught?"

Dijon - "Bob"

Dijon worked the oar, massive muscles shifting and bunching beneath his plain tunic. In the darkness of the hold, he was near-invisible and the others would stir and mutter in superstitious fear of the shadow that grinned, the monster that never tired and would row them into the very depths of Sierra’s Hold.

His mind was elsewhere; rich, soft loam drifted through his fingers and a pleased rumble like the distant murmur of earthquakes, built in his throat. The sun beat down on his wide, dark back. Around him, the healthy sounds of his vigorous tribe permeated. Soon, they would go out to the hunt and blood would be spilled.

The ship rose over a large swell, dipped and slammed into the sea and Dijon was plunged back into the present. “I said you can stop now, you dumb ox!” A small, runt sized man – they all seemed particularly small to Dijon – was staring at him fearfully. “We’ve picked up a healthy wind, time for you lot to get back to the cages.” Dijon stared at the oar in his hands, its dark timbers another reminder of home. He let it rest and the other slaves sagged in relief. For a moment, he felt remorse; they hadn’t his strength. He forgot sometimes.

Dijon stood, hunching beneath the ceiling with much clanking and rattling. He stared down at the little man, and the other guard with him, who smiled nervously. “Big bastard, ain’t ya? Heard you’re big for nothin’ though, a witless slab of muscle.” His tongue flicked between the gap in his teeth as he stared up at the giant, black man. The smile slowly withered and died. Dijon walked away, the guards scrabbling out of his path and the rest of the slaves hurrying after him, pulled along, willing or not.

Back in the cages, separate from one another once more, vitriol poured out.

“Idiot creature, so eager to do well for them, eh Bob?” It was dark, but if he wished, he could see who spoke. He closed his eyes instead. “Well, just look at my hands! Ruined! How can I play at dice with these now? How can I appreciate the swell of –“

“…full purses,” another voice, slighter lower in tone – a man? – broke in.

“And without proper flexibility, how can I reach into the hidden clefts and valleys –“

“…of jackets and pants!”

For a moment, there was silence as the two broke off. They were made for one another, whoever they were, Dijon thought and no doubt were staring at each other with suspicion. Another voice, low and throaty, moaned. A woman, this one, definitely – was she excited by the lecherous talk? Dijon’s opinions of those he was stuck with dipped even lower. They were fools, all of them. How could they fail to comprehend that the sooner they reached the shore, the sooner they would be free? He had already calculated the odds of defeating the rabble that crewed the ship; half-breed Orcs, and riff-raff for men but even so, the likelihood of triumph was very slim. None here knew how to crew a ship in any case; no, it was best to wait for solid ground and the rage that burned within him wouldn’t allow for the wait to be long.

He would have his vengeance.

To get it, he would need help and those around him now were disgustingly weak. Which is why he pushed them, every day; the oar was a hard master, but they would learn its lesson. Again and again, they would learn it until it had been wired into the skin, into the muscle that convulsed beneath, into the will that powered them until they would become as Dijon wanted.

They would become strong.

And he would have his vengeance.

(Yes, that would be you, if you read the discussion thread; you will see that we have been in the same cabin from the start, separated from the other slaves. )

Lissa

She blew out a sigh, narrowing her eyes and staring at the creature that appeared to be so determined to make idle conversation with her. “Was I somehow unclear when I said I was trying to rest?”

Lissa lowered her gaze, marveling at the wood grain on the floor beneath her, if he spoke to her again, she did not hear him. Her thoughts traveled as she drifted into a forced sleep.

She was surrounded by the supple heated flesh of her sisters, on the soft bedding of the forest floor. They always slept like this, huddled together, always touching, always warm. She missed the warmth and the nearness of others so like her. She missed them terribly, far more than she ever thought she would.

Her sisters had hurt her, they would have killed her by now for what she had done; yet she missed them. She missed their laughter, and their scent, and their skin on hers as she slept. She missed the hunt, and the satisfaction of catching her pray.

Her mind worked for hours, dreaming up the past and drinking it down like the sweetest strawberry nectar she had ever tasted.

Galea
Labor Slave

She heard the footsteps, signaling the return of the slaves. A portion of them had been taken out to help row the boat until the wind picked up. Slowly, allowing her back to accommodate the change, she stood up and walked through the pile of people huddled in the corner, making her way through until the people began to thin, claiming her spot and spreading out just as the door opened and the slaves re-entered the cell.

She watched them with dull eyes but keen interest as they filed in. Always the first out and the first in was the huge dark human. He looked like he could row the boat on his own. The others shuffled in after him, rubbing their wrists and hands and looking as though they had been forced on a death march through the mountains.

Her eyes flicked back to the man – “Bob” they called him. She had been watching him a couple days now. He rowed nearly every time they needed it, but he didn’t show any signs of exhaustion. She had been one of the rowers the time before last; she knew it was no easy task to pull the boat through the water. The door shut, cutting away the bright light from beyond the door, She blinked a few moments, then scanned the crowd of shadowy heads until she found the sitting form that towered over them all.

He didn’t complain, he didn’t try to start idle conversations or make friends. He didn’t resort to trying to befriend the slavers, either. For the most part, he was quiet. But not resigned. Someone bumped her knee as they sat down next to her, but she ignored them. No, not resigned, but not screaming or begging for freedom or mercy. She titled her head as she considered him a moment more, then looked to the door, a bit of light filtering through the bottom. When they landed, what part would he play?

She looked at the person beside her. It was too dark to tell who or what it was, but you didn’t need light to see that the person was exhausted. They had all but folded in on themselves so that they might lie down, their breathing loud and body sweating. Curious, she looked up at the towering figure who was sitting still, calm and apparently relaxed, then back to the form beside her. What part would he play, and how could she use it?

Note: my seating in the ship has been changed to Love slave by request.


Videl Vane Va'Teir

Videl opened her eyes. She had been dreaming about the bald boy, as he was not there when she was. She looked around, she was alone. The only thing that held her in place were the bars on the doorway of the staircase; there were no chains or shackles. Odd.

Standing up, she noticed her original clothes were gone. She was wearing a small dress that barely fit her. It was torn in many places, obviously used. Videl felt for her hair; it was still in the pony-tail it had almost always been in, but now it was matted and greasy. "Gross."

Videl looked around, wondering why there wasn't anyone else in this part of the ship. She was alone and unchained. Typical. She walked up to the gate that barred her from the stairs and shook it. "Hello?! Is anyone up there?! What is going on?!"

Name: Shirin Bedros
Age: 19
Race: Human
Ethnicity: Sewardian
Alignment: Neutral Good
Height: 5’4”/153 cm
Weight: 145 lbs/65.77 kg
Eyes: Very pale gray-green; appear colorless in certain lights.
Hair: Golden brown.
Hits: Climbing trees, cookery, domesticating animals (mostly farm animals), swimming.
Misses: Crowds, loud noises, criticism, handsome men.
Strengths: She’s very intuitive and clever, particularly regarding the motivations of others; her history of observing rather than engaging has left her with a very well-developed ability to judge when others are lying or hiding things, though as it’s just a skill (and not some sort of supernatural power), it is obviously not infallible. She’s good at finding hiding places.
Weaknesses: Shirin is timid to the point of neurosis; she’s never been comfortable around others, even her own parents and siblings. There’s no particular reason for it—no deep dark tragedy—it’s just her nature. She tends to withdraw completely around others, sometimes almost to the point of catatonia. Shirin rarely speaks unless directly asked a question, and even then she answers as briefly as possible.
Clothing: Close-fitting trousers, calf-high boots, a loose skirt that comes to mid-calf; loose blouse, vest, belt, and wooden amulet.
Weapons: None; she’s far too timid to every actually fight anyone. Her first instinct is to flee, her second to play dead, and her (very, very, very distant) third to lash out—generally in a dangerously unfocused, flailing manner.

Kester

The door opened, and the slaves who had been used to open the boat filed back through. Leading them was a tall, dark man. Kester had heard the others call him Bob. He watched them as they moved out into their own space in their prison.

There were faint noises as people made conversation. All of their efforts eventually faded, though. There was almost nothing to talk about in the face of such adversity. It was as if many had been struck speechless.

Kester himself sat in a corner, his knees raised to his chest to conserve space. He wrapped his arms around his knees and put his hand on them, looking around at the people in awe. He had never seen so many people before. Not many were close to him, except for one woman who lay moaning on the floor a foot away. Kester found that it was becoming easier and easier to ignore her suffering.

No one had attempted to start a conversation. It seemed as if they looked right past him, when they took notice of their surroundings at all. Like I’m invisible, he thought. That suits me. I can watch, see where the power is down here.

His eyes flickered back to Bob, and then several of the others who drew his eye. They don’t know anything about me, he thought. I can start over here. In his mind, he saw the room again and shuddered. “Better to be here than back in that place again,” he muttered to himself.

The woman nearest to him grunted and turned her head towards him. “What?” she rasped.

Kester shook his head and didn’t reply to her. She turned away after a few seconds. He sighed and stared across the cargo hold. Despite the number of people around them, everyone seemed be alone. They kept to themslves, ignoring everyone apart from when someone drew their attention directly. I need to make some friends. People to help me through whatever’s coming.

Deaven Labor slave:

He was pushed back to the cells after a long rowing trip.

They were back in the group cages. Again cuffed.

Deaven sat there. He saw a woman on the ground. In pain.

He stood up. Walked to the woman.

"What is it?" He asked

"It hurts." She whispered.

"Where?"

She pointed her weak hand at her leg. Deaven looked. It had a huge wound on it. And it was starting to mold.

He sat up. Walked to the guard.

"Could you get me my jar."
The guard laughed. "Ha, and soon you would want my sword would you not?"
Deaven didn't laugh, he pointed at the woman on the ground "Her wound is molding."

The guard spat on the ground. "And I should care..?"

Deaven's hand flicked, his hands were small enough to get one through the cage. He took the guards sword, and with his other hand he took hold of the man's collar.


Although the cuffs were on the way, he had done this before and knew his way around these things.

"Bring me my jar or your friend dies." Deaven told the other guard.
The other man looked at him in horror "What does it look like?"

"It has larvae in it."

The man nodded and ran outside of the cells.
When he came back he had more men with him.. and the jar. He gave the jar to Deaven, who took it. Dropped the sword and let go of the other guard.

He then walked to the woman and dropped the larvae on it. "After they have stopped eating, kill them. And spit on this and put it around your wound" He ripped a part of his shirt and gave it to the woman.

A man close to the woman (Kester) Looked at him "Is that truly worth it?"

"What am I without my people?"

He was taken by the hands by two crew men. He was taken on the deck where the captains right hand man came with a whip. "I was wondering when you would do something. You have a record, you know."

And he started whipping.

Videl Vane Va'Teir

Videl heard the scuffling and yelling coming from above. Like it had in her dream, the noise disturbed her and sent piercing shrills through her ears. Something had clearly gone wrong when they had knocked her unconscious in order to get her aboard the ship.

"Hello, can anyone up there hear me?! Why am I down here alone?!" Videl grumbled as she shook the bars more. "And what is with this wretched dress?!"

Deaven:


He screamed. He screamed as the whip came down on his back. It was sheer pain.

When they finally stopped, he was lifted.

They walked through the deck, Deaven stopped, he had heard something. "Who is in that cell?" he asked, and pointed at the cell closest to them.

"Our love slave." Said the guard with a lusty expression.

"You disgust me." Deaven said. The Guards pushed him violently on the ground.
"Say that again and it is the whip for you, again."

"Your mother was a whore." Deaven answered. He was lead back to the whip.