The Uprising

Galea
Labor Slave

Soft slamming. Threats. Running feet. Galea woke up from her half-sleep looked over to the side to see a man, one of the slaves, holding a blade to a guard’s throat. She raised her eyebrows in surprise, very much awake. This was interesting. She watched them for a moment, waiting to see if the prisoner might try to get the keys or strike a deal with the guard.

The footsteps, still running, returned, and Galea looked to the door in time to see one of the guards return, a jar clutched to his chest. He all but threw the jar at the slave, thrusting it at him through the bars. Jar? What was in that jar? Her face was a mix of interest, surprise, and confusion when the slave took the blade away from the man’s throat and walked to the corner she had so recently left. She shifted to get a better look and saw him crouch down and scoop out a handful of squirming white stuff.

Her face immediately switched to disgust. Larva. Disgusting. Probably for the snoring girl with the bad leg. A movement at the door caught her eye and she saw the guards sprint from the hold. Her eyes flicked from the door to the slave. Was he stupid, or did he have a plan?

He ripped his shirt and put the lid back on the jar just as the two guards returned with a third. When he went with them, she sighed. If he had a plan, it was a stupid one. The third guard was known by now for giving out whippings and other such punishments. The mand was a fool, no doubt. She looked back at the girl in the corner, now propped up by her elbows. The man from earlier saw her and smiled, raising a hand in acknowledgement. He was huddled against his wall now, another man in his corner. She smiled back briefly before looking back at the door, silently logging away the happenings for future reference.

Screams split the air in the cabin, briefly interupting her thoughts. After a while, they quieted, only to resume again. She closed her eyes and sent a silent prayer for the fool before adding his screams to her mental log. The whippings had stopped with his screams, only to resume again.

Deaven:

He was thrown back into the Cell. The girl that he had helpped came to him. He looked at her "are you fine?"

The Girl nodded. "Bring me the jar and put them on my back."

His back was bleeeding and it hurt. A girl walkked to him "So you had no plan after all."
"A plan?"

"To get out of here."

Deaven looked around himself, meet me tommorrow on the inspection... we need at least one more with us."

The girl looked confused.

Deaven silently showed her a key.

The girl nodded and smiled.

Galea
Labor Slave

A key.

Planned or not, the man had a key. She craned her neck to look at his face. This could be very interesting. Quickly, looking around as she did, she closed her hand around his, covering the key.

“Dunno if you were going f’r that or not, but it wouldn’t be wise to lose it now that you ‘ave it. Better t’ hide it now, yes?”

He shrugged and slipped his hands into his pockets, hiding the key as he did, before smiling back down at her.

“Remember. Tomorrow. Need another person.”

She considered, her mind a whirl of thoughts. Did he have a plan now? Did he have a plan before? Her brow dipped as she remembered his back when he came back in. Didn’t look like a pleasant thing to go through. She shook her head.

“Not tomorrow.”

He looked surprise, perhaps because of her earlier nod of approval.

“But-”

“Listen,” she whispered, grabbing his shirt and tugging him down to her eye level. “I need t’ think about this. Tomorrow’s too soon. ‘T’s no small thing, havin’ a key on a slave ship.”

The man in the corner was watching them curiously, so she released his shirt but continued to keep her voice quiet.

“We need t’ think about this a bit more. Keep your key, but don’t go flashing it around.”
He looked at her incredulously and remained slightly hunched – the only way a human could really lean forward to a halfling.

“Every day we wait is a day closer to the port. What if we dock tomorrow?”
The man was still watching them, as well as a few other slaves now. Not good. She didn’t like the idea of being associated with the thief of a key if things went poorly. She forced her eyes back to the man’s face.

“If we dock tomorrow, we dock tomorrow. ‘M thinking something might happen then. But if we don’t, we don’t. and we’ve more time t’ think.” When he continued to stare at her, she continued, “Think. Le’s say we break out tomorrow. Say we take o’er the ship. You know how t’ sale it? Got a single clue where we are?”

She didn’t let him answer. A key. Instead, she patted his pocket and put a finger to her lips before walking back to her spot.

A key. Tomorrow. She looked back at him to see him conversing with the corner man. Maybe. She would just watch, in case things went poorly. But if the man succeeded in whatever it was he was planning… what? Until she knew what it was he had in mind, she couldn’t plan for it. And the damned collar was limiting her normally keen ability to relate and see everything. She looked down to see that her spot had been filled by the exhausted person from earlier, still somewhat folded, but not as much thanks to the vacancy Galea had left. Sighing, she made her way around until she found another spot and sat down just as the ship rose over a swell.

Machavell
Labour Slave

"Impetuous fool," Machavell spat, his curse a whisper that carried throughout the cells. "Incompetent dolt. You call that a plan?" Deaven ignored him. He was busy, another slave foolishly tending to his well-deserved wounds. "Did you not even think for a moment? How long will it be before the guard realises you've taken that key? And don't try to hide it. You'll get us all in trouble."

As usual, Machavell's venom was met with a wall of silence.

He glanced across at the slave next to him, Kester. He was sat in the corner, legs held close to his chest in a way that made him look uncomfortable. Not though, Machavell noted, because of the disgusting conditions. Kester's eyes knew a pain far greater than this cell, and that intrigued him. It was decided; he would pick Kester's identity apart tonight.

"You," he began. Kester looked up, face without expression. Either this place had leeched away his emotions, or else he never had any. "You," he repeated. "What's your name?" Once, Machavell could have worn a friendly smile, a welcoming countenance, but he had long since given up on social niceties. Kester didn't seem to care.

"It's Kester," he said with difficulty, the word unusual to his tongue. "I think I've told you before." He looked up at Machavell cautiously, a soul searching for acceptance. He found none.

"Oh, maybe," Machavell said, airily. With that, he made his next move. "So, Kister..." Machavell trailed off, the expected interruption never came. Only when he opened his mouth to try again did Kester realise and correct him.

"It's Kester," he said, placidly. "Go on. You were going to say something." Again the eyes looking for acceptance. There was something strange about the man; that at least was clear. There was none of the human annoyance that he could expect from anyone else. Machavell made a mental note to probe further, but even as he did so heavy footsteps banged their way across the deck above them.

Galea
Labor Slave

She couldn’t help but smile at the harsh whispers coming from the corner. At least someone had some sense. Why she hadn’t chastised the man herself was beyond her. Judging by the foot falls above their heads, it sounded like an angry giant was coming to take back the key. Assuming whoever it was up there was coming down for it, or coming down at all.

Still, if the man had succeeded in what ever it was he was planning, and it went well, it wouldn’t have hurt to have been on his side. Too bad she didn’t know if it would go well, because she didn’t know what he had in mind. Break out of the cells assuredly. But after? Were they to take over the ship with no weapons and their hands shackled together?

She rested her head back against the wall. If she was associated with him – and she probably would be –

The ship skipped, making everyone in the hold jump with it and groan.

-- then her back would more than likely look worse than the man’s by time the guards were done with them. Assuming they got the whip. Not good.

She took a breath to clear her head, no easy task when the ship is rocking to and fro, and thought. The man had the key. Guards would notice it missing eventually, and the event of a slave holding a sword to a guards throat wasn’t likely to be easily forgotten. Hearing the footsteps above them was a reminder that ‘eventually’ might very well be ‘now.’ So the guards would know who to look for. Should, anyway. She looked back at the corner. If they didn’t, or if they did but didn’t want to go in the cell themselves to look for him…

If it came to it, she would point him out. If it would heighten her chances of getting out of this mess alive and as unharmed as possible, she’d drag him to the guard herself. If the situation proved safer for her to stay in the dark against the wall, she would do nothing but. She drew her knees up to her chest and rested her head against them. It all depended on what happened when someone came looking for the key.

Elias; Exotic slaves.

All sense of time had been lost but for Elias it was morning as he opened his empty sockets and looked directly into the face of a guard who showed no sign of having noticed any difference. Elias watched smugly as the guard edged a little closer to the bars.

"You want to exchange places?" Elias asked gruffly, a wink of amusement in his tone. The guard stepped back hurriedly but laughed in a harsh, confident splutter.

"Not a chance," he said. Elias nodded and straightened his legs a little, having been crouched for a very long time. He moved as far toward the bars of his cell as the chains would allow and looked out at the other exotic slaves. The two he could see from this position were becoming familiar to him, as was the rather loud male to his right: the one that always seemed to be getting into trouble.

One of those he could see was female, currently sleeping placidly, her long blond hair coiled about her body looking light and fluffy in the way that only a female's could. Elias found her to be a soothing presence in the cells. Except when she talked.

"It's awake then?" the expected masculine voice to his right asked of the guard who scowled in response.

"You in there, gargoyle. Feel like telling me your name yet?" the male asked. Elias had caught sight of him just the once after one of his exertions out of the cage and recalled vaguely the white hair and sharp features.

"Perhaps I don't have one," Elias suggested coolly.

"I'll trade you mine for yours," Ballow offered. This offer had been made on the previous day when they had first struck up conversation. Elias had ignored it then. But today he was bored.

"That wouldn't be a fair trade," he said.

"And why is that?" Ballow queried. Elias moved around a little, his bare feet scraping across the cold and chaffing ground of the cell. He moved toward the back, leaning against the wall.

"Because I already know yours," he said. "I heard you talking with her." Elias did not bother to indicate who he meant for the simple reason that the only way in which Ballow would see him pointing would be for him to stick his arm right out through the bars. That required more effort than it was worth.

There was a lull in speech for a moment as the nearest guard snickered and Ballow thought this over. Elias stepped closer to the bars again.

"You fancy a game of dice, my friend? Only I fear my cell mate will bore me to death and I would hate to die without the chance to gamble one last time." The guard snickered a little more as Elias grinned at him but he shook his head.

"You're not coming out of that cage until we dock and even then, I'm going to be sure to not be here when it happens." The guard looked pointedly at Elias' wings, the clipping of which he had taken part in but Elias shrugged complacently.

"I'm not a man of revenge, my friend. Where is the gain in that? Vengeance takes you nowhere but further into trouble."

Deaven:

He was whispering "I do know how to govern a ship." He whispered cutting Machavel off.

He looked at Deaven annoyed "And when did you learn?"

"I have been a slave since I was a teenager. I have worked in a few places."

"Have you ever governed a ship before?"

"yes I have."

Machavel looked suspicious "When was that?"

"Four years ago when me and the other slaves savagely murdered everyone else on the wrecked ship."

"And you got caught again?" Galea asked

"Yes. We set port in the closest port... which was a slave trade capital." He sighed. "I was taken as a labor slave to build some houses, until we again got away, by killing the guards and setting the city in flames. My brother was killed that night."

"You have always been caught... So your bad luck." Someone said from the crowd.

"At least I tried!"

Shirin Bedros, Love Slave

Shirin curled in upon herself, neck bent at an uncomfortable angle as she tried to disappear into the wall. Not that that was much of an option. The slavers had stripped her of most of her clothing, leaving only the calf-length skirt and loose blouse (which they kept untying upon each visit, much to her shame). Her pale Sewardian skin, just a few shades warmer than white marble, stood out in the darkness. She found herself envying that one fellow she'd seen right before disappearing into this cell, the tall one with the dark, dark skin. He must find it easy to disappear into the walls.

She shifted uncomfortably, pulling her knees up as far as she could under her skirt. There was nothing she could do about her bare arms, but she could at least hide half of herself. She swallowed back a sigh and shifted again, allowing her head to fall to the floor of the cabin, with no pillow but her own (oily, unwashed) hair.

Sleep came covertly, stealing over her and pulling the rocking of the ship and the low, muffled goings-on of her shipmates into her dreams so that she never even realized she wasn't awake yet. Until, that is, her cellmate began yelling about her dress.

If Shirin had been the type to speak unsolicited to strangers, she could have told the woman (whose form and features, in the darkness, she could not clearly make out) exactly 'what was with that wretched dress.' While it made sense to take a slave's shoes away (just another way to make it harder to escape), there was only one reason a slaver would remove or change the clothes of his property: he intended to show them that way.

Shirin shivered at the implications of that thought, biting her lower lip.

Machavell
Labour Slave

"Govern a ship? You ignorant wretch!" Machavell could see his plans all falling apart. "I, for one, will not risk my life so foolishly!" He was careful with his tone, he needed to sound partly appealing now if other slaves were to follow his lead.

Unexpectedly, Kester spoke up first. "Machavell is right," he added, "we're not going to follow a murdering arsonist are we?" Other slaves muttered their agreement. Machavell looked carefully at Kester in the corner. It almost seemed as if they were playing the same game....

"Wake up you lazy bastards!" The yell came from the entrance to the cell. There was a crash as the guard Deaven had robbed threw open the hatch. Machavell could sense the raw anger. They all could. He tasted fear in the air, and licked his lips. It was a situation he could use.

The guard stomped inside. Kester looked at Machavell and opened his mouth, but before he could speak Machavell silenced him with a cruel stare. The guard walked to the middle of the cell.

"Listen up," he said, hands clenched into fists that could break a man's neck. "You know what I'm looking for. You know where it is. You know who has it." The implication lay in the dank cell like a poison; repulsive at first, but a welcoming option for a man who had nothing left to lose. The slaves couldn't take their eyes off it. But, they knew better to speak until asked. The guards had terrible tempers.

"Would you be looking for," Machavell paused, he could feel the guard's gaze like flames against his face, "a key, perhaps?" Someone breathed in sharply. Machavell inwardly cursed them. If they could not betray someone in the dark, what hope did they have of surviving?

"Yes, Machavell," the guard whispered with menace in his voice. "That's exactly what I'm looking for." Every pair of eyes in the room was on them. Machavell was in his element.

"Then I suggest," he said with a flourish, "that you ask our mutual friend, Deaven."

The guard smiled, his face transforming into a hideous mask of evil.

"Thank you, Machavell," he murmured. "Now, Deaven. Come with me."

Videl Vane Va'Teir, Love Slave

Videl sank to the floor. Love slave? Well that explains the tiny dress. She closed her eyes to think for a moment. All her life she had toyed with men, seduced them in the most passionate ways, but she had never once thought of loving them. She was a trickster; she loved nothing more than to fiddle around with a mans mind until he could not take anymore. Videl wasn't the controlling type, just the type that liked to laugh. She thought.

She scanned the room once more, paying attention to the details in the room. A small figure appeared in the darkest corner; a young girl with light skin. If only she had dark skin, then she could have gotten away with hiding. So there were two of them now.

"My name is Videl. Yours?" Small talk had never been Videl's thing, and it was obviously not this girl's either. She didn't answer. "I'll get us out of here, I promise. I have a few tricks up my sleeve."

"Like banging on the gate and complaining about attire?" The girl snapped back.

"Well, in order to lure a man you have to attract his attention." Videl smirked. She had a plan.

Lissa

Her mind had steadied once more, the constant ache of her muscles drawing her back to the damp quarters she had sat in for so long now. Vaguely she was aware that there was a conversation going on, but she could not grasp the entirety of it what was being said, something about names, she thought.

Her stomach rolled as the vessel rode another swell, bringing to mind she hadn’t a clue the last time she had eaten. She wondered if they had fed her, whilst she was in her fantasies. Judging by the contraction her stomach gave at the thought of food, she highly doubted it.

She surveyed her surroundings for a moment, discovering that the creature that tried to speak to her the other day was still there, along with another. She scented the air twice, a hunting trick now being put to better use, and discovered something new. It was a familiar scent, though one she hadn’t had the chance to sample often, she knew what it meant. There was a gargoyle amongst them. She could hardly see in the dark of the cabin, but by scent she knew what he was. For some reason it struck her odd, that two such high esteemed creatures were aboard a ship such as this.

Her nose had picked up on something else as well, the other creature, the one she had spoken to before. There was something odd in his scent. He was human, but he was not. The sharp aroma of sulfur mixed in with what was all too human, it made no sense. She had never smelt anything quite like it, nor did she wish to again.

She tried to speak once, but her throat was dry and all that came out was but a whisper of air that escaped. She cleared her throat, trying to work her jaw to get some saliva started flowing again.

She coughed a few times, before finally finding her voice. “What is your name, Gargoyle? If I am not out of place in asking.” She knew she had not spoken the words loudly, but she also knew that he had heard her.

[Note: FinalFreedom, Shirin really isn't the sort of girl to 'snap' at anyone.]


Shirin Bedros, Love Slave

Videl. That was the other woman's name. It spoke of vitality and verve and a whole load of other "v" words that, in the current state of psychically agonizing and physically exacting limbo, Shirin really wasn't interested in pursuing. Thinking of life as a slave made her throat tighten and her lungs spasm, but thinking of life before this ship was even more painful. The farm in Seward; her father, a gentleman-farmer, and his wife; her brothers and baby sister; the dogs, the lumbering horses, the fat pony, the barn cats and messenger birds, the trees and the creek and the town she rarely went to except when--

--She closed her eyes tightly against an onslaught of memories. Now was not the time.

Nor, she knew, was it the time for escape. "Out of here?" she said to Videl, her voice hoarse and quiet. "To where? The bottom of yon sea?"

Videl Vane Va'Teir

"Out of here? To where, the bottom of yon sea?" The girl asked her, as if she didn't believe escape was possible.

"No, not to the sea. We should be docking soon. Where, I can't say, but soon. If we can escape here, we can escape slavery and live our lives the way we wish. So long as we don't get brandished, that is." The idea of a hot iron rod being pressed against her skin made her numb; as well as the idea of living life her way.

Videl closed her eyes and rested her head on the wall behind her. Would it really be that bad living on her own, she had done it for eight years. Too many questions flooded her head, none of them coming with answers. "So what is your name?"

Deaven:

He was took to the same place, yet again. The whip sang its snapping tune. He cried out.
When they stopped and went to take him back he looked at the guard "One day, I will escape again... And when I do, I promise, I promise by my own life, that I will MURDER you."

The guard only laughed. He was taken back to the cells.

"Machavell!" He shout out "If we ever survive, you better wish you never see me!"

Someone helped him up. Deaven walked to his corner, people jumped away from his way. He sat in his corner.

"This is what you get for speaking to others." He thought. He smiled in the dark. His laugh was hysterical enough to make people stiffen around him.

(Please keep my character in the story. I'm might not be able to get to the internet again)