The Uprising

He could feel it eating away at him, on the inside. The rage; the terrible, all consuming fire burning him within. But he couldn’t let it out, couldn’t indulge it. This was a situation that only calm thought and reasoned planning would help him out If anything, the events of the last few minutes proved that. A man, ‘Deaven’ he was called, had been dragged away for his impetuous actions. He had stolen a key, apparently. Dijon shrugged the thought away, he had been dozing; anything that had come before was irrelevant. The stink of the ocean, of fish, amid the constant swell of the ship meant he could never sleep for long.

The swells were getting bigger, the time between the fall and rise longer. He was no expert seaman but he thought a storm was coming. It would probably be best to have something to hold onto, Dijon thought for a moment, looking around. There was nothing that would be of immediate use. The bars would have to do; if indeed a storm did hit them, the others would be thrown about like rag-dolls and crushed. There was time yet before the need to speak and so he maintained his silence. More to the point, Dijon wasn’t even sure he could speak. To do so would be to provide an avenue for his rage to escape and that would not do. Something horrible was building inside him, something the simple family man within was horrified by, but it would not be dissuaded.

He clenched his fists, struggling to focus. There was a girl, in the corner. She had been watching him before, though he affected not to notice. Pretty, if you liked them white and small. He could see two other men – one, in particular, “Machavell” the guard had named him, was to be watched. He had given up the other without a moments thought. It was the right action, the smart one and that more then anything meant he was dangerous. The other was slim, blonde and might be counted as tall by others; he looked weak. In some of the Western cities, he would be used as a pleasure-boy no doubt. Disgusted, he looked away.

What did they all have in common? Where were they being taken? The only thing he was sure of was that they were in a hurry. There were only five people here, not enough to power an entire ship, or be worthy of the extended effort shown by the slavers. For them to have been plying the treacherous and reef-ridden coasts of his homeland told him they’d known what they were after. This in turn meant they were working for someone else, someone who had bought the merchandise before it was even on sale.

And now they were in a hurry, so much so that they had been press-ganged the night before with a mixture of the ship’s original oarsmen and guards. Were they pursued? Not from Styria that was for sure; the sea held no interest for the Styrian people. Only the vast herds they moved and the vast savannah’s they roved over mattered and so the art of ship-building, beyond fishing craft, was ignored. More, though he had led one of the larger tribes, his last few decisions had not been popular ones. Progress was frowned upon; someone had betrayed him from the inside and that someone would pay. The familiar rage surged within him and he struggled to bottle it within once more.

The elements more then matched his mood as the wind began to pick up in a veritable howl. Thumping footsteps only faintly heard, grew in strength and momentum until the guards from before came rushing. They threw what looked to be a bloody lump of meat into one of the cages before rushing out again – to deal with the oncoming storm, no doubt. The bloody meat raised itself up, screaming obscenities and other gibberish before collapsing once more. Treacherous little malcontent – impetuousness would get them all killed.

Dijon rose, locking eyes with the girl. He approached the bars, emphasising every movement as he placed his arms around them and widened his stance, as through bracing for something. With the next swell, he allowed himself to shift dramatically and her eyes widened. He steadied himself. This one wasn’t stupid, nor was she silent. “There’s a storm coming,” she said aloud. “Brace yourselves.”
She mimicked his actions, grasping on to the bars.

So many questions were swirling in his head, so much hatred and rage that he felt it a danger even to speak. As the winds and the oceans began to truly gear up for their battle, he closed his eyes beneath a barrage of memories and hoped that someone aboard would have the brains to come down with ropes. In time. Before they were all nothing but bruised, broken shells, oozing onto the ground.

Eamon D'Arnise

"Now, ah...listen 'ere, mate." The ridiculously garbed newcomer sat atop a barrel of grain, his crooked grin only widening as the half orc jabbed himself in the chest with one square-tipped finger.

"Me?"

"Yeah, yerself." Eamon beckoned him forward, then leaned in as if to tell him a secret. "D'you really think that you're going to get your ten piece bonus?"

"Whatchoo talkin' about?"

"I ain't talking about nothin', mate." The half-orc twisted his face into an expression of utter confusion.

"Huh?"

Eamon winked at the brute. "Y'didn't hear it from me, friend." The half-orc's eyes lit up in understanding.

"Right--didn't hear nothin' from nobody." The thuggish slaver scrunched his face up in confusion once more. "What didn't I hear?"

"We're bein' cheated. In the worst way." Eamon whispered, nodding his head toward the Captain's cabin. The half orc followed his gaze and grunted his distaste. "Think about it," Eamon whispered, slipping from the barrel of grain and striding to the Aggressor's railing. Dark clouds had formed on the horizon; a storm was coming. Even as the thought came to the smirking rogue, the call came from the crow's nest. Eamon repeated the call and it flowed throughout the ship, until Mr. Brent rushed up from below deck to see for himself.

"Get ropes," he ordered the to nearest group of slavers--Eamon among them. "Secure the slaves; if any of them die tonight, the cost is coming out of each and every one of your bonuses." Eamon caught his "friend" the half orc's eye, throwing a wink to remind him of what he'd said, then rushed off to the hold to follow Brent's order.

Galea
Labor Slave

A shiver ran down her spine. A storm. She had always loved storms, the rippling of electricity and the sogginess of the air giving her an adrenaline rush that few other things in her life could. As a girl she had followed the counting saying to the letter, but she never counted in anticipation of the storm leaving. Always a grin would take over her face when the seconds between the booms became fewer, until the crackling moment when it seemed the gods themselves were fighting above them, each boom followed by another before the first could completely fade away. She had loved the storms.

Now, however, she was terrified. Not so much terrified as… what? She had the adrenaline rush; that hadn’t changed. But she knew that storms on land were very different from storms at sea. If a land storm struck fire to your house, you could always escape. At sea, if the ship fell to the storm, where could you go? What could you do but try to keep afloat in some distant hope that the current might take you to land?

She gripped the bars tighter and kept her face steady. For the first time, she was confronted with the very real possibility of death. She had been scared when her brother-in-law kidnapped her, but at the time she was furious than anything. And she had known that he didn’t want to kill her, he was too angry with her for that. She had paled at the sight of the ship when she first saw it, but even that feeling didn’t compare.

She closed her eyes momentarily and took a breath. Hold onto the bars. That’s all she could do was hold onto the bars. She looked around when she once again had a solid grip over herself. The dark human was looking straight ahead now, but he had looked at her, had singled her out. He had known, then, that she had been more or less spying on him for the past couple days. Possibly knew that she had been taking mental notes on him for when they docked. What else might he know?

She turned to regard the limp form on the ground in the corner. It was the fool with the key. Or just the fool now. The swells were growing, the ship’s movements becoming more exaggerated. Just a slight difference, but still significant. She debated for a moment before looking down the line of people. It wasn’t likely a creature of her size could the hold the man steady very well, if at all. One of the other prisoners, though...

“Anybody wanna save him?” she asked with a jerk of her head, fully intending to at least try to drag him to the bars if no one volunteered. Unless the storm got too strong, of course. In that case, fool be damned.

Elias; Exotic slave

Softer than before, her voice rang in his ears, demanding his attention and he gave it to her, wrapping his thick, grey fingers about the bars of the cage. Out of the corner of his eye, Elias could see that this made the guard nervous and he logged it for later: it could be fun.

"I'm called Elias, miss," he answered politely. "And now that I've relinquished my bargaining power, would you do the honour of telling me your name for the same price?"

"Hah! Elias!" Ballow cut in triumphantly. Elias paid him no heed, frowning a little as the ship began to rock harder, the ground shaking as if it were terrified of some approaching being: a storm. Elias was slow to react, retreating thoughtfully from the bars and sitting back on his hind legs, the position he often took for sleeping or guarding.

"It's Lissa," the female said.

"Hey, hey, what's going on?" Ballow asked. The shaking was increasing.

"A storm," the guard realised with fright. "There's a storm!" He looked about for something he could hold on to but the area was generally empty of anything but the cells in their neat little semi circle of two, two, two. Elias jingled his chains with a grin.

"You know, there's always the bars of my cell... or that empty one over there has chains. Just lock yourself in and sit out the duration in equal comfort with us," he snickered. "I'll tell you what, you can come in here with me and I'll even promise not to hurt you if you promise to bring Lissa water and food. She's probably famished."

The guard shook his head and the ship lurched, throwing the three slaves about, launching them roughly against the walls of their cell, and knocking the guard from his feet. He tumbled across the wooden boards and into the nearest cell that just happened to be the gargoyle's. He grabbed the bars reflexively and looked up to find Elias' face directly in front of him.

"Do we have a deal?" Elias asked, placing one chubby finger and it's claw through the bars toward the tender skin of the guard's hand. The guard recoiled, letting go but thought better of that and grabbed a-hold again.

"Yes, I'll bring you all food and water," the guard promised.

Deave:

When he woke up he was by the bars. He could not move a limb. It hurt too much.

The whip had done a pretty good job, but the bleeding had stopped at least. He made a mental note not to do anything so stupid anymore.

He could open his mouth though. "What's hapn'g?"
someone turned to him, "A storm."

He nodded slowly. And with a huge surge of power he was able to grap the bar. Now he should hope that he only could keep his grip.

Machavell
Labour Slave

He felt no pity for the bleeding wreck of a man who was returned to the cell. The guard had done a thorough job; Machavell respected that. He felt a bizarre sense of "right" when duties were performed well. With distaste, however, he noted his own failures so far. He was far from being the most popular slave on the ship.

Machavell knew his faults. The unwelcoming glare, the nose constantly wrinkled in disgust, the scathing comments; he knew them all. His tongue flicked out and ran over his cracked lips. He was cold and, if the reactions of the other slaves was anything to go by, a storm was coming.

The atmosphere was cool; the slaves withdrew into their own personal hells. Machavell was indifferent to the weather. It was just a passing phase, nothing solid or reliable, like childrens' games or the reigns of Kings. They all came to the end, in time.

Waves rocked the boat and timbers in the boat groaned. Further round the cell, Machavell saw Galea holding onto the bars of the cell. She and the man they called "Bob" exchanged furtive glances throughout the silence. At one point, they both noticed each other's gaze and their eyes linked for a moment. Then, like snap of a bowstring, Galea jerked her head away.

Amateurs, Machavell thought.

Still, they could be useful to him yet. Galea looked fragile, but not uselessly so; perhaps she could be of use somehow. As if noticing his thoughts, she glanced up and would have met his eyes if his reflexes hadn't saved him. He examined the wood of the deck beside his foot intently until he judged it to be safe to look up.

When he did, "Bob" was looking at him. Machavell fought the instinct to cower from his powerful gaze, but met his eyes. If this was a test, he would not show weakness. His defiant stare earned him a barely perceptible nod from the big man.

He let his gaze drift on, observing "Bob" out of the corner of his eye. He was the sort of man Machavell wanted to have on his side in a brawl. Someone to draw attention away from the real power. Someone who was easily moulded and guided. Someone he could use. But, Machavell knew this was not the case. Behind those placid eyes lay an intelligence shrouded in mystery. Machavell saw it and feared it.

A creak. The groan of timber. The ship swayed over to one side. Water rushed off the exposed hull as if it could not wait to be away from the soulless vessel. Shouts from above pierced the silence, and with a louder creak and a splash the boat settled again.

Machavell gripped the bar tightly. There would be no sleep for the slaves tonight.

Deaven:

The storm was up.
He was holding from the bar with all his might. The shi jercked he let off. With a grat cry he hit the wall.
When he hit the bars he took hold of them again.
Damned be my whiped body. He thought.

What he neede now was rest, but he couldn't sleep. He had to hold on. But he was so tired.

I'm too old for this.

Something rolled close to him, Two guards came into the cells.

"We came to secure ya'll." One of them said. They as fast as they could, tied everyone securely on something.


Then they were gone.

Kester
Labour Slave

Kester was one the last to be tied. The guard looked into his eyes when he walked over. Kester stared back and the man looked away to focus on the ropes. He nodded and left Kester, who sighed.

The boat was rocking back and forth, and his stomach was beginning to churn. He had never been on a ship before, and the unstable ground below him was alien. He tried to occupy himself by observing the other slaves.

The one who caught his eye now was Machavell. He was the only one who had tried to start a conversation with him. The two had been interrupted, but Kester longed to talk to him again. The man had been so indifferent, both to the punishment he had brought upon Deaven and in his manner of speaking to him. His attention had been piqued, and he wondered what Machavell's motive was.

He could be a valuable ally sometime in the future, he thought. He doesn't seem to care what other people think. That could be an advantage.

As he stared, Machavell turned and let Kester's eyes. Neither of them turned away for a few seconds. Eventually, Kester looked to the other slaves. They all looked to be in discomfort. They don't know discomfort is, he thought. They don't know what real pain is like.

His thoughts slipped back into the past, to his parents. I'm sorry, he thought for the first time. I don't think I could have stopped it. Maybe it's just one of those things that happens.

He sighed, and several of the slaves turned to stare, among them Machavell. This time, his eyes seemed to be probing Kester. For a moment, he felt uncomfortable, but his curiosity was more insistent. He determined to have a proper conversation with the man when the slaves weren't cramped so close together. He had the feeling that their conversation wouldn't be one that he'd want others to hear.

Another wave rocked the boat. Kester thought he heard the sound of someone vomiting. He braced himself against the waves and looked to the wall of the ship, keeping his expression and stance neutral. He couldn't afford to show any weaknesses, even one as simple as inexperience on a boat. Among the slaves, there were both predator and prey. He was determined to not be the latter.

(OOC: Might want to go through and pick out a couple typos, Anzius. Also, this was supposed to be above Insomnia's post.)

Galea
Labor Slave

Someone, she didn’t catch who, had broken away from the bars long enough to drag the man to safety and plop him on the ground next to the bars, and not too far off from her. She had watched him regain consciousness and grip the bars, only to be thrown away the moment the ship lurched. Shaking her head, she focused on keeping her own grip through the lean. The moment the worst of the lean had passed, the guy was somewhat on his feet and dragging himself back to the bars, grabbing them more firmly this time. She raised her eyebrows at him when the ship next shifted, this time to the other side, but he held on.

The ship jumped suddenly, and in her distraction she almost lost her grip.

Idiot.

She ignored the sagging, weakened man for the next few minutes, concentrating instead on anticipating the ship’s movements and bracing herself for them. Footsteps ran wildly above them as the crew tried to prepare for the storm that, as far as those below could tell, was already here. In the confusion, she didn’t notice the approach of the guards until they stepped through the door, ropes in hand.

Now they come. Not that she was going to complain. The idea of keeping her hands wrapped tight around the bars all night didn’t appeal to her as much as gripping them all night with rope there to catch her if she slipped.

"We've come to secure y'all."

Obviously.

They made quick work of it, their movements rushed, eager to get back above where they might help guide the ship through. Or eager to get back to where they'd stand a good chance to survive if the ship sunk.

While quick, their hands were also rushed, and as such, clumsy, calling for the knots to be retied. She watched Deaven from the corner of her eye, wondering if he might take advantage of the situation. He didn't, merely leaned against the bars, his knuckles white.

Broken? Or simply resigned? Either way, it didn't matter, she thought as the guards got to her and began tying her to the bars. So long as he didn't do anything more tonight, everything else should go relatively smoothly. Looking down at the ropes, she only hoped they didn't forget to untie them when it was all done and gone.

Videl Vane Va'Teir; Love Slave

Videl, still standing beside the door, was caught off guard when the ship went into a swell. She was thrown half way across the room into a pillar, cracking one or two of her ribs. She quietly cried out in agony, but got up again. "Secure yourself," She said, panting. "It's a..storm." The girl didn't reply, as per usual.

Videl's ears shrieked as a loud clap of thunder sounded outside. What on earth did they do to me?!

"You two slaves, come with me!" She looked up to see a hulky guard standing at the open gate. Why did he want them to join him? Videl shook her head. If it meant getting out of this prison; she'd do it. The girl took a little longer to join her and the guard; but as soon as she did, his even bulkier hands were wrapped around their arms, dragging them across the deck towards more stairs.

The wooden floor felt hard and foreboding as Videl smashed against it. "Haven't you ever learned to lightly drop a lady before, you big oaf?!" She staggered up and turned to the guard who had thrown she and her companion into a larger, more populated cell.

"Don't worry lassie, just hold on and you'll be fine." Laughter chorused from outside the closed gate. In an orderly fashion, all except one of the guards trotted away from the cell; obviously to safety. She turned around.

The first most popping view that came to her sight was that of a large man, with dark skin. He looked to be caught in deep thought, that or something was extremely interesting on the wooden floor. Next she spotted a woman doubled over on the floor in pain, not unusual for a Slave barge, and another man on the opposite side of the boat. Videl observed him carefully; he looked as if he had been badly beaten, maybe whipped. So it was him that was screaming so painfully loud. She'd get him back for that later. Beside him sat a small halfling; she appeared to be staring at the big, dark man, or maybe just caught on the same invisible interesting thing on the wooden deck floor.

Shrugging, she searched the walls for a safe spot where she could grab onto some of these bars. There appeared to be one close to the dark man and the wounded woman. As she approached, it seemed as if all eyes were on her; an uncomfortable feeling considering she had been the pariah amongst men all her life.

The ship fell in to another large swell as she passed the dark man, causing her to trip and fall into the so-called empty spot that she had seen. It wasn't. She landed on top of something; whatever it was it hurt. Looking up she saw she had landed on a man

How did I miss a MAN...I think they messed up my vision too... Videl met his gaze. He looked quite annoyed at the fact that a short half elf was lying on top of him leisurely.

"Hello, I'm Videl. Nice to..er...meet you."

Deaven:

The storm had continued for a while.

Sleeping. But not peacefully.

He was having a nightmare.

"Danny. What did you do?" Deaven cried out in shock. He was in a luxurious room.

"She was one of them, one of them." Danny had a crazy expression on his face. He was standing over a woman's dead body.

Deaven woke up screaming.

Machavell
Labour Slave

"Hello, I'm Videl. Nice to..er...meet you."

Machavell felt the heat rise to his cheeks. Fire seethed in his blood and, steadily, it began to boil over. He looked up at the half-elf lying on top of him and making no move to get up. Her smile stood out in the gloom of the cell; her sharp teeth betrayed a playful trickery that also lay inside her green eyes. Although she was only slight in form, Machavell could feel in her the strength and solidity of trees. Her parents, mixing the blood of two races, had created a deadly combination.

"I do apologise," he said, his words like white hot metal in the cool air, "if I have mislead you in any way." The half-elf seemed to be becoming more comfortable by the second. Machavell's anger smouldered inside him.

"Because clearly," he hissed, his tone becoming more and more acrid, "you are under the impression that we are meeting each other, and that this is nice!"

The half-elf giggled.

Machavell boiled over. "Begone you wretched creature," he said through clenched teeth. He became acutely aware that everyone in the cell was watching him. He struggled unsuccesfully to wriggle out from underneath the half-elf but he wasn't strong enough to move her. She grinned.

"Like I said," she said, voice as sweet as honey. She lifted one leg, partially releasing him. "I'm Videl. Nice to meet you."

Machavell fumed. This was beyond all possibility. He was being humiliated, publicly, and there was nothing he could do about it. He was trapped, and the only escape would be through backing down. Damn that half-elf. Damn Videl.

Then rational thought returned to him like water, quenching the anger that ran through him. This was only a minor defeat, he reasoned. It was not the end of the war. Not even close.

"Nice to meet you," he said with resigned pain, "Videl." The name was pain to his lips, but he knew what must be done. "Call me Machavell. And hold onto that bar before we both get hurt."

With the smile of victory displayed across her face, Videl slowly got to her feet. She brushed her knee-length pants lightly with her fingertips; a futile gesture, but Machavell knew better than to mention that. Videl held out her hand to help Machavell up, but he pulled himself up by the rope coiled around his waist.

He was not indebted to her that much, surely. He still had some dignity left. But, when he looked around at the shadowy faces of the other slaves a moment later, he wasn't sure at all.

Videl Vane Va'Teir, Love Slave(in Labour quarters)

Videl smirked. Her trickery skills were still alive and running; unlike her hearing and apparently her sight. I still have a chance in this world. She looked up at Machavell, who towered over her. Of all the gifts she did have, height was definately not one of them.

Machavell's grey eyes burned with a fiery resentment. He was scanning the cabin, aware that his defeat had been made public. Nobody liked being bested by a girl; in a man's world it was a show of lack of strength and honor. Men were weird creatures. She sighed, suddenly interested in his small mustache. The tuft of fur on his face was oddly shaped and clearly needed a trim; if only she had her blade or something. She giggled.

"What?" Machavell looked down at her, glaring. Videl didn't see him as a harsh man, nor as a weak man. He was obviously revered by all of the other slaves in the cabin; what he had done to earn such a thing Videl would never know. The way all the other slaves looked at him made it clear to her that he was the one in the crowd who was the hot head. The one who grew stronger by other's misfortune and would never turn down an opportunity to make a person's suffering worse. He'd learn quick that Videl was immune to this, just as he would soon grow immune to her trickery.

Satisfied, she looked up into his eyes. "Your mustache needs to be cut, it's blocky and has split ends." She smiled. Machavell's face turned red with fury; if it weren't for the fact that he would be whipped for it, he surely would have clubbed her on the head by now.

Deaven:

He had just woke up in time to see, what had happened.

He laughed, deliberately, so loud that all heads turned to him. He looked at Machavell "Ha!" He laughed.

Machavell knew exactly why. Machavell was angry "At least I don't screm every time I wake up."

"At least the only place where a woman has held me down was... much nicer." Deaven was grinning.

Machavell was growing angrier by the minute. "At least." Machavell mimicked
"I don't look like a wreck."

"You pansy couldn't take one hit from that whip."

"At least I wasn't stupid enough to get whipped."

Lissa, Exotic Slave
Lissa felt herself smile; amused at the chivalry. It had been a while since she had been in the company of a Gargoyle. She had not forgotten their respect for women, a small smile played across her lips. She was not one to let others do her bidding for her, and under any other circumstances she may have protested. However sometimes the body knew far more than the mind, she remembered as her stomach protested much more loudly than her voice ever could.

She could have thanked him then, it would not have meant much to him though. He did not do his deed because of fondness for her; he did it because he had been raised to. It didn’t offend her, nor did it impress her. Offending her was obviously not his intention, and she knew without a doubt that he was certainly not trying to impress her. Elias was simply doing what came naturally to him, she had seen it before. Therefore she left it alone; his kind act for her was done.

The ship hit a swell and lurched, bringing her mind back to the situation at hand. She was a creature bound to land, the movement of the ocean was foreign to her, and it made her empty stomach heave. What was once a slow gentle motion had become chaotic. She fell forward in her cage, and her head spun. The longer the storm continued its assault, the more ill Lissa became. She became so ill that most embarrassing thing took place; she vomited up stomach acid and bile. The foamy liquid landed on her dress, and she stared at in horror.